#johnny mactavish x reader

[quarterlifekitty]

see I think Johnny is the type of boyfriend that thinks he can inspect your pussy for you as if he has any qualifications for it

talks big game about knowing what a healthy pussy feels like or whatever while he’s blatantly using it as an excuse to finger you because he’s a filthy dog✨🎀 he’ll go ahead and check your tits for any signs of cancer too, hope you don’t mind!

“Wasnae so tough, huh, bonnie? Jus’ wanted ye t’spread those pretty legs so I could check up on m’favorite girl,” he coos from his perch between your legs as the heat rushes to your cheeks. “And she’s lookin’ a right treat, isn’t she? So slick n’ shiny f’me… but how’s she feelin’?”

A dexterous finger glides through your folds and into you, and he groans at the sight and sensation like an overeager pornstar. “I might damn well say she feels better than she looks, if it was possible. Christ alive….” He curls his finger, seeking out the soft little spot that made you arch and buck.

“And so responsive. But I cannae be sure everythin’ ship shape till I have a taste test, bonnie.”

[awhitewyvern]

💳💥💳💥💳💥

Spectacular, give me 17 more

pack omega reader but they call the shots.

alpha johnny brings home a random omega to get his dick wet? you don’t let him knot you, and to make sure he that he won’t just pop it in, you bought him a knot-cage. you let him fuck you, riding him as you moan and croon, and begging him to breed you and god he wants that too so he promises he’ll fill you up and douse your cervix with cum. only—

the cage suppresses his knot. he cums but it’s not enough to take; to breed. and oh you look at him with such disappointment that johnny learns his lesson.

alpha kyle who loves fucking your throat. you tap at him to pull out because you want him to cum in your cunt and not down your throat, but he’s so submerged in his pleasure that he misses your signal and sprays his spunk in your mouth with a pleasured groan. oh so if he won’t listen to you, then you’ll just ignore his pleas too then. you refuse to remove your scent patch around him, refusing him the right of reading you past your tells and words. and kyle aches, saying his sorry’s, telling you that he’d listen better. but still, you deny him.

one day though you let him fuck you and kyle thinks he’s done being punished but then he sees you and he had to gnaw on his lips to stop himself from growling in displeasure when he sees your scent patch still on your gland, but also barricaded by your collar. not only can he not scent you, but now he can’t even sink his teeth into the mating mark as he usually adores doing.

alpha john who does not know when to call it quits to protect himself and it angers you so much because yeah sure he often is too tired to indulge you, but also he’s not even getting the proper rest. and in your line of work, any downtime is needed. so you drag him to the point of overstimulation—loading him until his sensory is overloaded, and he’s begging to crash out. for a reprieve. but you click your tongue in disagreement, your eyebrows furrowed in your displeasure, and you continue to fuck your fists down his cock before ensnaring his knot with your palms.

it’s too much and it fucking sucks that he’s been popping a knot consecutively outside of your cunt. the pleasure is muted and more often than not, all that pushes him into his climax is the need to get it over with. john begins to no longer force himself past his limits because this was a painful experience.

alpha simon. it is so rare for him to disobey you because of his need to be good. his need to be someone you could use, no matter how. no matter what. at first, having such a big, scary alpha be on your beck and call intimidated you—you felt unworthy of his attention, of his devotion, but he had been too good at persuading you. showing you what it means to use him. to wield him. to trust him more than anyone.

but he’s crossed the line today.

you found your safe house bugged. you didn’t even know he knew this safe house because of precisely who is in it that you so desperately tried to conceal as means of protection—it’s a little pup.

the kid’s not your own but someone you’ve picked up from a botched mission. and so to come home and find the multitude of devices that simon’s planted in your place? it burns you with anger.

in retaliation, you do the thing simon’s always told you would be the worst you could do to him—you disappear, and you left not even a single trace. the safe house has been scrubbed clean of you and the pup’s scent, then it’s been burned down.

hell, not even the rest of your pack knew where you would’ve gone and it would take them two months until they finally find a trail.

and it led them back to—

simon’s house.

oh, you sly fox.

[drgnflyteabox]

red ochre [4]

series masterlist previous || part four -> orchil || part five -> kermes

pairing: viking goap x fem! nun reader summary: double-edged swords, field trips, and wolf figurines w.c: 4.2k tags/warnings: religious & sexual guilt / shame, stockholm syndrome, inner turmoil, suicidal thoughts (minor), violent thoughts, oral (f), dubcon/noncon, stockholm syndrome, reader says "stop" / "no" but johnny continues, reader has some puritanical ideas about sex (virtue, virginity) but shes a nun so give her a break, power imbalance, thoughts of death/afterlife, self hatred, "little" used affectionately not as a size indicator lol

You wake up to the sound of a childs’ babbles the next morning, disoriented and confused - had sister Margery taken in another orphan girl to raise up in the convent? The softness of the bed beneath you betrays your confusion, rocking you slowly into reality as you blearily open your eyes.

Johnny sits at the table, cooing to a baby on his knee. He bounces them as they make sounds, soft happy ones that contrast with his muscles and scars and hair. In your observation of him you think about how a man so coarse-looking could be so soft to lay against, how he could go from sweet to firmer than stone in a moment. How his hands held you down not two days past, and soothed the skin that still ached as you shifted in bed now.

A conflicted series of emotions had risen in you since, and though something had calmed inside you, the primary tide was a pervasive sense of shame and it tended to overpower everything else.

“Who's that?” Johnny says, his voice high-pitched. “Is that my wife?”

He's cooing to the child, but still you burn and twist with too many things to dwell on lest you go mad.

Simon is nowhere to be found, but that's not been unusual in these winter mornings.

“Who's this?” You murmur, sitting up. Your woolen shift is warm, a soft red colour dyed by one of the village women that Johnny told you he'd traded for specially. Red ochre, he’d said, fingering the cloth. A beautiful muted red kind of colour.

A little like dried blood.

“Gaz's bairn,” Johnny says. “His house is gettin’ invaded by some rowdy boys, and the lasses’ are at the river.” 

He must see the confusion on your face, because he adds, “boys are gettin’ ready for a hunting party.”

The baby shrieks, clapping clumsily as Johnny lifts a carved wooden toy up to them. He crinkles his eyes, looking between you and the baby. You want to discourage whatever thoughts he's having, so you stand and move to the fire, away from his wandering blues.

“Should I make something?” You don't dare look at him.

“So sweet of ye,” Johnny hums. “The baby eats eggs.”

You nod.

As you steadily become more awake, thoughts begin to cloud your mind.

Guilt is strange; it spreads like a plague, tainting anything you've decided to take some control of. Cooking, chores, talking cautiously with the men or allowing your heart to soften. The poison has grown from your first peak, spreading outward from your core and into your mind, leaving you worse off.

Simon hadn't done anything else, nor had Johnny. You'd cooked them lunch and breakfast, asked for sewing equipment for mending and receiving it promptly after. From Gaz's woman, Johnny had said. She says hello. Any contact outside of Johnny or Simon hadn't once crossed your mind, especially not since having sat on Simon's lap at the feast like a prize.

But you were a prize, a stolen woman, taken to wife. However you spun the narrative it was hard to get past that fact and harder still to get past that it might fulfill something inside you that nothing else could or could've. That perhaps you were tainted, and the taking had been because they saw it in you somehow. Sniffed the false servant of God as you worked, not anything by coincidence but guided by some instinct that told them you were just as bad.

Your little book, the one you missed dearly, the one piece of physical evidence that damned you. 

Though God had never spoken to you back, you'd imagined in the convent that when you passed he'd simply show you the blasphemous, lustful evidence of your filthy mind and send you to burn.

Now you knew that He wouldn't have to do that. You'd simply burn without any chance, damned worse now by your treacherous cunt.

“-nun? Where's my little nun gone?” You turn, startled. The eggs are crisp, and darkening by the second.

You hurry to pull them out of the hot fat as Johnny watches you, still cooing and bouncing. 

“Sorry,” you slide him a nearly burnt egg. “Can the baby still eat them?”

 “Should be fine,” he tears the egg with his fingers, offering tiny pieces.

It's hard, but not too tough or burnt. Just browned, fried and crispy. You wonder if this could count as a sin, how nearly wasting food would weigh against coming on the fingers of a viking heathen.

The hopelessness gets you sometimes, gets you as you try to sleep and in moments like these. What option do you have? Adapt, or what? Sure, it's probably better to take advantage of their lack of extreme violence and make your predicament as best as possible, especially without an escape route and without the strength to fight them. 

You feel watched, judged, observed on all sides. Giving in and navigating how to be a viking wife might be better than resisting forever, but the unseen eye of divine judgement and its gaze rests heavily on you. In fact, it's like it seeps into you through your skin and connects with the shame to compound both feelings.

“There she goes again,” Johnny says, but you hear him this time.

“I'm here,” you say. The baby smacks their lips, enjoying the egg despite its texture.

“No ye aren't,” his blue eyes are piercing, cutting through the fog of unease. “Ye getting all worked up again? I better not catch ye out back again.”

You shake your head, though he's right to think that way. Cleansing yourself has been on the back of your mind, not only the holy kind but what they can bring you with a different kind of force. 

There's the sprout of desire that's grown bigger and bigger, as if some dry seed had always resided inside you and they had watered it back to life.

“I'm not,” you finally say, though too much time has passed and it's clear Johnny doesn't believe you.

The door opens and you're saved by the interruption. A new anxiety forms as multiple people enter, curling suddenly like a hook. Simon, Gaz, Gaz's wife and Price step in.

“Tyra,” Gaz says. “Where's my little Tyra?”

The baby shrieks again, reaching her hands out. You see the resemblance to both Gaz and her mother now, seeing them up close again. She claps for Gaz, her mother behind him and smiling at you gently.

“How are ye, Kari?” 

