#soap mactavish x f!reader

[reveluving]

Ok, so Soap and shy wife. We all know he's the definition of sunshine/happy puppy and has the energy of an entire class of kindengarden. Imagine when they first meet the couple and he's all loud and jolly, and wife quietly shakes their hand and says "Nice to meet you" and he INSTANTLY quiets, because he's proud of his Darling to meet his friends/family, also because they're all wondering how she puts up with him🤣❤

LOSING MY MIND AT "they're all wondering how she puts up with him" BECAUSE THAT IS BASICALLY THEIR DYNAMIC 🤧💗💗

Includes: tooth-rotting fluff!

COD x shy!wife thots closed! Thank you, everyone, for your time & amazing minds! I sincerely hope I can do this again with y'all soon! 💌

Come & check out my COD m.list!

You just know this man does not shut up about you every time he meets up with his team for work. 

And then, one day, he surprises them with a “she’d love y’all to come over one day.”

“Didn’t you say she’s a lil’ shy?” Kyle voiced out everyone’s thoughts, so to be offered not by the man himself but the meek lady in question was a little surprising, to say the least.

“She is, yeah, but she’s open t’meeting a few pals o’mine.” Johnny meant it to sound casual, but with his mates knowing him for a long time, it wasn’t hard to catch the hint of care in his voice.

And, well, it would be rude to decline a lady’s generous offer, now, would it?

Johnny’s hyped, no doubt, his friends—no, brothers, and his other half finally meeting in person. They didn’t even have to ask, just by the way he was tapping his fingers on the steering wheel or the way he hummed to the radio, likely a playlist the two of you shared.

And with the boys holding some sort of gift for you, just as a thank you for the invite, you greet them by the door as soon as your husband announces his and his friends’ arrival. 

With Simon physically being the closest to you, you wiped your hands on your apron before holding your hand out. Simon nearly struggled with his strength, not expecting your lack of hesitation to greet him, out of all of them.

You introduced yourself, “It’s nice to finally meet you guys.”

Ah, such a sweet voice. So sweet that had Johnny not gone on and on about your shyness, they would’ve thought you were scared of them. But, you weren’t and the proud smile on Johnny’s face says it all. 

Why wouldn’t he? With your warm smile and even willingness to shake Kyle and John’s hands as well. Albeit, you had a habit of looking down every once in a while, especially if they tried to show their respect, i.e. complimenting your cooking, the decor or you in general, it was hard not to find you endearing.

But God knows how you, of all people, manage to put up with his nonsense. 

In the words of Johnny; “Opposites attract, after all.”

And seeing it now, to say Johnny was whipped…. Was putting it lightly.

It’s funny to see Johnny trying his best when it comes to lowering his gruff voice for you, even if you loved it just the way it is.

Though he has a lot of things to tell you, so much love to give you, you have his full attention the moment your lips part.

Each time you open your mouth, he closes his. As if fearing that one word from him would mean talking over you entirely, and he couldn’t bear the thought of that. The hearts in his eyes were tough to miss. He’s expressive, too, hanging on your every word like you were giving him a task when it was just you talking about how you learnt to make the lasagna you served for dinner.

‘SHUT UP, MY BABY HAS SOMETHING TO SAY’ type of beat, but it’s the man who’s saying it that has the loudest voice (and the gentlest heart).

But they’d be lying if they said they didn’t enjoy listening to the stories of how you met and how emo Johnny gets when the dates or outings don’t go his way, even though it all went well in the end.

Why wouldn’t they enjoy seeing his soul leave his body when you mentioned his baby pictures that his mother not only showed you but gave some to you as well?

“Johnny, c’mon, now, she’s a part of the family! She’ll need some photos o’you for when you move in together soon.” Says his mother, gifting you probably a stack of them, as if unfazed by the sight of you and Johnny covering your faces, the temperature of your body heat rising that even you feared you might pass out right then and there. He couldn’t even find the energy to stop his sisters from teasing him.

But besides allowing you to embarrass him a little, even if it wasn’t your intention, your home is another.

A small unit, located on the second floor. The candlelight colour, the cute indoor plants in each room, and the seats. 

Oh, the seats.

John nearly passed out just moments after he sat on it. 

Just by the way you maximized the apartment space, it’s no wonder Johnny always looked forward to returning home. Not necessarily the apartment, but to you. 

Dare they say, the visit felt like a ‘cultural reset’ (is that what the kids are saying these days?). Largely because one; they were able to finally confirm that Mrs MacTavish is a real person and two; one cannot simply ignore the dynamic you and Johnny have. It may be eye-roll-worthy to some, but Johnny learns it isn’t something worth fighting about. So long he has you, those people can yap and nag about it all they want. 

Bonus: John’s definitely the type of person to tell Laswell about it like it was some kind of a mission—like it was almost unbelievable to see you, well, you!

“M’tellin’ ya, Laswell. As soon as his wife had something t’say, he shuts up faster than when I tell him to.” He chuckled before taking a sip of his drink.

“Sounds like a keeper to me.”

