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dwaekkicidal · 1 month

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thoughts on owner channie w puppy seungmin & kitty reader w owner lino >ᴗ<?

the way i started pacing my room after reading this and waiting for my computer to turn on so i could write something LMFAO-

also u must be in my walls or something because ive been going batshit crazy over hybrids lately but i havent told anybody? get out of my head???

do NAWT ask me how this has 1.4k words... i will not explain myself.

nsfw below the cut» x reader mainly but mxm at the very end

anywhoooo.... onwards!

so lets just say that we have owner!channie who doesn't know what to do when his puppy!seungmin becomes a brat all of a sudden. he's growling at every male hybrid he looks at, not listening when channie tells him to do something, and even humping + cumming on a pillow or two (definitely more than that but channie doesn't have to know that)

and then he's meeting up with his best friend, kitty-owner!lino, who mocks his best friend for not being able to prove himself as the "head dog of the house"

he keeps up this teasing up until channie describes a few more behaviors that rings alarms in lino's head and he realizes that his friend's stupid mutt is just going into heat!! and lil ol' channie didn't think that far ahead so he's absolutely not prepared to deal with his puppy's first heat alone

but then lino reminds him that he has a pretty, well-behaved kitty sitting at home with no mate and her own heat on its way soon~ so they agree to have them meet and plan everything out

the first time you meet, seungmin is absolutely losing his shit >< he can smell you before he sees you and you just so smell so. sweet. his heat makes the smell a million times worse and he just wants to eat you alive. more figuratively than literally but he doesn't think he would mind taking a chomp or two-

and channie is absolutely mind-boggled that the stupid brat he's been dealing with all week is suddenly being good, all thanks to the mere presence of another hybrid.

little does he know it's only thanks to how hard seungmin is biting his cheek so that he doesn't bend you over right here, right now in the middle of this park where everybody would see

after that they move fast, thanks to seungmin's heat starting early, and lino prepares you as much as he can before helping you settle into channie's guest room

channie even put a mini fridge in there- filled it to the brim with both of your favorite drinks+water, put a huge stack of blankets and spare clothes on top of the dresser, and filled a few dresser drawers to the brim with snacks

channie took the week off of work while lino opted to "work from home" and they stayed close by, camping out in the living room together and "reluctantly" listening closely so they could hear any possible calls for help from either of you

but no matter how much preparation they made, they were not in the slightest prepared for how almost feral seungmin became

the first few hours were the most unbearable, it was hard for you to get used to this stupid, insatiable mutt and his unnecessarily big knot. but you did get used to it eventually!

it only took multiple rounds and your poor cunt getting overfilled with his cum, much to his dismay. it only made him angry and pushed him to fuck into you even harder as he whined and complained about how you "need to take it better" so he could fuck a litter or two into you.

& both men could hear the growling as well as the plap plap plap of seungmin's balls hitting your poor, abused cunt >< your moans and cries bleeding through the walls to the point where channie thought for a second he would get the cops called on him for a noise complaint

but he stopped worrying about that when the few seconds of silence were disrupted by even more sobs and begs for seungmin to give you his pups!

though, minnie took such good care of you after each round!! he made sure you drank enough water and was good on snacks until lino came in with the bigger meals for both of you. but, that was all thrown out the window when he found himself rock hard, yet again.

he just couldn't hold himself back from folding you into every position he could think of that would keep you below him, at his mercy, and keep your pretty, puffy pussy ready for him at all times

channie felt like it was constant. like the two of you had spent every minute of those days drooling over each other and fucking each other's brains out.

which to some degree was true... neither of you could deny that, but you both still got... occasional breaks! they may or may not have been short-lived before seungmin was ready to go again, but nobody needs to know that!

all that your owners needed to know was that, by the time seungmin's heat was over, you were well bred and he felt like himself again!

but- oh! would you look at that? your owners came in to help you guys clean up after the fact, but it appears that seungmin managed to trigger your heat... but not to worry! he is very keen on repaying you for your help and is already shoving his cock into you before lino can even get out the door~

so,, maybe you guys weren't exactly done yet.

bonus;

puppy!seungmin realizing he had a lot of fun misbehaving during his heat so, now that you and him are well acquainted and hang out multiple times throughout the week, he goes out of his way to make his owner's life miserable~

fucks you into every surface he can think of: the dining table, the kitchen counters, the bathroom sink, the bathtub/shower, the coffee table, the couch, against the windows, in the middle of the hallway, channie's desk...