“I'm well, thank you,” Kari says. She's always so soft, so glowy every time you see her. No wonder Gaz has scooped her up, you think you'd have also planted a baby in her belly if you were both able and a viking. Such thoughts sometimes arrested you at random in the convent, admiring the other women and dismissing them as silly. 

You try not to put more weight into them now, as it doesn't serve your predicament. 

But still, you admire Kari. 

“And you?” her eyes soften.

“Well,” you parrot. There’s no way to explain how unwell you really are - or how your well-ness is causing that unwellness. It's confusing enough for you.

“She's settling in,” Simon says. He's trading looks like Price, whose beard is becoming a little overgrown.

Gaz takes Tyra, who babbles happily. For a moment it's like this place isn't all evil and temptation, but also love and care. It's easy to get lost in the image of Gaz and Kari making kissy faces to Tyra, who is unknowing of the world and happy to be in it.

They don't linger long. There are words exchanged that you don't pay attention to, hands clapped and Tyra kissed goodbye. You learn that she's nearly two, still a baby but getting bigger. Price teases the couple about their next as they leave, making Kari laugh a hearty laugh that fills you with warmth.

It evaporates a little when you're left with Simon and Johnny and silence, the atmosphere changing to something unfamiliar. This boundary you'd crossed with them has left you someplace awkward, with you mostly lost in your head.

Simon is good at getting you out of that space, but he's been gone often since the incident and Johnny's intensity tends to push you further inward.

He comes up behind you, now, and sets his heavy hands on your shoulders.

“She been like this all day?” He asks Johnny, who hums affirmatively.

Simon leans down, lips brushing the top of your head, hands squeezing your shoulders, before he pulls you backwards into his torso.

“Your god speaking to ya?” He asks. 

“No,” you say honestly. “He's silent.”

“Silent, eh?” There's a chuckle, then two. They're heathens, you remind yourself. Heathens.

“Lamb, why don't ye spend some time with the wee lady Tyra?” Johnny scoots forward on the bench, touches your knee, smiles.

“Might do you some good,” Simon agrees. “‘specially since we're goin’ on a hunt.”

You pause.

“A hunt?”

Johnny nods. 

“I'll be stayin’ behind,” he says. “Watch our little nun.”

Simon finally sits behind you, hands sliding from your shoulders to the softness of your upper arms, still squeezing.

“It's past time,” Simon says quietly behind you. He explains the yearly hunt, the walrus in the right location, the ivory they will sell and the oil they will gain for use. There's a whisper of something there, maybe longing, maybe not. You can't tell, not with his aloofness. He's closed off as a default, but he rubs your arms like he's comforting you and you decide to take it as such.

There's nothing left for you to say, so you just nod. You're still trying to resist taking on an intimate role, a wifely role, something that will make them think you've given up. You haven't yet, you might not. You have options, even if they're unpleasant or permanent. 

A shiver passes through you. That isn't what you want. You're stuck, but you have to rationalize: it isn't what you thought it would be.

You've felt good. You feel good now. The remaining pain comes from the twisting, growing shame that slowly turns in a circle and ensnares your insides.

That, and the taking. It still feels unfair, feels wrong. If you think on it too hard you start to feel like a thing, not a person.

Johnny seems regretful that night, a mix of pride and love for Simon warring with his need to stay home with you. He sleeps in the middle, leaving you near the wall and opting to join hands with Simon through the night. These moments humanize them to you as well – to your distress, and to your softening. 

They love each other in the way you've seen some of the villagers love each other, in the way that love is universal; it's a little different, because they're different, but it's tender nonetheless. 

Love is luck, you think. Luck enough to find someone to be tender with in a world that is hard to live in, that is so utilitarian, so survival dependent. 

Simon leaves the next morning with a group of hunters. Price leads the pack of them, slapping the backs of some of the younger ones who for them it'll be their first or second winter hunt, encouraging them. It's a mixed group with both men and women, younger and older, seasoned and green. 

You stand beside Johnny at the door, watching the group move through the village until they are gone. Johnny tells you that they’ll ride horses, but they’re further out. Lest we smell the horse shite, he laughs. Got enough on our plate with Si. The joke has a thread of longing in it.

You’ve never been truly alone with either of them, you realize. Sure, a few hours here and there, but never for the days that Simon plans to be gone. Never slept alone with either of them.

Simon has been somewhat of a buffer, even if he’s the one who initiated the incident and carried it out. He balances the infinite well of restlessness Johnny has.

It’s frightening and comforting all at once. For one, you don’t feel like a bug pinned by its wings, even if that means you’re even more anchor-less than before. Simon is solid despite his surliness, and without him to steady the dynamic you worry.

“Ah dinnae know what to make,” Johnny bemoans. He wants to prepare some kind of gift as a surprise. “Already got too many statues.”

“Statues?” you ask, tilting your head towards him.

“Aye,” he nods, moving to a far corner of the house. He produces a little leather pouch, then little carved wooden figurines. One of them is a wolf, the other a bird.

“You made this?” you take one delicately in your hand, as if it would break. Statues, he said. They’re cute, clearly having been made with care.

Turning the wolf in your hand, you admire the polished shine of the wood.

“Aye,” he says again. “Si’s got too many.”

He spends a portion of the day puttering about, stoking the fire, sharpening various tools. You can’t tell if he’s restless because Simon is gone, or if you hadn’t noticed his restless nature as much because Simon was his outlet.

An urge rises in you, that screaming urge you know more intimately than anything else, awakened and restless like a hungry beast – it stirs as Johnny stokes the fire, crouched and with his back to you.

The only way to go if not out is in and you won’t. Push him in, you think. If you want out, push him in. 

But you won't. There’s darkness at the core of you to be sure, but not that kind of darkness. Not the kind both he and Simon are steeped in. Violence, sadism maybe.

That would make you the other side of the coin. 

The same swirling pattern of thoughts plague you even as Johnny serves you fish and more turnip for dinner, even as he pulls you into bed for that night and wraps himself around you.

You want to kick. To scream. To have a fit. Some insane, perverse fit; something that would have earned you an exorcism or an execution in the village. These thoughts come unbidden to you as you try not to feel the grasp of Johnny’s hand to your waist, nor the scruff of his beard on your throat. 

Your identity has shifted, already. You aren't dead inside, not anymore. Not hoping for some outer force to take you away.

An outer force has taken you, and now you wrestle with the ramifications on your spirit.

It's unclean now, surely. But hadn't it always been?

Hadn't you willed this?

Happy faces appear in your mind. Kari. Tyra. Gaz. Price. Johnny. Simon is too hard to read, but the way he treats Johnny is enough to convey some kind of contentment.

And then the look at breakfast. The baby. Johnny’s gentle cooing, his attention. Simon’s hands squeezing you, reassuring you.

They contribute to the degradation of your spirit, to each rend of the glue that has held you together since first consciousness.

You try to hold onto the fear from before. Their words from before – behave and we won’t kill you. Does that still apply? Are you still under an ever present, looming threat? Were they only trying to get you moving? 

Some part of you shudders to realize that it doesn’t feel that way. Even when they had sprung it on you to marry you, you hadn’t felt the same mortal fear as when they had absconded with you. 

No, it had been hurt. Disappointment. The fear had shifted with your identity, staying present but becoming unfamiliar.

The you that they had taken was unfamiliar too. She’d have never built snowmen, nor ground her pussy into the hand of a viking and relaxed into another’s hold as you are now.

You wanted to live, you think. Even then.

A couple days pass. Johnny finally finds a suitable enough gift for Simon, a double edged blade he’s carving and sharpening.

The sight of it makes something tighten in your chest, so you avoid looking at it.

Between you both, it’s less awkward than you worried about. You come to a different understanding of him, one that comes from watching his independence without Simon. They truly do fit together, you think. Complement each other.

What about you? Are you here for them to have other options? A cunt, you think crudely. Something that gets wet without extra effort, something easy. You’ve certainly not made it hard. The thought puts you in another stink, frowning down at the pair of linen summer pants you’d found and started to mend.

“What’s this face ye got on?” Johnny steps up to you, setting the heavy blade on the table, and sitting.

You don’t speak, you just sew. Are you just a womb? Is that it?

“Awe, lamb,” he leans forward, hands finding the tops of your thighs and leaning on them. “So sour.”

When you still don’t respond, he reaches to take your sewing. You lose some bearing and prick him with the needle, frissy that he’s trying to take you out of your ruminations.

Provocative.

“Och,” he waves his hand, then laughs. “Prickly, are we?”

He forces the fabric from your hands, squeezing your hand until it opens with the needle and thread. You make some kind of irritated sound, like a growling cat, still half in reality and half in your mind.

“Ye’ve been stuck,” he pokes your forehead. “Stuck here, eh? Let me fix that.”

And then you’re pulled up to your feet, steered to the bed, and pushed before you can adapt.

“Simon’ll have’tae forgive me,” he murmurs. You’re sat on the edge, looking down at him with a frown.

“What-” you make a strange, caught off guard squeaking sound as he pushes you by the shoulders, lifting the edge of your dress.

“Sh,” he says sharply. “Should’a done this days ago.”

“Wait- don’t-” you slam your knees shut, trying to sit back up. Something sharp you can’t name explodes outwards from your chest, sharp spikes pricking your lungs and your heart, twisting.

Your struggle is mostly futile, though it’s easier that Simon isn’t here. Your arms flail, your legs scoot you away up the bed.

“Noo-” you try again. Your fear stems mostly from the uncertainty of what he’ll do, of the fear that he’ll steal the last true thing you have; your virtue. 

“Relax,” he strong-arms you into lying down, arms crossed at your chest and his huge hand keeping them pushed down.

He positions himself parallel to you, replacing his hand with his bigger knee, his face right where he wants it.

“Ye should’ve asked me, lamb,” he murmurs, then kisses the hair above your pussy. Your stomach tightens, breath coming out in strained gasps from the combined weight of his knee and your shame.

You’re wet.