˚ · . f i n . · ˚

[brewed-pangolin]

Corner Lot Creamery

Johnny 'Soap' MacTavish x f!Reader

MDNI 18+ Explicit smut, unprotected p in v, backseat sex, Soap being a vulgar little fiend, creampie if you look closely, just absolute filth

WC ~1.3k

Synposis: Everyone loves that new car smell. Except Soap. He prefers a more natural scent. Yours. And he knows just what to do to get that new leather lathered in it.

@glitterypirateduck @deadbranch this one's for you💛

Soap MacTavish is a simple man.

He appreciates quality over quantity. And prefers subtlety over indulgence in regards to the finer things in life.

This is nowhere more prominent than when he signs the down payment on a new 4Runner. Him being handed the keys, his mind already playing out the next strategic maneuvers needed to inact his plan while he aids you in effortlessly moving the belongings from one vehicle to the next.

"You alright, babe?" You ask. Glancing over your shoulder with a smile, scrutinizing the knowing grin etched in his lips.

"Aye. M'good, hen."

It was the simplicity and deep brogue of his reply that had your mind tumbling. The sound of his toolbox jiggling in the back not too dissimilar to the gears turning within your thoughts. Nestling the distinctive red Milwaukee chest in the corner, keeping it in place with his duffle bag that rarely left the vehicle's trunk.

"God. Is there anything better than new car smell?" You boast. Sliding into the passenger seat, the fresh leather molding to your frame, softened by the heat radiating from your skin.

His silence to you was unusual.

Soap was always a talker. Rarely going an hour without interjecting himself into any discussion, and more than comfortable putting his own view on any and all topics of the day.

Your eyes narrowed at him. Trying to decipher his unreadable expression; gaze focused on the road, barely a twitch to the corners of his lips. And his eyes, normally bright and expsoed in the midday sun, were darkened by his Ray-Bans, impeding your perusing stare.

"Johnny. What's going on with you?"

Almost instinctively, and with the speed and fluidity of a hardened servicemen, he reached out to wrap his hand around the flesh of your thigh. His unwavering stare focused on the road, his fingers traveling up the suppleness of your inner thigh, only to nestle between your legs and press his fingertips into the seam of your pants. Feeling the throb of arousal beneath the fabric, pulling a sinful whimper from your lips, adding the perfect amount pressure to the area around your clit.

"New car smell's fine, yeah. But I want somethin better," Soap growled. Pulling into a vacant parking lot, hurdling the sparkling new SUV into a corner spot with a dramatic jolt. Barely able to unfasten his own seat belt, his hands shaking with need, crawling into the backseat before grasping at your clothes to drag you back with him, an excited shriek erupting from your chest from his needy exuberance.

"M'gonnae make 'er smell like you, bonnie. Want yer scent on me, every time I get in 'er."

His hands were on you like a feverish fiend. Tearing your clothes away, fabric tossed to the back with reckless abandon as the scent of arousal permeated into the pours of fresh leather.

Silencing your protest with his mouth, tasting the sweetness of promiscuity on your tongue, exhaling a growl between your lips while he rocked his hips, grinding his hardened cock into your core, feeling the heat radiate over the fabric of his jeans.

Breaking the kiss with a wet pop, he fumbled with his belt, opening his pants with a determination you knew all too well. Thankful for the tinted windows and private brick cove of the parking lot. Not wanting to add indescent exposure to the days events as he moved to hover over your naked frame. Fully intent on christening his latest 4Runner with the spicy bouquet of sex.

With a focused purpose, Soap pierces your silken cunt with the throbbing hardness of his cock, devouring the moan escaping your throat with a heated kiss. Gliding his tongue in a sultry dance tandem with the languid roll of his hips.

"Gonnae make ya come...fuck...got'a make ya come, bonnie. Cannae pull out til ya fuckin clench 'round me."

If it wasn't the desperate plea echoing on a breathy growl, it was the steady and determined roll of his hips that ultimately sealed your fate in that parking lot.

The thick, spongy head of his cock kissing the sensitive wall of your cervix. Refusing to pull out entirely with every backward thrust, keeping himself buried within your velvety walls, pushing you towards overstimulation with every labored exhale. The metal carriage keeping the world at bay as your mind and body succumbed to climactic euphoria.

"Johnny..."

"Tha's it, hen. Come f'me. Feelin ya fuckin wrap 'round me."

Your orgasm moved with a chaotic symphony of gasps and moans.

Wanton and unadulterated.

Muffled by his lips, tangling with his animalistic growls. Legs wrapping around his waist to keep yourself grounded to reality for fear of drowning in the abyss of his own intrepid making.

The rhythmic roll of his hips steadily began to falter. Every forward push accentuated by a groan.

Gravelly and unfiltered.

Raw.

"F-fuck, bonnie. Gonnae come-...fill ya up. Make ya-...spill me outta ya."

You never tired of his vulgarity when he was on the cusp of emptying himself into your cunt.