channie's bed

& seungmin always makes sure you make the biggest mess possible so that he can see the veins on channie's neck pops out when he blames it on his "instincts"

it pushes ALL of channie's buttons. not only does he have to clean up the insane amounts of cum all around his place, but he also has to smell sex literally everywhere all while he "can't" get his dick wet :((

so i bring you: owner!lino who lets owner!channie fuck you, his eager kitty, into the mattress all the while puppy!seungmin is all but tied to a chair.

lino watches over him and makes sure that he doesn't touch himself, cum, or even look away from the bed, for that matter

double bonus; mxm continuation of ^

lino's got his big, veiny hands jerking minnie off only to pull away and leave him leaking when he almost cums for the nth time :((

& channie's never subjected him to anything like this before so he caves a lot sooner than any of them thought; tears prickling his pretty boba eyes and his cock an angry red as it twitches with each apology that comes out of his lips

but.. oh! their pretty kitty is too tired to go another round? 'oh im sorry minnie.' poor pup. 'what will we do with you now?'

it doesn't take long for channie to fold. he loves his puppy and he would do anything to make those stupid tears go away- even if that means splitting him in half on his cock <3

he'd always thought about fucking his pretty mutt, but never thought it was on the table until those big, begging puppy dog eyes stared up at him all watery and his puppy was sitting there begging him to help him :(

he can't help himself when he lays down and lets seungmin have his way with his cock! but then all of a sudden lino joins in- letting his kitty take a nap and rest while he slides a hand around seungmin's waist and the other in his hair

he controls his hip movements like this and snaps at channie when he tries to tell minho to 'just let him do what he wants.'

no. no. no. absolutely not. 'stupid pup needs to learn his lesson.'

lino makes them change positions so that they can eiffel tower him; lino fucking his throat raw while channie's dicking him down hard enough to make the boy feel him in his tummy <3

& he's making the biggest mess all over the sheets!! a mixture of drool and precum soaking dark spots into channie's previously clean sheets, the realization making something in channie snap hehe

yea. im sick in the head over this. thank u anon i love you so much

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agenderakali · 1 year

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It really gets me upset when the trans man lesbian crowd spreads these soft positivity posts like “trans men have always had a place in the lesbian community uwu” with not a degree of awareness. It’s been shown statistically, that a majority of cis lesbians will proudly state they would prefer to date trans men over trans women. It’s been shown how trans men are accepted by cis lesbians and welcomed in lesbian spaces over trans women. And it isn’t because of beautiful beautiful solidarity, its because they see them as women and they see trans women as men. Trans men have been equated with masc lesbians for decades and continue to this day, especially by terfs who use butch lesbian and trans man as interchangeable words. The absolute tone deafness I’ve seen in these discussions boggles the mind, like saying trans men grew up identifying as lesbians, being treated as women, being “socialized” as women, so they have a ‘right’ to lesbian spaces. As if it doesn’t subtlety imply that transfems have less of a right to be there then they do, as if it isn’t regurgitated terf “male/female socialization” rhetoric. And when I point out these problematic elements I often get the trans men who argue for this stuff lecturing me about denying their agency and how they choose to be with lesbians. If yall want to date lesbians that’s fine, I literally cant stop you nor care to. It’s worth noting though, that there have been plenty of instances of trans men voluntarily dating straight men, yet we dont have this community push to validate straight men chasers and their trans boyfriends. For good reason, too. I am not saying trans men need to be “kicked out” of lesbian spaces, I understand the solidarity between our communities. That solidarity will always exist. (And again I want to point out for the most part they are NOT being kicked out or excluded. Trans fems are) And I understand that “man” doesnt always mean man in a binary sense, some people are nonbinary men and women and things aren't always as clear cut. As a transmasc, nonbinary lesbian I understand that. This does not apply to you. I just want people to please take note of the transphobic, specifically transmisogynistic overtones that accompany a widespread push to have trans men as a group be considered as exceptions to lesbian attraction.

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heartfullofleeches · 1 year

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Good Boy

Male Sub Yan Bully + G.N Reader

"I only need a good boy by my side, and I don't mean someone who'll have me home by eight. I want an obedient pet. Will you be that for me?."

Warnings/Tags: Top/Dom Reader, Anal Sex/Pegging, Cross-dressing, Light Degradation and pet play. Reader's gender is (obviously) never stated, but their parts are referred to as dick for ease.