“I won’t smack ye if I don’t have tae,” he says. His hands rub up your hips, then your thighs, before coming up to your pussy and spreading your lips open.

Your clit strains in the open air, a cool breeze from the gaps in the door making it jump. He watches for a moment, cruelly, listening to the sound of your laboured breathing.

Then he dives in, tongue first. Because of the angle, his tongue dips down towards your hole while his lower lip catches your clit, making you gasp.

“Let me,” he hums, pauses. “Let me take care of ye, lamb.”

And God, he does. Johnny licks over you like a starved man, sucking your labia before flicking the tip of his tongue over your clit again as sounds come out of you like someone is pounding a fist into your chest.

He slurps your wetness obscenely, using his fingers to scoop whatever leaks from your hole as best he can and bringing them to his mouth to suck clean. He murmurs fervently about how good you taste, how he can smell the desperation from you.

“So neglected,” he sucks the wetness from your hair, even. “Forgive me.”

He’s talking to your cunt again, leaving you trembling against the bed and tightening, tightening, rising, rising–

He stops. 

You damn near scream, but the sound gets trapped where he’s still putting his weight on you.

“I’m gonnae move, and yer gonnae stay right there all sweet for me, aren’t ye?” he turns to look at you, and though you can hardly see him you nod.

He lifts off, making you grunt involuntarily, then switches positions so he’s on his hands and knees nearly on top of you.

“Open those legs,” he says. Leans down to kiss your sternum over the fabric of your dress. “Let me ease yer mind.”

You can feel yourself falling further from grace, but God help you – you open your legs.

Johnny keeps eye contact as he slides down, getting on his stomach with those piercing blue eyes cutting through you.

When his mouth touches your cunt again, you feel yourself start to shake, growing more insane by the second. His tongue touches your hot, swollen flesh, dragging wetly against everything sensitive. He’s like an animal, you think. A heathen. No wonder these people have not seen God’s light. No wonder it does not reach here.

Something so sinful, so good, couldn’t possibly exist in the puritanical world you’d been taken from.

God, you think again, body twisting against the sheets, is this really what they kept from us?

“Please,” you cry out. Please stop? Please continue? It’s a plea for more than just Johnny, more than God. It’s a question that burrows deep in your mind and begs you to understand yourself, to untangle, to feel and release.

And oh, you’re breathing, breathing in, breathing in perhaps for the first time in your life. You wrench his hair in your fists, uncaring, screaming into the cold winter afternoon without a care. Your back arches, tilting your cunt further into his face, legs straining, gushing. Blood rushes in your ears, deafening you, once again turning the world into a small point where you can neither hear nor see.

All you can do is feel, ride, undulate. This is that fit you’d wanted earlier, it’s some insane hysteria, some sin that feels like ecstasy. 

Your nipples tighten, stimulated by the chill of the air and the scratch of your woolen dress. Your peak is maddening, drawn-out and pushed further by Johnny’s lips suctioned around your clit and sucking in hard.

The moment you truly finish, when the stimulation turns to discomfort, you release his hair and push at his head.

“Stop,” you gasp. “Stop it.”

He doesn’t. His hands find your thighs, holding you open, running his tongue from your clit and then piercing it into your hole. His nose rubs on you, and though tears spill from your eyes you grind into it, crying for him to end it.

“One more,” he grunts.

“No,” you moan. Then you peak again, mouth open in a silent scream and eyes screwing shut, the fusion of sharp, near-painful pleasure and actual, overstimulated pain brings you a climax you could have never imagined of on your own.

You weep again as he pulls away, feeling raw and tender. 

Boneless.

You wake in the middle of the night bundled and in both furs and arms. You’re pleasantly sore, pulsing a little still between your legs where Johnny’s thigh keeps you company. He’s so warm, so comfortable, that it’s easy for you to fall back asleep.

You wake again in the early morning, so early that the light of dawn hasn't yet breached the cabin.

Johnny snuffles behind you. Nose on your shoulder, hands migrating to rest just below your breasts.

“Mmmlamb,” he murmurs.

Your muscles are heavy, still. Weighed down with relaxation. It's true that you had gotten worked up, and that his actions had helped. You don't find any shame, not now. You've found a rare pocket of respite.

Simon is due back in a day or two unless there are extenuating circumstances. A winter storm, maybe. Or an errant predator. 

What would life look like if he never returned? It’s an uncomfortable thought. You’re still on the edge of how you feel, teetering between extremes, but you rely on them both for survival.

Where could you go? Even when you’d ran, the plan had been borne of heart, not mind. Without Simon or Johnny, you’d be in a terrible precarious situation.

Without Simon permanently? You weren’t sure.

You very slowly extricate yourself from Johnny’s arms, sliding out of bed and into the cold air. The fire is just coals, so you add a few pieces of wood and stoke it for the day. In the dark, you can see the reflection of the fire in the sword Johnny had left on the table.

You pad to it, staring, curious and afraid. It looked orange from the fire, only darker. It looked like your beautiful red ochre dress, your blood dress.

You reach your fingers out and stroke along the blade, breathing shallowly in the dark.

Dawn breaks.

[luminni]

Most desperate things the 141 boys have done for sex because I can't stop thinking about it <3

(sorry for this being a 3rd repost, I had an account called Lumi_bunsblog but that one got deleted for some reason so this is the new one now ig lol)

John's begged for it. I mean on his hands and knees begging for a taste. I know this man is an avid pussy pronoun user too. He has been on his knees in front of you as you sit pretty on his couch, trailing kisses up your soft belly to your tits and then back down to your thighs.

"C'mon sweet girl lemme' 'ave a taste of 'er yeah? Know she fuckin' needs me hm? Just look at tha'" as he runs a thumb of the wetness that's seeped through you thin panties, just waiting for you to say the words and let him tear them off.

He knows if anybody else in the 141 or if any of his fellow soldiers could see him now, the Captain Price practically drooling over you and sweet talking your cunt like it could hear him they would have a fit. But he couldn't care less because you looked so fucking good right now so "just let 'er 'ave what she wants alright sweet thing?"

I just know Kyle has spent 70% of his last month's pay check on hotel room because the 5 star pent house suite was the only hotel room in your area left available during the holidays. He played it cool with an arm around your waist assuring you it was fine, acting like this was the room he wanted to get, not the one he was forced to have. But if he was being forced to do anything thank god it was spoiling you.

"Don't worry 'bout it love. Just make 'urself comfortable" He'll say in a sultry sweet tone, planting kisses up the side of your neck before excusing himself to the lavish bathroom to check his bank account. He had to make sure he still had enough to buy you a nice breakfast in the morning.

And you're already layed out so pretty for him on the bed so he's not complaining about anything. Especially not the mirror situated on the ceiling right above the bed. Oh and don't you dare suggest splitting the cost, "just split your legs for me hun, 's all ya need to do"

Johnny is eager, like so so eager. When a passionate make out session on your couch got even more heated than either of you had previously expected and he now had his fingers playing with the waistband of your skirt, letting his cold finger tips splay themselves just below. When he got to the hem of your panties and began to hook a finger into the lace you had to stop him,

"Johnny"

"Yea?" He was breathless, chasing your lips when you pulled away to talk. You almost felt bad for separating but if he was going to touch you, there was one request you needed to make. You had felt his nails drag across your thighs moments earlier, it felt wonderful but they were...a little long.

"Do ya nae want this hen?" He'd ask, looking at you like you were a piece of art. Pleading with his eyes, shining like they'd spill tears if you said yes.

"No, no I want this, I want you so so much. It's just..." you trailed off

"Tell me what's wrong bonnie and I'll fix it, yeah?" his hands kept you grounded to his lap either a soft grip on you ass.

"It's just- you're nails, they're a little long" your request was nothing more than whisper.

'Oh' Johnny knew he probably should have just asked for clippers, but you felt so damn good on his lap. He could feel your warm cunt through the zipper of his jeans and with your tits brushing against his chest he couldn't bring himself to move.

You watched in shock as he just began to just tear his nails off with his teeth. Without a second thought his pointer and middle finger nails were bit off to the skin. He paused and looked at his right hand before ripping off the index finger as well.

"Johnny what's gotten into you-?"

But he's already got his hands back down your skirt. Soft finger tips slipping between your folds. "Feel better now eh?" And when you just nuzzled your nose into his neck and let out a little whimper he chuckled "I'll take tha' as a yes"

Simon swallows his pride for the first time in his life for a chance at hitting it raw. You tell him it's okay to not use protection, that you're on birth control. But you needed to make sure that he didn't have any stds seeing as they're even more of a pain when you're on birth control. Not that you don't trust him you just want to make sure and it's not a problem for him seeing as he has to get tested every other week being in the military.

He doesn't, however, have his records on him at the moment and with a girl already lying in his bed telling him he can cum inside. Plus a raging hard on, he doesn't exactly feel like running back to base to get the paper work. So...next best thing.

"Price-"

"Rare for ya to call on leave Simon, whatchya need?" Price responds, his voice cracking through the face time call, a cigar dangling from his lips.

"Sir I need..." he looks back at you, your eyes expectant and shining. You wanted him and he wasn't going to fuck this up. "Can you send me a picture of my last med check results?" He rushes out the last part, elbow on his knee and hand dragging over his face.

Price quirks one eyebrow but doesn't look like he's going to ask any questions. Unlucky for Simon though, Johnny was also in the room. His voice distantly coming through the phone,

"The feck ya need those for l.t.?" He questioned

Simon just groaned, soap's addition to this call just made it even more frustrating. But he snapped out of his frustration at the sound of price opening his file cabinet. "What part?" Price asked, dismissing Johnny with a wave of his hand.

"The-" Simon began, this was fucking embarrassing but when he looked back to you, now perched on your hands and knees, the plush of you hips resting on your ankles, he'd do anything at this point. "STD results." He responded plainly.

"Aye! No fuckin' way mate!" The sound of a chair scraping the floor could be heard as Johnny began to clammer over to his captain who pulled the sheet from his files.