He was breathless. Beautiful. And altogether beastly as a surge of warmth and pressure filled your canal. Prompting him to give one final thrust as your combined fluids dripped out of your fluttering hole and onto the maiden and unblemished leather beneath.

"Johnny-, you-, you're gonna stain the seats." You plead, attempting to push him off, halted when met with the weight of an immovable Scottish brick wall.

"Tha's th'fuckin point, lass. Gonnae mark 'er up wit ya. Douse 'er in tha' sweet fuckin scent a'yers."

You knew better than to deny him when he was like this. Hell bent on replacing that distinctive new car smell with the aromatic scent of sex and natural arousal.

Letting the quietness surround your conjoined bodies. Acting like a soothing blanket, ignoring the world outside to feel the qualitative euphoria in the afterglow.

Reluctant to move, Soap instead laid himself down and buried his head into your chest. Stifling a moan into your flesh, tilting to the side as he blanketed your naked body with his sculpted frame.

You realized then, gazing up onto the brickstone wall outside, that he had found refuge in the back parking lot of your favorite custard creamery. The familiar font gracing the red barrier catching your eye, exhaling a quiet moan of contentment, watching it rustle over the Scots distinguishable mohawk.

"What?" He breathed. Voice low, muffled against the supple flesh of your breast.

"I think I've thought of a name for her."

"Aye? Wha's tha'?"

You let the silence hang for a moment. Allowing his mind to settle on suspicion, tilting his head to rest his chest between the valley of your breasts.

"Well? Wha' is it, lass?"

"How about CeeDee? Cookie Devil. Our nickname at Culver's, to where you just so happened to park us."

Soap lifted his head, taking a quick glance at the signage above. Replying with a perplexed brow, softening his expression with a gentle yet appreciative grin.

"Aye. Cannae lie, hen. Kinda like it."

You smiled at his approval. Cupping his face to bring him in for a kiss. His lips still reddened from the impromptu coitus, drawing a deliciously soft whimper from the depths of his throat.

"Easy, lass. Been a while since I kissed ya like tha'."

You ignore him. Blissfully continuing with your previous conversation, feigning innocence.

"Y'know. CeeDee can actually work quite well. It's an acronym for the other name I want to give her."

"Mhm. And wha's tha' one?"

Pursing your lips, you paused. Keeping your wits about you in fear of bursting into a fit of laughter at any moment.

"Well, if you plan on us fucking a lot in her, why don't we just call her the Cum Dumpster?"

"Steamin fuckin Jesus, bonnie."

4Runner Wingman Masterlist

@ohgeesoap @writeforfandoms @efingart @sofasoap @mini-metal @shotmrmiller @homicidal-slvt @astraluminaaa @a-small-writer-in-a-big-world @crashandlivewrites @random-thot-generator @glossysoap @devcica @tacticalanxiety @gazs-blue-hat @chamomiletealeaf @thetrashpossum @queen-ilmaree @weebumochi @sadstone-s @slutweeds @foxface013 @lily-ilo

[oceantornadoo]

Hiii can I request one of the boys (or all) comforting medic/surgeon reader, who’s in their unit, for not being able to save someone and reader goes into a depressive episode because reader has known them since they got recruited. They’re doing their best to cheer reader up, but it’s hard to budge through the stress of not being able to save a life. Thank you 🥹

this is not poly!141 so each blurb is that character x f!reader. some are established relationship, some are just unlabeled.

ao3 link

simon:

simon riley was a quiet man. that's why he liked you, always talking just because you were eager to share, never expecting him to reciprocate. he knew he was blunt, gruff, and (a bit) unlikeable, so it always seemed safer to respond in as little words as possible. on days like today though, he just had to say something. you hadn't said a word to anyone in a week (he checked) and stopped coming to every "optional" friendly hangout after a rough mission. you were holed up in your room ever since your patient had died, and he meant to do something about it.

"what." you said gruffly to the person knocking at the door. "'s me, dove." simon. "go away." instead of listening, you heard the door open. you turned around in your bed to face the wall, avoiding eye contact at all costs. "i'm not good company right now, si." you could practically hear him shrug. he closed the door with a sigh, the silence between you two enveloping the room in a cocoon. instead of hearing your desk chair sqeak, you heard a rustle of clothing, tac gear dropping to the floor. almost as if he was taking off his clothes? but there was no way, this was ghost, who wore a stupid mask and stupid gloves that always made you wonder about the veins underneath and-

and suddenly simon riley was climbing under the covers with you, clothed in only his boxers. you knew because he was everywhere, skin on skin, wedging one large, scarred thigh between yours. his left hand under your pillow, right hand sneaking its way to your waist. he drew shapes on your skin with his calloused hands, the only sound in the room the scrape of his skin on yours. "we'll get through this, yeah?" you nodded against him, not trusting yourself to speak, tears caught in your throat. simon nuzzled himself into your neck, and for the first time that week, you slept through the night.