Anyone with working eyes could see how whipped that boy was for you.

From the day he pushed past you in the hall, a faint spark started his heart stemming from the dismissive glare you back shot his way. That flicker was the match that blew everything into an explosive mess for your attention, igniting any obstacle in its wake. Your fellow peers avoided you for the continued safety of their fingers and social life, and every which way you turned he was there. His physical harassment didn't go beyond shoving you out of his way or snatching pencils and things meant for trash.

You never acted out against him - to his. Never ratted him out or even raised your voice. You hardly talked to him at all and that pissed him even off more. To make matters worse you were cordial in your brief encounters, and even threw off-handed comments his way. Trailing your fingers up his bicep when he forced himself at your table. Saying he looked "nice" with his hair up and out of the way of those pretty eyes. It drove him mad. He knew you knew he was too chicken shit to actually put hands on you and didn't bother wasting your energy to provoke him.

Recently, your dynamic had taken yet another turn. One, uneventful Monday morning, you strolled right up to his locker and patted him on the head as you walked off to class. His knees turned to jelly, and he nearly had a locker door slammed in his face following your hand as it left his soft locks. At lunch that very same day, you sat in his lap and even fed him his food - so long as he rushed through that project for his next class he was intentionally planning to fail. When the grades were sent back and you caught wind of his score, you kissed him on the cheek and ruffled his hair like you did before. His goons spread rumors of the two of you dating, but now everyone believed it with the leash you had around his neck. If he didn't get himself into detention, another pat. Good grades? Two kisses - if he work school appropriate clothing. Your switch from pretending he never existed to dotting on him like you were actual lovers boggled his mind to no end. What made you see him differently?

"This thing is way too damn short. I told you I'm not putting on fucking her bra - that's gross. Where the hell is my phone.. What the fuck?... give it to me. Post that and I will fucking ki-"

Oh - that would explain thing. It would explain a lot actually. All those weeks back, Erin had been asked by a friend to help deliver his sister's clothing to a nearby shelter with a few beers as payment. One of them had the brilliant idea to have a drinking contest with the loser having to try on her clothes. When it was discovered he had been pouring his into the grass, Erin was immediately disqualified and given his dues. They took video and posted it to his private page - forgetting about the person he made follow back. In all honesty, Erin had no problem wearing feminine clothing. It was just that everything that girl had absolutely shit tastes in fashion and not at all to kiss liking.

What he had on now was exactly his style.

Sliding a hand up his outer thigh, you loop two fingers through the heart shaped buckle attached to his garters and thigh highs. The spaghetti straps of his crop top hand loose and torn off his shoulders; neck and chest decorated in dark bruises and teeth marks. Circling your tongue around his puffy nipple, you pull it between your teeth - just to watch him squirm as your lips break contact with his chest; the strip of leather hanging from his thigh crackling against his skin as you retch your fingers free. He whimpers mutely, rubbing the stinging flesh into the mattress to prolong that fading bite. Grabbing his knee causes him to stop immediately, looking up at you with those pretty, pleading eyes through the whispy, dark ginger locks clinging to his sweaty forehead and cheeks. You smirk.

"What a good boy."

It had all been a test. You saw that video, and you had to have him. You knew he could be obedient with the right motivations and there was none better than giving yourself - and a little praise, to him. As usual, Erin was pissed when he found out you were training him like some.. dog, but he couldn't deny the guilty pleasure of you turning him into your bitch in front of the whole school. His cock throbs in his panties as his hazy mind replayed the billionth loop of you calling him yours; the phantom heat of your breath against his ears sending chills. Erin bucks away from the hand placed over the bump in his skirt so you wouldn't notice the pulse, but you certainly had. You close your fingers around his length, stilling him as another gloop of drool rolls past his lips.

"Eager Boy! I would love to help you with this, but.... I only need a good boy by my side, and I don't mean someone who'll have me home by eight."

You drop your lips to his ear, teasing the shell in just the way that made him cry out everytime. His little bated moans were the cutest thing.

" I want an obedient pet - and lover. Will you be that for me, Erin."

His cock ached at the first title; his heart sung at the next. He'd do anything to relieve the tension in both areas. Anything to be yours. Licking his bitten lips, he nods.

"I'll be good...."

You reach up to stroke his cheek. Erin nips at your fingers, rolling the metal ball of his piercing between each. He spits directly in your hand.

"Freak."