"Ya didn't tell me he was in the room" Simon growled

"Ya didn't ask" Price droned

Johnny's head popped into frame "show me what she looks like ey l.t?"

"Not happening" Simon deadpanned

"Aw c'monnnn" The sergeant whined "just proud of you for finally getting some action!"

"Enough." Simon could see you biting your lip to stifle a laugh out of the corner of his eyes, a curious look in your eyes at his reddened face.

"Sent a picture to ya Simon" Price huffed, letting Johnny give him one last "good luck!" Before hanging up the phone.

You were a mess of giggles as he just shook his head and shoved the phone results in your face for you to look at. "See. Clean."

"Okay okay" you giggled, finally letting his form eclipse you back onto the pillows

"Went through a hell of a lot of trouble for ya, sweet girl" he whispered, nipping at the shell of your ear.

"I'll make it worth it" you said, kissing the corner of his lip and tangling your fingers in the back of his hair

"Christ woman" he groaned, feeling his cock twitch at your promise, "gunna' be the death a' me"

[loves-alibi]

The 141 is the type of team to go missing on a mission, presumed dead, but turn up months later and completely fine. Actually, they’re better than fine. Nobody knows how, but they come back healthier, stronger… different.

They don’t look at you the same way. The admiration in their gaze is replaced with something distant. Predatory.

You approach John about it one day, delicately. Are you all alright?

Better than alright, darling. Isn’t it obvious?

The bright smile he fixes you would be all well and good if it weren’t for the coldness in his eyes.

brb gonna write this

[ang3lc]

How about having a steamy shower sex with a pent up and touch starved Johnny McTavish after a long deployment, the hot water cascading on their body as he hoist reader up and pressed her against the glass wall. If you write about it I'll def read it

HOMECOMING | johnny mactavish

2.4k words, johnny x fem!reader cw: unprotected piv, shower sex and all that comes with it

the front door creaks open, the sound barely audible over the hum of the fridge in the kitchen. you freeze mid-step, your heart leaping into your throat. no one was supposed to be here. you reach for the bat leaning against the counter—always in arm’s reach since Johnny left—gripping it tightly as you inch toward the sound.

“who’s there?” your voice wavers, the question a mix of fear and adrenaline.

there’s a heavy pause, followed by the unmistakable sound of boots scuffing against the hardwood floor. you raise the bat as you round the corner into the foyer, your hands trembling as you prepare to swing. but then, a voice cuts through the silence, low and familiar.

“'a'm home, lass,” he murmurs, stepping into the light. “it’s me.”

you blink, the bat slipping from your hands and clattering to the floor. johnny stands there, still in his tac vest, his duffel bag slung over one shoulder. his hair's grown out, messier, and there’s a shadow of exhaustion under his eyes. but he’s here, real and solid, and the sight of him hits you like a freight train.

“johnny?” you whisper, your voice breaking on his name.

“aye,” he breathes, dropping his bag as he closes the distance between you in a few long strides. his arms wrap around you, pulling you into his chest with a force that knocks the air from your lungs. the familiar scent of him—sweat, gunpowder, seafoam—floods your senses.

“you aren't supposed to be back for another week,” you manage, your words muffled against his shoulder.

“couldn’t stay away,” he replies, his voice rough and quiet. his grip tightens like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go. “needed tae see ye.”

you pull back to look at him, your hands cupping his face. his blue eyes, though tired, are bright and alive.

“you look like you’ve been through hell,” you say softly, your thumb brushing over the faint scruff on his jaw.

“been worse,” he replies with a crooked smile, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “just need a shower an’ some time wi’ you.”

he doesn’t wait for your reply, scooping you up in one swift motion that makes you yelp. “johnny—!”

“shh,” he murmurs, carrying you toward the bathroom. “need tae wash the dirt off before i can touch ye proper.”

the promise in his words sends a shiver down your spine, your protests melting into anticipation as he carries you to there bathroom, kicking the door shut behind him.

he sets you down, his hands lingering on your waist as his gaze roams over you. there’s an intensity in his eyes, a hunger barely restrained, and it makes your skin prickle with anticipation. the bathroom feels smaller with him in it, his presence filling the space as he shrugs off his jacket and tosses it onto the counter.

“you’re filthy,” you tease, though your voice comes out softer than you intended.

“ye’ve no idea,” he replies, his tone laced with something deeper, something that sends warmth pooling low in your stomach. dirty minded fucker.

he turns on the shower, the spray hitting the tile with a steady rhythm. you start to undress, but johnny’s hands cover yours, stopping you.

“let me,” he says, his voice a low rumble that makes your heart skip.

his fingers work with deliberate care, peeling your clothes away layer by layer. his touch is reverent, as though he’s committing the sight of you to memory, and by the time you’re bare before him, the weight of his gaze makes your cheeks flush.

he doesn’t rush. his own clothes come off piece by piece, the tension in his shoulders easing as he sheds the layers of deployment—sand, grime, and the heavy weight of duty. when he’s finally standing before you, fully exposed, you can’t help but drink him in. scars you’ve memorized and new ones you haven’t trace stories across his skin, each a testament to the man before you.

“beautiful,” he murmurs, his eyes dark and full of adoration.

he steps into the shower first, holding out a hand for you. the water cascades over his broad, muscular shoulders, slicking down his hair and catching on the sharp lines of his jaw. you take his hand, letting him pull you in, the heat of the water a welcome contrast to the cool air outside.

the sound of the water drowns out everything else. johnny pulls you close, his hands finding your hips as the spray washes over both of you.

“missed ye,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your temple. his voice is low, almost reverent. “missed this. missin’ ye damn near got me killed”

“god... don't tell me that... at least you're here now.” you reply, your hands resting against his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palms.

his lips find yours, and the kiss is everything he hasn’t said, everything he’s felt in the long weeks and months apart. it’s slow and all-consuming, becoming a tangle of heat and need that leaves you breathless.

his hands wander, mapping out the curves of your body as though reacquainting himself. his touch is possessive but tender, a silent promise in every brush of his fingers against your skin.

“jump,” he whispers against your lips, his voice thick with want as he taps your thighs. .

you obey without question, you lift your legs and he catches them as they wrap around his waist. a shiver runs through you as he wraps his arms around your waist and rear, holding you steady.

each of johnny’s thrusts slams your body against the glass wall, the pane trembling under the force of his movements as if it might shatter from the intensity. the cool surface bites against your overheated skin, a contrast to the heat radiating from him. every inch of his body feels like a live wire, coiled tight, sparking, and setting you on fire.

he moves with an unrelenting rhythm that leaves you breathless, his need palpable in the way his hips snap into yours, precise and consuming. his mouth laves on you—your neck, your jaw, your lips—branding you with a promise that the water can’t wash away. the glass fogged long before the steam had a chance, each breath adding to the haze as your breaths mingle in the humid air.

his hands are firm on your ass, lifting and holding you with an ease that speaks to his strength. his fingers dig into the soft flesh with a bruising grip, grounding himself in the reality of you, here, wrapped around him as you suffocate his cock. there’s desperation in his touch, but beneath the ferocity, there’s tenderness—a thumb stroking your skin, a whispered affirmation against your ear that steadies your racing pulse.

“fuckin’ perfect,” he groans, his voice raw and needy as he licks at the crook of your neck. his words, spoken more to himself than to you, send a shiver through your frame. his hips slow to a steady, deep roll, nudging your g-spot with his mushroomed tip while the thatch of hair at the base of his cock teases your clit.

“fuckin’ hell,” he mutters against your skin, “ye’ve nae idea how much i’ve needed ye, lass. thought about ye every fuckin’ day, every fuckin’ night.” his teeth graze the sensitive spot beneath your ear, pulling a borderline pornographic moan from your lips as your walls clamp around him, dragging another groan from his chest.

“oh- oh fuck... j-johnny-” his name falls from your lips in a broken whimper, and it’s enough to let him know that you're close, his forehead dropping to yours. his breaths come heavy and uneven, his body trembling as though holding himself back takes every ounce of control he has left.

his hands shift, one cradling the back of your neck, the other anchoring your hip against the glass. his eyes meet yours, pupils blown wide, his gaze dark and unrelenting. “say m’name again,” he rasps, his voice low and raw. “need tae hear it. need tae know ye’re here wi’ me.”

you thread your fingers into his damp mohawk, "l-love you, johnny-" he smashes his lips against yours before you can finish and you're sure he knocked a tooth loose.

he picks up the pace, each thrust forces out a mewl that he swallows down greedily, his groans vibrating against your lips. his hands tighten on you as he drives into you, your nails dig into his muscled back, drawing faint streaks of crimson that the water washes away.

his lips leave yours, kissing and sucking down to your collarbone, your shoulder, the hollow of your throat, followed by the scrape of his teeth and the press of his tongue to soothe the burn.

he pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, a smirk curling at the corners of his lips. “fucked m’fist tae that dirty little polaroid ye left in m’wallet,” he taunts, his tone teasing but laced with something darker. his eyes gleam as he leans in, his breath hot against your ear. “what? didn’t think i’d notice, did ye?”

your response is lost in a gasp as his pace quickens, his thrusts growing erratic, pounding deeper and harder, his cock bruising your cervix with a burn that devolves into pleasure.

his forehead presses to yours, his breaths heavy and uneven, mingling with your own. “you’re so fuckin’ sexy, fuck,” he rasps, his voice cracking under the weight of his need. his eyes lock onto yours, dark and full of emotion, as if he’s holding onto this moment, burning it into the back of his mind.

your nails dig into his shoulders as you feel the coil tighten, heat pooling in your belly as you tense, “johnny… oh go- fuck! don’t stop, please,” you gasp, your voice breaking on the words. “i’m so close. please, don’t stop.”

his left hands grip on you tightens, and his right thumb slips between your bodies, drawing tight circles on your clit, a sharp yelp from your lips as your hips buck. “never lettin’ ye fall, love,” he groans, his voice rough and raw. “come f'me. let me feel that cunt gush 'round me.”

your body arches toward him as the coil snaps, a wave of pure, blinding heat that tears through you. you cry out, your voice trembling as you clench around him, sucking him in keeping him there.