johnny:

usually, you loved the sound of johnny's laughs, boisterous and fun, bringing energy into every conversation. this week, though, you couldn't stomach it. you stopped laughing at his jokes, stopped shoving him when he tried to put his arm around you, stopped engaging in his talk on comms when you had the mantle of field medic. you cringed when you saw the spark in his eyes dampen, but you couldn't seem to care when a similar image of your comrade dying on the field took a starring role in your nightmares.

this was your second nightmare tonight, the image of your comrade's bloody body, sinking into an open grave. you could almost feel the packed dirt in your throat, succumbing to the grave you put her in. and suddenly you were awake, blinking at the darkness of the room. you were so tired, emotionally drained, you didn't even think about where you were walking, just knew you were leaving your room. and suddenly, you were knocking on johnny's door, knowing he'd be up at this time. he swung open the door, misinterpreting what you were after. "bonnie. knew ye'd give me a late night call soon." you rolled your eyes at his joke, feeling an unwilling smile creep onto your face.

"not that kind of night, johnny." he winked anyways, ushering you into his room. "glad ta see you smile, lass." that dimmed your mood. you suddenly scrambling changing your mind. "well i just wanted to say hi but you're busy so i'll leave you to it-" johnny covered your mouth with his hand, effectively cutting off your thoughts. "up ye go." you squealed as he picked you up, depositing you onto his bed. he locked the door and turned off the light, keeping a nightlight on just for you. "yer gonna tell me about all those thoughts in that pretty head of yours, hm?" you nodded, and felt the weight lighten off your chest for the first time in weeks.

john:

john was your rock. a fellow higher-up, hardened by war and bittered by reality, wrapped up in a fatherly manner. he was all knowledge and hard truths with his men, but with you? on a day like today? after standing in blood for three hours, using half of the base hospital's resources to try to stop what should have been a typical infection that was actually poison? that fatherly attitude could shove it.

"need to search your office for poison, doctor." john was a shadow at your office door. "yeah, sure, whatever." you needed to put in requests for all the supplies used, finalize the death certificate, launch the investigation. the last thing you cared about was john following protocol. you didn't register the captain's movements until he was behind your chair, leaning down in your ear. "come on." he took your hand's off your laptop's keys, placing them in your lap. "the boys will be here any minute, love. come on." you let him guide you, going numb at the feeling. the reality that your patient had been poisoned, targeted, and you couldn't do anything about it was suddenly hitting you. john was making you stand up, but you were in a trance, just a body he could move however he wanted.

you blinked and you were standing in his office, looking at his chair. "go on. i'll make an exception just for you." you shook your head, unable to explain why not. "you need to sit, love." you shook your head again. the medical part of your brain told you the shock was hitting. john sat in his chair instead, guiding you between his legs. you looked down at him, at his hands on your waist. making a split second decision, you ungracefully collapsed sideways into his lap. john grunted but said nothing, adjusting your feet to hang off the chair. your arms circled his thick neck, hands rubbing at his beard. he took off his hat, laying it on the table, then kissed your forehead. you tucked your head into his neck, and finally, finally, let yourself cry.

kyle:

gaz was loveable and cocky, which you were okay with. you called him kyle to humble him, a playful nudge. he called you sweetheart right back, that accent of his playing with all the right vowels just to rile you up. but today, two days after the death of your comrade that you should have saved, you didn't feel sweet at all. not one bit.

"its after 11. should be in bed by now." he was at the door of your office, taking in the heaping piles of medical reports on your desk.

"kyle, im busy." you huffed, not bothering to look up. your comrade's autopsy report was staring right back at you, clinical notes on how she could have been saved if you had just had the supplies.

"sweetheart-" you almost slammed your pen on your desk. "don't call me that, kyle. i'm not in the mood." he wasn't deterred, warm eyes swimming with understanding. "this about what happened?" he mumured in a soft voice, like he was comforting a kitten instead of you, a dark hole of guilt. "i just-" you made the mistake of making eye contact, of seeing how kind he looked. the tears started rushing out and you couldn't stop them. you hadn't cried when she died, so maybe it was finally time. "i just keep looking at these notes about what i could have done, if things were different and gaz, idontknowwhattodo..."

you trailed off, embarrassed. calling him gaz was a sign of weakness, of this whole facade crumbling down. "come 'ere.” you stood up and walked between his open arms, a small laugh erupting as he overexaggerated how heavy you were. "you did more than anyone on that field could have done. and you're still sweet to me. even when you're a bit of a snotty mess." he kissed your forehead then, and you weren't even going to touch what that meant. all that mattered were gaz's strong arms, holding your waist and rubbing small circles as you put all your physical and emotional baggage on him. and for now, being held was all you needed.

--

had to let this one simmer for a bit. thanks anon <3

[celestialprincesse]

Can you please do an anemic reader on who her lack of red blood cells are getting worse enough that she has to be hospitalized?! And we have to see soaps reaction?!

OHH He shits his pants

It's a routine blood draw, nothing you're not used to. Just a cell count to make sure everything's working properly and that your supplements don't need to have their dosage increased.