His chest rises with a shaky laugh, yet there's nothing but obedience in those eyes. It's a work in progress. You smack the meat of his thigh with your spit covered hand; the sound and force of the saliva hitting his send immeasurable. The e way his mouth falls open as he gasps - you would've thought he came right then and there if his solid erection wasn't in your opposite hand.

"You're lucky I'm nice. Turn over, pretty boy."

Leaning back, you help Erin lift his leg over your head as he turns over onto his stomach. Scooting forward, his ass falls into your lap as he sinks down. You raise the skirt that barely covered much to begin with and slip those lace panties down; pre-ejaculate smeared into its crotch. You wish you hand more time to appreciate his attire or shove those frilly garments down his throat, but as soon as he came through your door it was too your bedroom - and you wanted to hear his sounds nice and clear for your first time together. There would be plenty more nights in the future for you to do whatever your heart desired. Reaching forward, you tap his lips with your finger.

"Spit? Since you've already proven you don't mind getting your drool all over your master."

Erin opens his mouth - letting out a gagged yelp of surprise as your fingers shoot down his throat. He's never been more thankful for the lack of a reflex. Regaining what little composure he hand, Erin swirls his tongue around your fingers and hollows his cheeks as he suckles them as you drag them out his mouth. His head falls into the pillow as you draw your arm back to position; spreading his asscheeks as your lubricated thumb teases his hole. It slips in easier than you imagine and his back muscles go taught.

"Have you fingered yourself before?"

Erin buries his face in the pillow, eyes avoiding your stare. ".... toothbrush."

"Pfft - you whore. I was wondering what happened to that. Guess I don't have to ask who you were thinking about while you did it."

"At least you go your brains if anything ever happens to your face."

Frowning, you yank the hair still trapped in the scrunchie he wore. "Bad dog. Guess you won't need the prep then."

Removing your finger, you lend your cock to his hole. He hooks one arm under the pillow and reaches the other behind him. You take his hand and lock your fingers with his as you slip inside; pinning the limb to his back as you sink in. You pull your knees from under him and plant them in the mattress as you drag your girth out of his tight hole. Erin drops his free hand between his legs, but you quickly add your weight to his arm - immobilizing him.

"Ah-ah, I didn't say you could do that did I?"

Erin grumbles something under his breath, but thankfully you don't hear it. As a reward for staying still you kiss along his back up to the nape of his neck, right below his choker where you plant your teeth as you start off at a gradual pace. His skirt falls pack down a couple times which you lose care of after a while and let drap at your thighs. He keeps his lips separated from the pillow so his heavy breathes are audible - just like he knew you wanted. Such a good boy. Dropping your grasp to his waist, you tug him back with each thrust - virtually bouncing the drooling boy on your cock. His greedy hole and desperate whimpers suck you back in. Pleads he tempts to conceal with his moans ringing longer no matter how exaggerated his sounds become. Like everything when it came to you - he just couldn't keep it in.

"ngh...y/n...please...hah... give more."

"You want more this so soon? Hm, you've been good enough so far."

Yelping as your hips snap against the curve of his ass, Erin rocks his with a stutter - rutting his aching cock into the mattress chasing friction you refuse to provide. Your hand cracks hard against his right cheek and his back arches against your sweaty bare chest as he all but screams into the pillow now forced into snuffing his cries. You grab his jaw and his head pivots back to look up at you.

"So noisy.... It's unsightly of you, Erin. Like you're a different person now you've got a few inches in you. Tell me, are you my good little puppy or some bitch in heat using my dick to get off?"

Tongue petaled around your thumb, Erin cries out beneath its weight. "Mmph.." You lift your finger, smearing his drool into his cheek as you turn his head to face you.

"What was that, boy?"

"y-yours... 'm yours, I promise. I can be both. Please let me be both."

"We'll see about that." Standing on your knees, you yank Erin along with you and lock your arm around his neck to keep him from falling as you drill upwards into him. His cock bobs with each hammer of your hips into his and you have enough mercy to stroke him to completion as his eyes roll back in his head. You mouth more marks into his neck and shoulder blades, scrapping your teeth on the bone. Your name bleeds off his tongue like it's the only he's ever known and right now there couldn't be a truer statement. You suck one more fresh hickey to his neck and work on to his jaw, licking the stray tears that drip down to the corners of his mouth as you crush his windpipe in your hold - darting your tongue past his gasping lips. Erin groans in the blissful heat of the thirsty kiss, cumming into your hand and onto his thighs and your pillow. You rub the sensitive flesh for a few more strokes before letting him fall into his own mess. You join him on the unstained pillow and scoop your arm under his neck. He scoots over, resting his head on your chest - eyelids droopy and body slack. You brush his hair out of his face, pressing a kiss to his clammy temple.