“that’s it, baby, milk my fuckin' cock,” he murmurs, still pistoning his hips into you, your eyes rolling to the back of your head in overstimulation. his lips brush against your temple as he stops you from squirming. “fuckin’ beautiful… that’s my girl.”

his hips stutter as he chases his own release, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. “fuck, lass, ye're squeezin’ me so tight,” he groans, his head dropping to your shoulder, sucking a bright red blotch that'll fade to purple.

you thread your fingers into his hair, tugging gently to bring his face back to yours. his hips begin to stutter when he looks in your eyes, “let go, baby. i’m here. i’m yours.”

with a final, shuddering thrust, he spills into you, his hot seed filling your cunt and dripping down his legs, onto the shower floor, “jesus… fuck,” he rasps, his voice breaking as he collapses against you, his arms locking around your waist.

johnny shifts, carefully lowering you to the shower floor, his strong arms still wrapped around you as if afraid you might disappear. the water cascades over both of you, cooling the feverish heat left in the wake of your passion. he leans his forehead against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the steamy, wet cocoon you’ve created together.

“you okay, love?” his voice is soft now, a tender rasp that pulls you from the haze of your climax.

“yeah,” you whisper, your fingers tracing lazy patterns on his chest, feeling the strong, steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your touch. “better than okay.”

his lips curve into a small smile, and he presses a kiss to your forehead, lingering as if to savor the moment. “good. because a’m no' sure how i’ve gone this long without ye.”

you manage a soft laugh, your fingers brushing through his damp hair, pulling him close until your foreheads touch. “you’re a sap, johnny,” you tease, your voice barely above a whisper.

he grins, the tension melting from his face as he cups your cheek, his thumb tracing lazy circles against your skin. “aye, maybe. bu' a'm yer sap.”

the tenderness in his eyes makes your heart ache, the intensity of the moment softening into something sweeter. he shifts slightly, holding you closer as the water falls over you both, washing away everything but the feeling of him, solid and steady, against you.

“a'm nae leavin' ye again,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against yours in a featherlight kiss. “promise.”

you nod, your arms wind around his neck, anchoring yourself to him. he kisses you again, slower this time, as if savoring every taste you have to offer. when he pulls away, he moves to turn off the shower, the sudden quiet amplifying the intimacy between you.

“let’s go tae bed,” he says finally, his voice low and warm. “want tae hold you proper.”

you nod, letting him guide you to your feet. the love in his eyes is steady, unshakable, a quiet promise that no matter how far he goes, he’ll always find his way back to you.

mlist

[thugbiscuits]

— december fic recs 18+ only.

please note: none of these fan fictions were written by me. when you read please make sure to like, comment, and reblog. IT MAKES ALL THE DIFFERENCE. minors / ageless blogs will be blocked.

pssst.. hey pookie ;) thanks for stopping by again! hope you can find some comfort in these fics, i know i did. there’s a lot less fics as you can see, i haven’t been reading as much bc the holidays were a mess 🙈. as one year ends and the next begins i’m always sending love to everyone here on tumblr. wishing you all the best, see you in the spring. LOVE YOUUAA

captain curly fics .

❄︎ nsfw curly headcanons (captain curly x reader, smut) @curlybiter

❄︎ co-pilot mischief (series) (curly x teasing!reader) @kkanabel

❄︎ nsfw alphabet w/curly @konpeitonom

wade wilson fics .

❄︎ a line drawn in red (wade wilson x reader, fluff, smut) @angel-eyes05

❄︎ wade and lipgloss (wade wilson x reader, smut) @fairlyang

logan howlett fics .

❄︎ i want your video (90’s pornstar!logan howlett x reader, smut) @murdrdocs

❄︎ cheer up! (logan howlett x reader, fluff) @wolvietxt

joel miller fics .

❄︎ jagged edge (joel miller x f!reader, smut) @ovaryacted

❄︎ babydaddy!joel thoughts (fluff, smut) @faerygrant

johnny ‘soap’ mactavish fics .

❄︎ what are boundaries? (series)(neighbor!john soap mactavish x reader) @3amfanfiction

❄︎ totally platonic (best friend!soap x reader, smut) @kechiwrites

❄︎ kinktober day 4 - creampie (smut) @etclouie

❄︎ so this some new trick? (johnny mactavish x reader, smut) @gazlightmehardergazzy

❄︎ gallery curator!reader x bitter artist!soap (smut) @soapcloth

❄︎ johnny and simon domesticity (ghoap x reader, fluff) @lvrsfilm

mdni banner by @adornedwithlight <3

lovey’s note: this might be my last fic rec list for a while (at least a month or two). i’m trying to take a step back from social media as a whole, yk first of the year shit. but if you really and i mean really like me, you can follow and stay in touch. i’ll be popping around on here, doing “non fic rec stuff.”

[ilostthewar]

Crawling back to talk about Johnny 😔

Soap is such a fun whirlwind romance, okay? He hits you up, he’s in the city for a few days maybe a couple of weeks, and he just has to see you. It’s Johnny, no matter what’s going on it’s fun. He’s down for anything. Take out and a movie, bar hopping, museums, concerts, cafe dates, arcades, laser tag, fucking paint and sips, running errands together.

It’s so good, he fills into the space so well. His shoes by the door, jacket slung across the back of the couch. He has a mug that sits by the sink, body wash and deodorant poked beside your own. It’s all breathtaking kisses and private giggling. He’s all big hugs and loud gestures. It’s an untouchable feeling, really.

And then he packs up his life into his duffle and he’s gone, just as quickly as he came. Of course he loves seeing you but he wasn’t going to stay forever, you both knew that. And yeah, you did, but that doesn’t change the fact that this morning you were rolling around in bed together laughing at something- and now all his stuff is gone. And when he leaves it’s little more than a promise to let you know when he comes back around. And he sounds so genuine, is the worst part, like he really is holding his breath for when he’ll be back, that makes it the worst.

No the worst is seeing the way he is still here. His little drawings on post-it notes stuck to your mirror. Some of his snacks are around, tucked in the pantry, his mug is beside the sink still. There’s a spot for his shoes. The way he reorganized the basket on the coffee table, cause he’s always fidgeting. Of course he leaves a sweatshirt or something. He left you behind, with everything that you’re supposed to simply move around or put back.

[writersdrug]

Johnny "Soap" Mactavish is the kind of dad who throws your kids around for fun, tossing them into the air and catching them just to hear their infectious laughter, ignoring the worrisome protests that you call out from the kitchen when they get a little too high.

Captain John Price is the kind of dad who convinces your children to ask you for pizza for dinner, acting all surprised when you tell him to call the local pizza place, eyebrows rising with "What's the occasion?" despite the obvious grin that his plan worked. You aren't fooled.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick is the kind of dad who chases your kids around with a nerf gun, relentlessly pelting them with styrofoam bullets and ganging up on your oldest son with your youngest daughter. Waits behind the front door for your son to get home from school and immediately fires on him.

Simon "Ghost" Riley is the kind of dad who holds your toddlers like footballs, your daughter tucked sideways under his arm and dangling your son by his ankle. "Found these mice sniffin' 'round the cookie tin." He says with a deadpan expression, but you don't miss the way his mouth twitches when they giggle and shriek.

[quarterlifekitty]

cw: freaky hybrid stuff. For real.

I’ve seen something similar to this (I’ll link it here if I can find it) but I can’t stop thinking about hybrid!Soap and Owner!Simon. And Simon refuses to get Johnny fixed or put him on any sort of medication, so he ruts desperately, often.

And Simon has been to the shelter so many times— trying to find a good chew/fucktoy for his boy. But he’s just so pent up and rough— Simon always has to bring the bitches back whimpering and covered in bruises.

Enter your little toy poodle ass.

You’ve never been in heat before, it’s always been suppressed with meds. You’ve never been paired up with a male.

Knowing that just makes Johnny a little crazier— trying to mount you and teethe at your neck just as soon as Simon brings you through the front door. He’s ripping at what little covering you have and rutting his hard, leaking cock against you while you’re caged under him, his scent surrounding you.

And maybe it’s because you’re so little— but you just collapse after he knots you. And he’s so used to his partners scurrying away and growling at him for how he bruised and marked them and pounded their cunts— there’s hearts in his eyes when you stay, don’t start growling and snapping when he pulls out. You’re just sweet and tired and sensitive— so he pulls you into his bed, wraps himself around you and even tucks his favorite blanket over you. His nose is buried in your neck.

“So bonnie n’ sweet— cannae wait till ye have a proper heat, lass,” he coos with a hand splayed over your abdomen “gotta fill this pretty belly with m’litter, yeah? Now that Ah’ve got m’self a wee little mate.”