"So this here is the red blood cells.." The nurse drones as you sit in one of the consultancy rooms of the local hospital, chin resting in the crook of your palm. "They're low enough that we'll need to keep you in for a couple of days for an iron transfusion and monitoring before and after."

"I'm sorry?" You choke, snapped from your reverie as you look at the nurse and your results paper she currently points at.

"It's really nothing to worry about. We'll keep a good eye on you, you'll probably be in for three days, tops." "No but I have work." The woman across from you looks frustrated at your resistance as she raises an eyebrow your way. "I'd really strongly advise you not to go back to work like this. It'll only exacerbate your condition." "Right. Fine. Can I just make a call quick? Get my boyfriend to swing by with some essentials." "This isn't prison. You can call who you like when you like."

You tap your foot anxiously on the linoleum floor of the hallway as the phone rings persistently, waiting for Johnny to pick up.

"Bonnie! How'd it go?" John's Scottish brogue still manages to send flutters to your tummy, even after three years of dating and just having received bad news.

"They're keeping me in for a few days." The anxiety in your voice is obvious, and John can practically picture you worrying at your bottom lip.

"Why? Wha' happened?" "Just a really low red blood cell count. They're going to monitor and do a transfusion on Wednesday. I was wondering if you could bring me some stuff? Toothbrush and pyjamas and whatnot?" "Course I'll bring ye a bag. Text me what ye need and I'll be there in a half hour." "Thank you Johnny." "You dinnae need to thank me. I love ye, bringin' a bag is nothing." "Well, thank you anyways."

Johnny must've sped with how quickly he gets to the hospital, conveniently sporting his tags on the outside of his khaki hoodie and a pair of military issue boots. If his charm isn't enough to wriggle the visiting hours around, his job most certainly is.

You give a little soft 'Hi' and he's already dropping a black duffel to his feet, scooping you up, trying to ease the tension from your back by rubbing soothing circles between your shoulder blades.

"Bought all yer things. Clean clothes, washbag, laptop, chargers." "You're an angel." "Am no, 'm just very worried for my woman."

[your-local-simp-writers]

Unexpected

Word Count: 406

Warnings: None

Soap x Fem! Hispanic! Wife! Reader ︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶

The engines of the C-130 Hercules cut through the silence of the airstrip, heralding the return of Task Force 141 from a grueling mission. Among the crowd, a lone figure stood out—Y/N, Soap’s wife, her vibrant presence a stark contrast to the military precision around her.

As the soldiers filed out, the air was thick with anticipation. María’s heart pounded in her chest, her eyes eagerly searching for Soap. When he finally emerged, her joy was uncontainable. She dashed towards him, her laughter echoing across the tarmac. “¡Mi amor, te extrañé tanto!” she exclaimed, leaping into his arms.

The members of TF-141 halted in their tracks, their battle-hardened facades crumbling in disbelief. Ghost’s eyebrow arched behind his mask, Roach’s mouth agape, and even Price’s eyes softened, a rare occurrence. They had faced countless dangers together, but this was uncharted territory. They exchanged glances, each silently asking the same question: “Soap’s married?”

“So, lads,” Soap began, his voice betraying a hint of bashfulness, “this is the better half I’ve been keeping secret. Y/N, these are the brothers I’ve told you so much about.”

María beamed, her energy infectious as she greeted each member with a warm embrace and a flurry of Spanish. “¡Hola! Soy Y/N’s, es un honor finalmente conocer a los amigos de mi esposo,” she said, her words flowing like a melody.

The men of TF-141, known for their stoicism, found themselves at a loss, charmed by her vivacious spirit. Ghost, usually a man of few words, found himself engaging in a playful banter, while Roach couldn’t help but chuckle at Soap’s evident pride.

Ghost’s usual reticence gave way to a rare chuckle. “Never thought Soap would manage to keep a secret this delightful,” he remarked.

Price, ever the leader, stepped forward. “Well, I’ll be,” he said, his voice gruff with a hint of amusement. “Soap, you’ve outdone yourself. She’s quite the gem.”

As the evening unfolded, Y/N’s laughter became the soundtrack of their reunion. She listened intently to their stories, her eyes alight with admiration, and they, in turn, saw a new side of Soap—a man deeply in love, his heart belonging to the spirited woman who had effortlessly woven herself into the fabric of their tight-knit group.

The TF-141 left that night with a new story to tell—not of war, but of the unexpected joy found in a comrade’s hidden life, a reminder of the world worth fighting for.

[ryuzakemo128]

Beyond Comprehension

Pairing: John 'Soap' MacTavish x Italian! Goth! Female Reader

Content Warnings: Swearing, cussing, smutty implications, college au!, John 'Soap' MacTavish is a popular football player, Female reader is studying in Forensics Pathology & Anthropology, Female reader is Italian, Female reader's aesthetic has a gothic aesthetic overall.

Summary: How come he never remembers you saying them to him? How come he never remembers how they sound until this moment?

Divider Credit: @cafekitsune + @strangergraphics

Masterlist

Note: Inspired by 'Tomb' written by H.P. Lovecraft. I also made the female reader intense on purpose..