"A quick rest, then it's the showers before bed for you, Mister.. You did amazing for me. Clean?"

You extend your hand; palm glazed with his spend. Erin scoffs, lips twitching into a faint smile.

"You're such a dick."

He sweeps his tongue over the salty fluid and licks it off the ball of your fingers, cringing at the taste, but doing as asked for once.

"True, but I'm your dick now."

He stops - eyes soft and more vulnerable than the entirety of your session. "You... were serious about that?"

"Of course. You're a good boy, Erin - when you want to be. I like you."

His head falls back to your chest, hand finding yours. "i... love you."

The next day at school, you walk in together with your wrist in his hand. You'd let him keep his big dog act for just a little longer. Stopping at your longer, Erin spots the one that got away - some little shit that snuck a note in your locker and fled his fury due to the teacher standing in the hall. His right hand tightens into a ball.

"Erin."

The student looks your way, shocked seeing the two of you so close. His shoulders relax as he shoves the fist into his pocket. Thankfully, you didn't have every period together. "See, i wasn't doing nothing."

You peck his cheek with a smile. "Good boy.

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere scenarios #yandere insert #yandere blurb #yandere headcanons #male yandere #yandere imagines #yandere oc #sub yandere #yandere bully #yandere smut #top reader

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hotheadedhero · 3 months

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i am absolutely in love with your writing style and i see requests are open hehehehe

perhaps a rise!donnie with a gn reader that is “high intelligence low wisdom”? like, theyre smart and all and can understand a lot of his work, but they next moment they do something absolutely idiotic?

anyway thanks for considering <3

AN: If I've got the right idea then oh, ohoho, I think I can do this. Kinda describes me as a person 😅 And thank you!! I'm glad you enjoy the spoils of my crazy brain <3

A Dichotomy in Donnie's Dearest

Donatello x Reader

Donatello has a field day with you. Finding another entity as smart as him is unfounded but you're an enigma altogether. You're not necessarily the next Einstein, but your ability to fathom even half of the stuff that comes out of his mouth is impressive. Some nights, you'll both have conversations about biomechanics, nuclear chemistry, or anything that weasels its way into the mix. It isn't uncommon for you two to stay up until the break of dawn when you get caught up in such exchanges. In fact, your propensity for science drew him towards you in the first place. You make quite a pair, like how a covalent bond is a formation of electrons shared between two atoms.

Although, he supposes that if that is the attractive force in this analogy, your disposition for thick-witted conduct is the repulsive force. The difference between your divine intellect and your misshapen ability to function in society is an astounding, if not worrying prospect. It's as though you completely forgot yourself and he can only speculate how.

Initially, he chalked it up to a faulty memory: forgetting to switch the socket on when you plug your laptop in, not realising your phone is in your hand whilst it's 'lost', completely losing your train of thought mid-conversation. Standard, everyday predicaments that aren't unfounded amongst the greater world.

That assumption was quickly abandoned when he took closer note of some things that come out of your mouth - certain "theories" of yours that he hopes are funny thoughts and nothing more.

"Do you reckon tissues get their name from the fact that when we sneeze, we say, a-tissue?" you ask him.

You can't be serious, surely. Perhaps it was merely a bad attempt at a pun. If so, he'll have to limit your spending time with his oh-so-dear brother, Leonardo. It's bad enough having one person galivanting around thinking they're funny, let alone two.

He can't even begin to form a base for what you've just asked him, and instead replies so, "Life is too short for me to answer such questions."

It doesn't end there. He wishes he could say it does but it doesn't.

"I just figured out why a peanut is called a peanut!" The unparalleled excitement in your voice is enough to shock him out of his mortal body but the content source of your jovial commotion is mind-boggling and not in a good way. When he does nothing other than stare, you continue, "They're like peas in a pod but the nut version!"

"A dazzling deduction, my love," he remarks tiredly, wondering how you're the same person he discusses string theory with. "The limits of your knowledge truly know no bounds."