[metallictastinglifesupportliquid]

Ghost, calling Y/N: Hey, sweetheart Y/N: Jail or hospital? Soap: How could you make such accusations when we are merely trying to greet the love of our life?! Y/N: Jail or hospital? Ghost: Do you really have such little faith in us? Y/N: Jail. Or. Hospital Soap: ...jail. AND WE LOVE YOU! Y/N: *hangs up*

[drgnflyteabox]

Fem!reader x 141

Honestly might be able to to something with the gross stuff I saw at the hardware store I used to work at (except make it hot and 141)

Imagine you're a cashier, the only one with early morning availability so you're there at 5:45am for the 6am start. It's always the worst kinds of contractors there: rude, tired, dirty, leering gazes and sexist comments

You're pretty sick of it, but you get paid a bit more than minimum wage and you're done by 11am so, you take it with a cheery smile and fast service

The 141 contracting company starts spending at your store. So much, in fact, that your manager personally takes you aside to mention just how much they do - nearly a million a year - and how no matter what, your job is to be nice and please them

Well, you can do that. You've dealt with crazy, awful old contractors screaming in your face about lumber prices at 6:30am more than once, heard them talking about your tit's or your ass right in front of you - you can handle it

Until the masked one comes in first and hes huge, dark hoodie and cargo pants hanging low on his hips. He hands you 3k in bills only there are bloodstains on them and he watches you closely the whole time you count them out

It's... not a first, but the look he gives you makes you shiver. Pale eyelashes, tall, intimidating

The second is nicer. Too nice, in fact. He charms you before you're even fully awake, and your shift goes by quickly thinking about that winning smile and the way he'd touched your fingers while he handed you a stack of bills... not to mention those soft brown eyes

The third is... intense, for 8am. He rolls on the balls of his feet, stares at you harder than the masked one. He offers to buy you a hot chocolate at the coffee shop next door and grins like you made a joke when you decline

Their boss is fucking dreamy. Even you have to admit it, trying not to look up at his mustached, frankly porno-esque face. He's huge, as tall as the others but thick, with a little pudge around his belly. He trudges in with thick workboots and a stained t shirt, pays for 24k worth of material with a lazy smile on his face like it's nothing

You might ask head cash to move you to the garden center after all...

[bagofshinyrocks]

Government name vs Military callsign

Prompt: What scares them worse? Addressing them by their full government name, or addressing them by their military callsign?

Featuring: Task Force 141 (CoD: MW2) - John Price, Simon "Ghost" Riley, Kyle "Gaz" Garrick, Johnny "Soap" MacTavish (separately) x GN!Reader

Word Count: 0.9k

Warnings: none

John Price

Government name.

Calling him Captain or Skipper just ends with him sauntering to where ever you are and ask (in an obnoxiously self-satisfied voice) what you wanted. Like a cat pretending it can’t hear the urgency in your tone when you say to get off the counter.

“If you want me to ‘shake a leg’, call my name, luvie.”

Now if you holler “Jonathan Price”, he’ll drop something. Either the newspaper in his hands, or his heart into his stomach. He sure as hell moves his ass with a purpose, and he’s peering into the room with an apology on his lips.

“Yes, luv? What’s wrong, poppet?”

“Lift the other end of the couch, would you?”

He does, and you shimmy it further back in the room. “Anything else I can do, love o’ my life?” He’s hovering, and gently coaxing you into his arms. Gauging how mad you were at him. You curled into him and kissed his chin. Then stepped away with a pat to his chest.

“No, sweetheart, just wanted you to shake a leg is all.”

When he remembers your previous conversation, he groans and tells you to fuck off.

Simon Riley

Military callsign.

When you two are alone, and he’s already given you permission to call him Simon, don’t call him Ghost. When you say that word, he assumes one of his mates are at the door or on the phone, and goes from Simon to Ghost. Stalks into the room with narrowed eyes, only to find you in the kitchen. By yourself.

“Ghost, you want a sandwich too? Turkey and cheese.”

“Fuck you callin’ me that for?” 

Once he sees you’re alone, he swoops in and wraps around you like a hoodie. A firm kiss to your ear, then your cheek, then spun you around. Back pressed to the counter top. Settles his face right close to yours.

“We playin’ games now?” You didn’t want to upset him, so you pressed a kiss to his nose. His grumpy look faded a bit.

“Sorry, baby.” Arms wrapped carefully around his shoulders. And your fingers scratch his scalp. Another kiss to his nose. “I’m sorry for playing games with you. Simon Riley.”

Hearing his name on your lips finally cracked, and he gave you a smile. A little scar on the upper lip. You gave it a kiss, and then pressed a kiss to his lips. 

A quick surge forward, and you only just had time to shove aside the things behind you before you found yourself on the countertop.

Kyle Garrick

Government name.

He doesn’t mind being called Gaz, and you’ll use Kyle and Gaz interchangeably. Doesn’t even mind if you use “Kyle” or “honey” in front of his squadmates. Though “Kylie” he does have some displeasure with.

“I’ll have you know, Soap is still calling me Kylie, you asshole.”

Call him ‘Garrick’, and he knows that you are pretending to be mad at him. He slinks over and rubs his face against your cheek. He’s too cute for you to stay mad.

If you shout “Kyle Garrick”, he comes running. He could have sworn that he put his clothes in the hamper. And did the dishes. And taken out the recycling. Damn, what was it that he forgot?

“Kyle Ga-”

“Yes, dear!” Shit, he didn’t mean to ‘yes, dear’ you. “Yes, my dear, I’m right here.”

You pause your laundry folding and summon him with a crook of your finger. Once he’s close enough, you tap your lip with the same finger. “I need a kiss.”

He blinked once. Then twice. “God damn you.” He squishes your face in his hands and gave you a quick, firm kiss. “Don’t stress me out like that. Thought you were mad.”

“Give me another kiss, or I will be.”

He rapid fire kissed your mouth, chin, and cheeks, then gave you a smack on the ass before returning to the living room. 

“In my own fucking home,” he muttered.

John MacTavish

Military callsign.

He’s got some thick skin. And he’s had his name shouted angrily many a time. He would all but skip into the room with a big smile on his face. The only people who shouted that name (and wore out the scare-factor on it) were his family members. Shouting “John MacTavish” meant you loved him. You were also mad at him, but you loved him. That was more important. Even with your scowl and the gross pile of garbage he kept forgetting to take out. You loved him.

Now shouting his callsign reminded him of his superior officers.

“SOAP!”

Shit shit shit. He put down his beer and ran from the garage to the backyard. Leg brace over his sweats, low cut muscle shirt that you also wolf-whistle at when he wears. You were only weeding the garden boxes.

“JOHNNY!”

“I’m here, bonnie,” he hollered, rounding the corner. You were sitting in the dirt, a tidy pile of weeds and dead plant bits next to you.

“C’mere, c’mere.”

He leaned down next to you, hand on your shoulder and good knee on the ground. “Wassit?”

You pointed to the leaf in your hand. “A caterpillar, Johnny. An itsy-bitsy caterpillar.”

He sighed heavily and kissed your shoulder. “Bonnie, I thought something was wrong.”

“Hm?” You spared him a glance. “What are you talking about, bubba?”

“You called me Soap.”

“Did I? Didn’t mean to spook you, loverboy.” You gave him an apologetic kiss on the lips. “Just wanted you to see the caterpillar before he wiggled off.”

Posted: 2023 Dec 10

[loves-alibi]

something bad

dark!141 x reader

original post

summary: There’s something wrong with the 141…

1.6k words

warnings: implied cannibalism, violence, blood, reader gets hurt, reader is implied to be smaller than simon

***

You’re not there for the op– out on the basis of a nick to your side. Not really a nick– but rather a 3 inch blade you hadn't seen before it was hilt-deep in you.

Kate calls you in the night. You're still not well. The stitches are out but you're not ready to be in. The wound aches and burns and keeps you up at night. You consider it a blessing tonight. On account of the throbbing, you're awake when Kate calls. She doesn't mince her words.

They've gone dark.

Are they supposed to?

No.

You're on base in less than an hour. They refuse to send you after them. Hell, they don't even allow you to go in uniform. Too official for someone who’s supposed to be resting. This is on a need-to-know basis, Kate says, and you need-to-know.

Siberia in December. You’re nauseous just thinking about it. Guilt, you think. You were supposed to be on that op, leading a platoon of non-141 soldiers. You should have been there, maybe things would have gone differently.

It takes thirty-seven days on base to track them down, on top of the fourteen that they were missing before Kate called.

You’re cleared by medical by the time the big day comes, yet Kate doesn’t let you join the rescue team. She says that the op needs a level-head. So you wait on the tarmac, arms crossed over your chest to stop the trembling of your hands. You squint up at the sky for hours waiting for the silhouette of their plane to finally appear. Eventually, it does.

You’re off before the engines stop chugging, running as fast as your legs will carry you to the lowering ramp. Please be alive, please be alive, please, oh please be–

They’re not just alive. They’re… statuesque. There’s no other way to describe it, but John, Simon, Kyle, and Johnny– each of them look better than when you saw them last. Warm skin and full cheeks. Your eyes are more sunken from this last month and a half than theirs. You’re so happy to see them alive that you don’t bother to wonder how.

The boys are kept in medical for a few more days. Something about hypothermia and wanting to monitor their vitals for longer. You don’t get it. Their vitals are strong, stronger than yours have ever been. But the doctors know best.

You visit them every day, spend your breaks by their sides. None of them talk much about Siberia, an eerie silence falling over the room every time you try to bring it up.

In the time you spend outside of the medical ward, you hear whispers. People look at you out of the corner of their eyes, lowering their voice to make sure you can’t make out what it is that they’re saying.

It isn’t until you’re in the mess hall one day, when a dumbass private who doesn’t know who you are tries to impress you.

“Did you hear about the 141?” He asks, a mischievous smirk across his face. “My mate was on the rescue team– said they found bones with scratches on them. No flesh, no blood, nothing left.”

Unfortunately for the private, you’re running his drills that afternoon. You make him and all of his meathead friends who bought all that nonsense run until they collapse. They call you a bitch when they think you’re out of earshot. You ought to give them another lap– another ten –but you can’t. You’re too deep in thought– images of bones, scratched up and licked clean–

No. Not licked clean. Decomposed, you tell yourself despite the nagging voice in the back of your mind saying that the Siberian winter would certainly slow down decomposition.

The nagging is over quickly, when the next afternoon, the boys are let out of medical. They hop right back into work. Meetings, paperwork, and training.

The day after their release, you join them at the gym. You don’t expect much, maybe some light lifting and cardio on their end, but you’re dead wrong.

Johnny’s on the bench. Kyle, Simon, and John watch from a few feet away. There are more plates on the barbell than you’ve ever seen. You don’t even need to count to know that there’s about three hundred pounds looming over Johnny. Johnny’s always been strong, but even he’s never benched that much weight before.