Word Count: 1547

‘Sedibus ut saltem placidis in morte quiescam.’ – Virgil. (English translation: At least in death I may find a quiet resting place.)

The mansion you have been born and raised into. The half-hidden house of death. Unknown to the throng considered to be a majority of civilian life. Opulent in design. Yet the stench of death and decay from the cemetery attached to the family churchyard, which still remains in your family’s name to this present day.

The overview of the woodland slopes painted with the earths finest bristles. Painting a lustrous colour palette range of greens, browns, and greys. The look over the city lights from the balcony like floating tea lights.

If you had not discerned for yourself. The means of how lavish your lifestyle if depicted and sculpted into. The gilding of gold in the nooks and crannies of your familial mansion. A display of white and gold.

You are indeed wealthy beyond the necessity of a commercial lifestyle. Unfitted for typical formal studies and social recreations. Your peculiar temperament in discerning a cause of death or why someone might have died has always tickled your fancy. Macabre is the most ‘fitting’ description of you. The one told by your kin.

Other equally strange pursuits you have lay in the art of taxidermy and preservation of animals after their passing. You don’t turn from the potential disgust it may bring unto others. Even as you lean into the art of death and decay.

These discerning passions do well in dispelling your keenest impatience of waiting for the next class to come forth. You are burning hot with eagerness to learn more of death. To hold knowledge people. The ones who dare not search for in the black abyssal seas.

A beckoning gloom of your quarters or ‘dorm’ depending on which term you would prefer. The hellish confinement of your social life is stifling at best and contentious at worst. Your nocturnal rambles seek shelter and safety within your sanctum. Those who believe things are better left almost forgotten for many generations.

Death had repelled you and bewitched you all at once. Like a snare you can’t bring yourself to crawl away from. Who were any of them to deny you such things, such idle flights of fancy many denied themselves. Who were they in the art of decay?

As you peruse the textbooks pertaining to the knowledge required in Forensics Pathology and Forensics Anthropology. Emboldened by the heaven-sent circumstance you walk into. Despite all your efforts to enclose yourself inside your own earthly desires.

How did you think John MacTavish found you hunched over an ancient tome reading about the deaths of people you deemed preventable. At least as preventable as they could have been. If only they knew of your existence, the world would be a different place. Had they known to do anything other than the path they have chosen would the world be better?

‘Who are we to ourselves if we are denied truth?’ you questioned inside your handwritten cursive notes. Pure existential dread taking over the recesses of your mind it seems. Philosophically overriding the sense of living you have inside your ribcage. One of which life must come first before we eventually descend unto death itself.

‘Is this how philosophers go made? It seems I am at the moss covered door step of madness and teetering on the edge of my own sanity.’ Another handwritten note inside your death smelling journal.  

‘In my peculiarities am I truly doomed to walk upon  this earth alone?’ you questioned further in your heavily pressed written notes. Recent. Too recent. The ink painted upon the black textured page hadn’t dried just yet.

You had hoped John would have forgotten about that kiss you gave him while you were pissed drunk off your three shark themed cocktails which were strong enough to make him question where your hunger in that kiss came from suddenly. Something about ‘the zest of life’ or whatever you slurred afterwards.

You even dipped him like he was some kind of dance partner you decided to claim for yourself for at least ten minutes. Then stumbling off into the night to your dorm like you didn't just decide to one up him in a bet that technically never existed in the first place. Like you didn’t just decide to fuck around and make sure he is the one finding out.

When Gaz found out? “Man, she really turned the tables against yourself huh?” he snickered, knowing Soap isn't the type to take that lying down. Not without knowing what he was getting into first.

“Knocked the wind out of me and had the gall to scamper away like a mouse or a chinchilla?” Soap continues to be baffled by you and your wildly, chaotic whims. Whatever they have in you. You passionately did with fervour and compassionate love.

How could someone be so enamoured with the end? Easily. When you have grown to enjoy, to love and thrive in the beginning. Where you are celebrated as you are and continue to be. Yourself.

In this name of heritage, you have every intention to claim death tightly into your hands like no other has done in your familial bloodline. The guests of your domain your centric world, you should have known them better as the shrivelled, decomposed, decayed bodies. The layers of death and decomposition finally eating away at the frail shell left behind.

“Mio stella, you are a delight to see my darling.” You chirped like a bluebell making John’s gaze snap to your direction, his eyes narrowing slightly, trying to discern if you were mocking him or if you were actually in a good mood. His confusion was written clearly across his face, and you couldn’t help but smirk.

“You are an absolute peach when confusion is written onto your visage so clearly.” you stated. “Most beautiful state I have seen you in all week.”

John ‘Soap’ MacTavish, the star football player with a Scottish accent that could melt the coldest of hearts, stared at you quizzically. You could see the wheels turning in his head as he tried to figure out if your sudden sweetness was genuine or if there was a hidden barb underneath. You had to admit, the thrill of keeping him on his toes was quite entertaining.