He's just glad Aristotle isn't around to see this side of humanity. It isn't limited to what you say, either. Worst of all, it's the things you do. Such as, when you try to eat something despite the fact it's just come out of the oven. Bonus 'dumb-dumb' points if you try to take food out of the oven without gloves. To put it simply, he doesn't trust you in the kitchen - a caution further validated when you rubbed your eyes after cutting jalapeno peppers once. You have been effectively banned.

He's lost count of how many times you've elbowed your own hip whilst rolling over in bed, or the many instances you've attempted to pull a push door and vice versa. That isn't even taking into account the countless times you have visited the lair without waterproof clothing, despite how long you've been coming down. Let's just say that the already long list is seemingly never-ending.

His frequent sighs of annoyance never offend you. If anything, it makes you laugh that much more when he appears physically pained by your antics. It's as though you enjoy his suffering. From your perspective, there's no harm in the odd hiccup here and there. You're merely enjoying life for what it is and know when to have a giggle at yourself.

Donnie believes himself to be a prodigy and he is! He can solve most if not all conundrums thrust his way but you - you - are the one he can't figure out. Yet, no matter how many times you engage in these idiotic behaviours, he still loves you. Besides, thinking any less of you would be a stupefying case of hypocrisy if he weren't to acknowledge his own blunders. Granted, his mistakes are often in the name of science but you are truly a match made in imbecilically astute Elysium.

AN: Btw, the things about the tissues, peanuts, and elbowing hips? Real stuff from me. Idk how I function

#tmnt #teenage mutant ninja turtles #rise tmnt #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #rise of the tmnt #rottmnt #rise of the turtles #tmnt 2018 #rottmnt x reader #tmnt x reader #donatello #donnie #rise donnie #x reader #donatello x reader #donnie x reader #rise donatello #rise donnie x reader

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lazulian-devil · 16 days

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Does anyone remember Legend of Zelda: Spirit Tracks? You know. The one with the train.

Point is. This was my first Zelda and I have so many good memories of it. But I know people hated it so I went back in, just to see how much I liked it.

And oh boy. Oh fucking boy.

Is the train riding a little obnoxious? Sure. Especially in the endgame. We all know that.

But the story is so good? The characters are either wonderful or wonderfully stupid? Zelda is such a cool companion character and I still love her as much as I used to. The mechanics are fun, the fucking Dungeons are amazing (and theres so so soooo many!!) and my heart is just so happy.

Everyone mocked me as a child but I love this game. I played for five straight hours yesterday and everything was just so fun. So incredibly, wonderfully fun.

Look, you dont have to care about it. Its a silly spin off. But the writing is genuinely funny, the graphics are absolutely "You get used to it", the fact that you basically control the entire game with your stylus is something that I dont remember ever having to do in a game, the Puzzles are fun, the pacing is (at least for the first five to six hours, meaning that I managed to unlock three of the slates, went through two dungeons and finished three tower dungeons) pretty damn good, the quests I know to be stupid and time consuming but I was also like a child. Anything Ive struggled with or remembered to be hard isnt actually that bad. The map marking mechanic is such a cute idea and I love it. Stamps. The enemies. The characters. The Dungeons!!! Oh my god, the dungeon bosses. They arent hard or mind boggling or all that jazz, but they're fun! And still a little challenging, despite having played the game twice as a child and now having leveled up a few levels in videogame skill. The camera is never annoying. The SOUNDTRACK. The riddles I found overwhelming as a kid are actually pretty easy to solve from context clues. The world has so much intrigue and I know it all gets answered. I never managed to beat the final boss, but I cant fucking wait. I know you can grind your train pieces into oblivion, but I dont think I will (unless I notice that Im majorly struggling). THE SOUNDTRACK.

I wish there was any way to emulate it so I could Show it to other people. Im playing it on a crappy DS Lite that doesnt close properly anymore. Its just...

This is a Nostalgia win, my dudes. An absolute nostalgia win. My heart is singing. I am so Happy. If you own this game or stumble over it, please give it a try. Its so damn charming. Stupid, maybe. But charming. Might write a proper Essay on it because my heart. My poor child heart. Its overflowing.

#legend of zelda #legend of zelda spirit tracks #spirit tracks #loz #i love this game #oh my god

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delightfultheoristfox · 25 days

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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.

I'm currently dedicating time to my master's thesis, my English is so clinical and soulless I can only offer things written when life had meaning LMAO Uni's been sucking the will to live out of me with a little straw

The title is long as hell, I apologize (but it's from AURORA's "Conflict of the mind" so it's all good, because we all love Aurora).

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 was his last sight, he’d die 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.”

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