But he clears it.

One rep. Two reps. Three reps. All without breaking a sweat.

He stops when they realize you’ve entered. Nobody addresses Johnny’s newfound hulkishness. Instead, John clasps his hands together and suggests some friendly sparring.

Sure. You could do that. It’ll do everyone good. The whole team is out of practice, so when John calls you and Simon up first, you don’t blink an eye.

However, it quickly becomes evident that something’s not right. Simon’s always been strong. He’s nearly six and a half feet of pure muscle and rage. It’s a well-known fact that sparring with him will always end in a victory for him.

Against an opponent of his mass, agility is your strength. Where he’s poised to use brute strength, you can duck and weave. It’s enough to throw him off guard enough to delay the inevitable.

But now? You can’t keep up. It’s as though Simon is predicting your every move. Moves that once would make him flustered don’t

You’re thrown to the ground face first. You’re waiting for John to call the spar. You lift your head to look at your captain, but his face is a blank slate. No, not entirely blank, his eyes are sharp, observant. It’s not just him. Kyle and Johnny are right at their captain’s side, breathing heavily. Kyle’s canines tug at his bottom lip.

“Call it,” you groan. Something warm trickles down your nose and into your open mouth. The taste of iron explodes across your tongue. A heavy weight looms over your back. “John, call it!”

“Missed you,” Simon whispers. His breath burns the skin of your ear. “Smell good, so good.”

Something touches the back of your neck, wet and warm. It feels like a tongue, you think, before realizing that it is– Simon’s tongue. He groans as he licks a stripe down the length of your neck and to your shoulder where you’re met with the stinging sensation of teeth sinking down into flesh. Hard enough to sting, but tender enough not to break skin. Yet.

“John–” It comes out breathy and high pitched. “For fuck’s sake–”

“That’s enough.”

In the blink of an eye, Simon is gone and you’re hoisted up by John’s strong arm. He takes you to a bench tucked away in the corner of the room, though not away from the prying eyes of your fellow sargeants, now watching you with parted lips. Simon’s nowhere to be found.

Simon, who had just cornered you and pinned you unlike anything you’ve seen before. It was animalistic, like you were his prey. For the first time ever you found yourself afraid of what Simon could– would –do to you.

John reappears with a rag and a water bottle. He soaks the rag and hands you the water. You lean back to down the water. It’s a mistake, you realize as blood drips down the back of your throat. You were so out of it you hadn’t realized that your nose is still bleeding.

“Look here,” John grunts. He peers in your eyes and grunts again. “No concussion.” One hand comes to pinch your nose as the other uses the rag to clean up the blood. “Nose isn’t broken.”

You hum, eyes fixated on John. He seems so calm, like he hadn’t just watched his lieutenant go utterly ballistic on you and–

You shudder, remembering the feeling of Simon’s tongue on your skin, his teeth in your–

“You’re alright, sergeant?” John asks.

You consider lying, but John’s looking at you like he already knows what you’re going to say. “I just–” You stumble over your words, “Simon… He was so– I don’t know how to describe it –unlike himself? Did it seem weird to you?”

“No.”

You frown. “John, I’ve sparred with him before. It’s never been like that. It felt unnatural.”

John swipes the rag over your lips. “You’re just out of practice from the nick.” John takes his hand off your nose and lets it slide down your body. It toys with the hem of your shirt for only a moment before creeping up your side and to the healed wound. His touch is muted by the thick scar tissue, but that doesn’t stop heat from exploding throughout your body. “How is it, anyways?”

It’s undignified the way you lose focus. John’s so close to you, having moved in closer to feel the scar. He’s tracing it, fingers half on the wound, half on the sensitive skin over your ribs. “Good,” you whisper.

“Good,” John repeats.

Someone clears their throat behind you. You try to turn around but John tightens his grip on you.

“We’ll take the rag if you’re done.” Kyle. And you assume by the sound of shuffling feet that accompanies him, Johnny as well. John hands them the rag with a nod.

The sound of footsteps fade, but before they're entirely gone, you hear Kyle and Johnny bickering about first dibs. It curdles something in your stomach.

Your heart is racing so close to John. Everything instinct screams to get away, but you simply can’t. At least, not yet.

“John,” you ask. “What happened in Siberia?”

John smiles. He removes his hand from your side and brings it back to your face. Your nose is bleeding again. A much calmer drip than earlier. John brings a thumb to the stream and swipes it away.

“We survived,” he says. “Isn’t that enough?” John pops his bloody thumb into his mouth and smiles.

[yeyinde]

You want a baby. Simon can't get over his hangups to give you one. The solution to both problems? Johnny.

18+ SMUT. breeding. mildly dubious consent. Johnny feasts on your pussy and then does his best to knock you up while Simon watches. slight body worship. bastardization of religious imagery. Mean!Dom Simon. rough, messy sex.

He's not the type to saw off his own hand to feed you, but would rather find a third man to satiate you both. The only one who can care for you, he said. Can't do that when he's dead, can he?

Maybe that's why he calls for Johnny.

down boy. eager mutt. lil' pyedogs got himself all twisted up in a rutt. help him, won't you, pet?

Johnny's softer than Simon but only just. This margin of distance, however, could be the gaping maw of a canyon for how wide it really is when scaled down to fit. Boxed inside a narrow bed—on your belly, cheek on Simon's knee; ass up, legs spread. Johnny behind you—colluvium to Simon's mountainside, but still so broad, so thick, your hips twinge with the effort of keeping your knees so wide apart.

You feel it whistling through the chasm when he licks his lips behind you—a loud, lascivious smack, a wet suckle—and feel the burn of his stare riveted on the split of your flesh. This bare seam Simon swears he found nirvana tucked deep inside of. A buried ravine. Aquifer he quenches himself on.

A pilgrimage Johnny has been aching to take.

And that's what this is, isn't it? Yatra to the hidden piscina. A procession to pollute the tarn—something Simon can't bring himself to do.

Bad genes. Trauma—sticky, noxious tar that oozes from the rotting filaments; festering deep inside. Cancerous: a mass you long to cleave from bone but know it's not cosmetic. Not just the ball joints, or the studs, but the foundation itself. If you start tearing up pieces now you'll have nothing but an empty plot and a pile of damaged debris.

So:

Enter the third man.

A tool. Vassel. Pays fealty by fucking a baby into your womb.

It's what you wanted, isn't it?

(yes, but—)

It happens faster than you can keep up with. Hands on your hips. Coarse hair tickling the back of your thigh. Warm breath against sticky, wet flesh. A broad nose parting your folds. Inhale. Exhale on a deep, reedy groan.

"fuck, ye smell heavenly, doe."

Simon hums before you can peel your tongue from the roof of your mouth, answering for you with a brassy invitation: tastes even better, Johnny.

It's all the permission he needs before he pushes his head closer to your bare cunt, groaning as his tongue cleaves a silky, thick line between your folds. Gorging himself without much preamble. Hands curled around your hips like expensive silverware, pulling you back into the wanting, eager suck of his mouth.

All at once, it's too much. Your hips shift, squirming away from his tongue, the too-sharp press of his teeth against soft, sensitive flesh. Mewling, whimpering into the rain-wet fabric of Simon's jeans.

His hand falls on your head. A gentle tap. Behave, it says, but you can't.

Johnny tramples over that thin line between pleasure and ecstasy, blurring them both until it becomes pain. Overwhelming. Shoving you towards the edge before you've readied yourself for the fall.

"Can't, Simon, can't—"

The words elide, slurring into a high-pitched whine as Johnny feasts on your cunt. Devours you from the inside out—all teeth and tongue, sucking your clit until your thighs cramp from how tight your muscles tense, bleeding lactic acid over sore flesh. The scrape of his stubble over your folds, chafing them until they are raw. Swollen. Drenched hole fucked with the spear of his tongue, digging so deep you begin to fear that he's trying to crawl inside of you. Salt your womb with his own two hands—

"Can take it, birdie," is all Simon says before his hand slides down your arched, trembling spine. Fingers digging into the meat of your cheek, spreading you wider for Johnny to eat. "Look how eager he is. Can't get enough of that sweet cunt."

"It's—it's too much—"

You don't feel him move. Can't see much from the blurry tears in your eyes. But his other hand whips out, cracking over your untouched cheek in a firm, burning smack. One that makes Johnny moan when it lands. Cruel. Open palm. Hard enough to leave a welt in the shape of his hand—something that makes him groan when he sees it.

"fuckin' hell—" his fingers dig into the aching flesh, grip bruising.

Johnny peels his wet, open mouth away long enough to pant into the slick spread of your cunt, resting his cheek on the swell of your ass. "Bit rough wit' 'er, Lt."

Simon considers it. Body shaking the bed when he shrugs, leaning back to trail his hand back up your spine, curling over the arch of your nape. Keeping you still as you sob into his knee. "She likes it."

"know she does. Fuck, Lt. Can feel 'er little pussy twitching. Tryin' tae suck me in."

Another hum. The grip on your asscheek eases as his hand peels away, sliding over swell before notching a finger between your cleft. Dry. Rough. It drags down your seam until it brushes over your fluttering hole, calloused tip digging in.

"soft, too, ain't it?" He asks, words mockingly cruel in their conversational tone. Nonchalant. But Johnny's hands tighten on your waist, palms slick with sweat. Glueing to your flesh. You can tell he likes that. Likes the way Simon talks about you. Demeaning and brutish. Butcher selling a piece of meat. "Bit of a tight fit at first—" he curls his finger inside of you, stretching your sore walls with the width of his knuckle. Sinking in deep. Another follows before you can remember how to breathe around the sting. "But swallows you up like a goddamn dream, Johnny."

His breaths grow ragged. "Fuck, Lt. Look at th'."

It makes you clench up around Simon's fingers, embarrassment scorching through your chest. "Please—"

Neither of them acknowledge you. Simon's fingers split, spreading wide apart as Johnny shuffles forward for a closer look, and nearly choking on his next inhale when he does.