“The more confused you get the cuter you have become. I must leave before I melt beneath your confusion completely.” you cooed playfully as you walked to go to the diner to indulge in some junk food alone.

Before you could step too far away from him, he pulled you back to him by your wrist and he said, “What's gotten into you, love?”

“Other than my assignment is finished early? I have decided to treat myself with some sickeningly sweet food.” You answered buzzing with so much excitement you were physically shaking, at least a smidgen. “I also found out to my sweet tooth’s utmost delight that there is a diner that is normally open during the night.”

“You are more than welcome to come with me if your little buddies don’t have anything planned for you.” You added in. “Unless you’re worried your buddies will get jealous then I’m afraid you must stay behind. Can’t have your buddies missing your presence.”

You were certain he would relent and scurry back to his group of lads. Who you wouldn’t be surprised if they all sucked each other off for the sake of it. Only to deny that it was just ‘bros helping bros out’ or whatever other excuse they might come up with.

You were going to get your hoof heels to see if you could get someone’s number if you had the sudden urge to have a drink at a bar or pub in the same area.

John remembers how you used tongue, a French kiss so deep his head swan, his mind froze, and his body felt like it was burning. He swore his soul left his body for only a moment. A moment which lasted for what it felt like an eternity. He was dared to kiss you, but it felt more like you were kissing him and he was there for the experience of a lifetime. Rattling him to his core.

You didn't taste like death at all, you tasted of black vodka, ginger, mint and rum. The sickeningly sweet part of the cocktail a mix of gummy sharks and a hint of the sea. The smell of your hair was faintly like salt and sand. A smell that was strangely calming and terrifying all at once. The ocean's siren calling him closer to the shore, yet the salt reminded him of the sting of the sea spray on his skin during storms.

You are both oddly fascinating and eerily unknown. Layers of you he assumed never existed are now exposed to his purview. His eyes now see what he disregarded in past encounters with you. How you insist on calling him things like: ‘Mio Stella’, my star, ‘Mio Sole’, my sunshine, ‘Mio Caro’, my dear, ‘Mio Tutto’, my everything, ‘Mio Principe’, my prince, ‘Mio Amore’, my love, ‘Luce delle stelle’, starlight, and ‘Mio vita’, my life.

How come he never remembers you saying them to him? How come he never remembers how they sound until this moment?

[ghouljams]

Absolutely cannot have fresh shaved/waxed pussy around the 141 boys.

Soap will cry over it, mourning the loss of your bush and "talking his girl(your pussy) through the loss" ie fingering you until you're soaked and sore as punishment.

Price will make it his mission to give you beard burn, shaking his head like a damn dog while he's eating you out, scratching the hell out of your pussy and thighs with his beard. He's trying to bleach the damn thing you just know it.

Ghost is the worst. Taking the opportunity to leave his dental imprint in the soft flesh surrounding your clit. He's going to bite until you're sobbing just to see the dimpled marks he's left.

At least Gaz is sweet. Pressing little kisses over the newly shaved/waxed skin, giving your clit soft little licks and pulling back to rub his fingers against your clit with gentle praises. Until you realize he's been doing that for the last hour, giving you just enough to keep you making those nice breathy noises but never giving you more. Maybe you should try Soap again...

[majinbangus]

You're sprawled on the couch when he comes in the room, eyes zeroing in on you instantly. He doesn't give you the chance to greet him, stalking up to you as if you're his prey. Which, in this moment, you probably are.

It's not hard to tell he's still in that soldier headspace he gets stuck in sometimes. He looks tired. Stressed.

You're about to get up and ask him what he wants, what he needs, once he's looming over you, but the words die out when his hands shoot out and start squeezing your breasts.

You don't stop him, but you do laugh a little, incredulous. "What are you doing?"

"Fluffin' your tits." He's gruff, both in tone and groping. "What's it look like?"

"That's not how- nevermind." You chuckle and fondly roll your eyes. "Why?"

"Cuz they're mine," he says as if that's reason enough, and you suppose it is.

He let's go to get on the couch with you, batting your legs open to settle between them. The man practically flops on top of you with enough force to push an oof out of your lungs, but you can tell he's careful not to crush you entirely. His arms shove underneath your body, squeezing tight as he nuzzles his face against your newly fluffed breasts. You bring a hand up to scratch the back of his scalp the way you know he likes, and he sighs, melting into your body.

"Just like a big baby." Your chest bounces with silent laughter, and he gives a little sleepy warning nip to your clothed breast.

"Stop gigglin'. Tryna nap."

You almost laugh harder. He's not dispproving your point, but if this is what he needs, who are you to deny him?

"Alright, alright, I'll let my soldier rest." You calm yourself, softening your voice. "And I'll be here when you wake, too."

You know you're forgiven when he grunts and presses a kiss to where he bit.

[gloomwitchwrites]

Overheard confessions part 2? You over hear them confess to the team about how they love you and want to have an army of kids with you...or like a lot of dogs on a farm lol

Don't mind me, I'm just shrieking like a hyena over here. I am obsessed with the idea of a part two but from the opposite perspective. What happens when we hear the guys making the confession. I had way too much fun with this one. Just pure glee. Enjoy! (Find Part 1 HERE.)