"such a pretty fuckin' pussy—" he says it like a curse. Spitting the words out on a snarl. Angry, now, for reasons you can't discern slobbering over Simon's leg. "God, Lt. ah cannae—"

Johnny shifts back. You hear the clink of a belt. The rip of a zipper. Choked groans barely swallowed down as Simon buries his fingers inside of your weeping cunt over and over again, blunt tips cruelly skating over a spot inside, just behind your navel, that makes you feel liquid and loose between your hips. Debris floating down a whiteriver.

Pleasure peaks with each brutal thrust until you're howling into his leg, unable to move with their hands on your body, holding you down. Making you take it. Making you come undone as Johnny watches.

"fuck, fuck, Lt—she's gonna cum, ain't she?"

"Wanna feel it, Johnny?"

Simon's name falls out of his mouth on a whispered prayer. Drenched in thick reverence. Arched in need.

"aye, sir—" there's something about the hush of his voice, the way it slurs into putty. Enshrining his need in a halo of gold. It sends shivers down your spine. Heats you up fast like a fever. Sends you screaming over the edge—

"gonna miss it, Johnny. She's squeezin' me so fuckin' tight—"

Whatever else they say is swallowed by the keen clawing at the hollow of your throat when you feel the blunt, fat press of his cock knocking against your swollen, stuffed rim.

It's a burning thing—a sharp, heavy ache. Knock, knock. Simon spreads his fingers again, forcing you open. Pulling your hole wide apart for Johnny's engorged head to push up against.

It feels like being split down the middle. Ripped apart. Simon's fingers flex around your nape, thumb brushing soothingly against the knob of your spine.

Can take it, he mutters, brassy and low. A rumble just for you. Gotta take it, birdie.

You forget why. Why you need Johnny's too big, too fat cock inside of your cunt until the head bullies through, scissoring Simon's fingers apart until they're pressed tight on either side of the flared glands. Squeezed between your taut rim and Johnny's cock.

Johnny makes a noise like you've gutted him. A gutwrenching sob. "Oh, shite, Lt. M'—m'nae gonnae last—"

"gonna cum inside 'er, Johnny? Knock my pretty birdie up?"

Right. Right. A baby.

There's a heavy push. Your flesh wrenched apart to fit the fat, throbbing length of his cock—

(the cock that's gonna knock you up—)

Simon's fingers slip out of you as Johnny bucks forward, burying himself deep inside with a long, throaty groan. It's a horrible sensation—a bellyache. Without the splint of Simon's fingers forcing you open wide to near numbness, you're forced to feel the thick girth of his cock. Rim fluttering, spasming over the flared base. Too much, and somehow, not enough.

You sob through it. Each one ripples through your chest until it feels like it will collapse. Every inch of your body burns, throbbing. You don't think you'll survive this ache—

Johnny sets a brutal pace. Likes pistoning into you in quick succession until you're nearly howling into Simon's thigh before slowing to a crawl. Force-feeding you every inch. Making you feel every single one. Long strokes that batter the plug of your womb, bullying against the aching seal of your cervix until the flashes of pain, the savagery of this pleasure, makes you feel sick.

Getting fucked by Johnny like this is both a punishment and a reward. Baptism in hellfire.

Be careful what you wish for—

"gonnae fuck ye 'til it takes, doe. Knock ye up. Want th', don't ye? Aye. Can feel it. Feel this little cunt beggin' fer ma cum. Dinnae worry. Ahm gonnae give it tae ye. A' o' it, doe. Every—fuckin'—drop—"

Each awful word lands like acid on your spine. Chewing through flesh, tissue, until it melts bone below. Liquified. Helpless.

And with Johnny's hands on your hips, anchoring you in place as he hammers into your sore, abused pussy, possessed with the need to carve a space inside of your flesh where only he fits, rots, and Simon's hand on the scruff of your neck, holding you down, there's nowhere to run. Nowhere to escape the ragged breaths that spill from Johnny's slick mouth, the desperate way he pumps into you—thrusts growing sloppy as he stretches towards the precipice they dangle you off of, kicking and screaming as the scent of iron fills your nose, as his flared cockhead scrapes over that place you thought only Simon would ever know. Bluntly battering into the altar that sits, nestled behind your navel, like he's allowed.

Holy offering in a handful of seeds he'll sow over fecund land until something grows.

"Look at you take it," Simon coos, sticky, damp fingers petting over your tear-stained cheeks. It smells of loam. Salt. Iron and ozone. "So pretty when you're gettin' bred, ain't you, birdie?"

It rips a mournful keen from your chest, a feverish moan following on its heels when the lewd squelch, the echoing slapslapslap of Johnny driving into your cunt fills your ears. So wet, so messy, you can feel the slick drying, tacky and thick, on the inner crease of your bent knee.

"He's gonna put our baby in you, ain't he, birdie? Like a good mutt—"

The hands holding you over the precipice let go. Johnny's answering moan spears into your head, fluttering around the pulsing heartbeat of liquid bliss frothing in the pit of your belly. Overflowing over the rim.

Too much, you think, but that's not quite right because you can't feel anything at all except the length of his thick cock lodged deep inside you. Throbbing in tandem with your second pulse.

"gonnae cum, Lt. Gonnae—oh, fuck, Lt—"

His voice is a warm river washing over your spine. Pooling ecstacy. Something heavenly. Divine—

Molten gold blooms in the pit of your belly. Cockhead spitting against the seal of your womb as he cums, filling you to the brim. Fucking it into you even as his cock softens, unable to pull out he says.

Feels like fuckin' heaven, Lt.

"ain't she just?" Simon volleys back, sounding oddly dissonant. Off-key. "Pretty little birdie got what she wanted, huh?"

The drawl of his tone—acid-scorched, electric—forces you to blink through the tears, lifting your aching, wet eyes upwards at him. Searching.

He has the eyes of a predator. Leonine. The gaze of a beast after it's devoured something whole. His touch is as gentle as he can be—a rough, cracked scratch over your blistered cheeks—and when he meets your divining stare, he coos.

"Maybe I'll 'ave a go next time."

In the pounding, soporific slurry of your mind, you can't wrap your head around the words. Can't make sense of them. Struggling to keep your burning eyes open, even.

Not that it matters.

Johnny huffs a scorching breath of laughter over your sweat-slicked spine before wedging his forearm under your belly. Keeping your hips tipped up as he falls into you, resting his broad chest against your back and smothering you into the damp mattress.

"Yer cruel, Lt," he rasps, chin nuzzling over the arch of your shoulder, cock giving a feeble twitch inside of you at something you can't seem to piece together.

"m'jus' givin' my pretty bird exactly what she asked for." Huh? He prods, fingers tapping over your cheek when your swollen eyes slide shut. "Forgettin' y'manners, ain't you? Say thank you, pet."

With Johnny's half-formed chuckle echoing in your head, you mumble the words out on an exhausted sigh.

"an' say thank you to this mutt f'knockin' you up."

It comes out slower this time. Sluggish. His cock gives another twitch as he buries his face between your shoulder blades, smothering a groan.

"Sweetest thing, Lt. Christ—"

"more where that came from, Johnny. Jus' you wait an' see." Another tap. You mewl in response, feeling war-torn and achy. Unable to open your eyes for a second time, all you can do is whimper, burying yourself into his thigh. Pleading, silently, for clemency. Later, you think. Later—

But Simon has other plans.

"Fallin' asleep on me, birdie? Ain't even gonna give me a chance to put my baby in you? Greedy little thing, ain't she?"

Buried under the weight of Johnny as he peppers sucking, open mouth kisses over the width of your shoulder, cum leaking out around the softening plug of his cock, all you can do is snuff out the sob on the arch of his knee, resisting the urge to bite instead.

"Maybe next time then, eh, birdie?" Since you've been so good for this mutt, huh? Maybe I'll give you a reward.

Just be careful what you wish for, huh, birdie.

[i-love-you-just-the-same]

as a cheeky birthday treat to price, the force makes the drive to the nearest hooters. they're in the states for a mission and the restaurants dot many of the towns they drive through. sure there are a few back home, but it's an experience. one they want to enjoy thoroughly.

when their waitress comes up, they stare wayyyy to long for her comfort. which is how you get swapped with her. you're known for being able to handle customers like this. you don't balk when they stare down your shirt, just turn and ask if you can get them anything else. they're pieces of work tonight, but they're polite and keep their hands to themselves.

they become regulars after that. they have to after seeing you smile wide (although not at them) during the birthday song for price. they always ask for your section and make small talk while flirting. one of them usually leaves their number on the receipt with a healthy tip, but you don't budge.

they show you how good and capable they are for taking care of you. they know its wrong to solicit someone during their work, but it's just this once (they've decided to not approach you elsewhere, no matter how much johnny pouts. doesnt mean they arent watching). simon breaks the fingers of the man who groped you saturday night, kyle knifed the fucker hiding around the side of your car, and johnny slashed your touchy manager's tires. you don't really know about these things, but john's tips alone should show you how well they can take care of you!

you slowly warm up to them. you learn their names and where they're from. they don't come on as strong anymore, but its obvious they're still interested when one of them walks you to your car. sometimes you'll wear their jacket and an arm will be around your waist. possessive glare on any another man who dares to look your direction.

when they come in after longer than normal time away, they see you with a little crown with pink fuzz around the bottom and "birthday girl" written in diamonds on it. youre obviously unhappy about the kid's crown so they don't say anything, yet their smirks tell it all. price buys you a dessert when you're finished with your shift. to their surprise you squish in beside price. you let them call you "love" and "doll." johnny even feeds you a spoonful and gaz wipes your chin when you get a crumb.

it's about time you come around to their affection. they've been waiting so long and so faithfully. they have everything you need in their flat, so why don't you quit on the way out the door. call your landlord and tell him that you're moving out soon. you're truly theirs now. happy birthday, darling.