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x Female Reader

Content & Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): established relationship, swearing, breeding undertones, suggestive themes, mild alcohol/smoking, fluff, implied sexual content, mild dirty talk

Word Count: 2k

ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist

John Price

“You’re a mess, John.”

You clutch the manila envelope to your chest, coming to a dead stop just outside Captain Price’s office. The door is cracked, your hand pressed flat against the wood with the intent to enter. That flies out the coop. You’re glued to the spot, listening as Laswell continues to speak.

“Have you been getting enough sleep?”

“Care about my sleeping habits, Kate?”

Laswell snorts. “You look tired. What’s on your mind?”

There is a stretch of silence. You don’t dare breathe—don’t dare move. When Price doesn’t answer, you hear Laswell sigh. It’s not an annoyed sound, but one of pity. She knows what troubles him.

“It’s the secretary. Isn’t it?”

A secretary? What secretary?

You comb through all of them in the building. There are only a handful of you—maybe ten total.

“It’s nothing, Kate.”

“Just admit how you feel, John.”

Your hand drops from the door and crosses over your chest. The manila envelope crunches softly against your breasts as you squeeze it tighter.

“What do you want me to say? That I fancy the woman?” He scoffs.

“Yes,” replies Laswell. “It’s that simple.”

Your mind races. Of the ten secretaries in the building, there are maybe three—including yourself—that this could apply to. A blossom of hope blooms in your chest, a racing sensation of your heart palpitating. You shouldn’t wish for it, but for it to be you?

No.

“I’m her superior.”

This time, Laswell scoffs. “She’s not even your secretary, John. She’s mine, and I think you need to say something to her.”

Oh fuck.

It’s you. They’re talking about you.

“Really, Kate?”

“Really, John.” Laswell sighs. “Not to be crude, but maybe if she were getting laid, she wouldn’t hide my cigarettes when my wife tells her to.”

“Christ, Laswell.”

“No, John. Tell me how you feel about her.” He doesn’t. “I’m waiting.”

You hear a grumble on Captain Price’s end, then, “I want to make an army of kids with her. I want to wake up with her beside me and for her to be near when I sleep.” He pauses. “I like the way she throws her head back when she laughs. Her smile.” Then, softly, “I love everything about her.”

There is a tap tap tap of a shoe against linoleum, and then someone’s walking toward the door.

“That’s it, John. Just tell her how you feel and—”

The door opens wide, revealing you. Captain Price and Laswell both freeze. Price’s face goes from surprised to a dark shade of pink. Laswell’s shifts to a knowing smirk.

“Is that the file I asked for?”

“It is,” you affirm.

Laswell nods. “Hand it over to Captain Price. He needs to take a look at it first.”

“Laswell—”

“Goodnight, John,” she calls out, shutting the door behind her, leaving the two of you alone in the room.

Price clears his throat, standing.

“I heard what you said,” you say quickly.

Shit. Shit shit shit.

“I—”

“Wait,” you say, holding up a hand.

Dumping the manila folder on the desk, you circle to his side. Price is perfectly still, watching you the whole time. What you’re about to do is bold.

Placing your hand on his chest, you lean in. His entire demeanor softens as he mimics your movement.

“You said you wanted to make an army of kids with me.”

“It’s one thing I want to do with you.”

Shifting, you inch toward the desk, propping yourself up to sit on top of it. It’s true, you do need to get laid, and why not with a man who is more than willing.

Price’s gaze lowers as you spread your legs.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

"She's fucking gorgeous, mate."

"Is that all?"

With back pressed against the wall, you listen in on the conversation.

Kyle and Johnny’s voices carry in the small apartment. You linger in the short hallway that leads to the kitchen and dining room. They have no idea that you are home, listening in just around the corner.

“No,” comes Kyle’s voice. It’s not sad but strained, like he’s trying to form the right words but keeps stumbling over what to say.

Anxiety grips your stomach, twisting tight.

"She's everything I want,” says Kyle, this time sounding confident.

"Everything?" Johnny whistles and you hear the creak of a chair. "You looking to marry her?"

The twisting sensation becomes a clamp. A vice grip that closes your throat.

"If she'll have me," answers Kyle immediately.

Johnny chuckles. "You'll marry her and then what? Pop out an army of wee bairns? Adopt a cat and two dogs?"

“All of the above,” answers Kyle. “Or nothing at all. It’s what she wants.”

“Oh, aye,” replies Johnny. “That's a good answer."

The sudden seizing of limb and lung relaxes, returning you to the moment. Your heartrate speeds up, becoming a thundering thing that threatens to burst from your chest. Kyle may be your boyfriend but you never suspected that this is what he wants.

"When do you plan on proposing?" asks Johnny.

"Haven't thought that far," murmurs Kyle.

"Too focused on how you're gonna have that army of barins?" laughs Johnny.

"You wanker,” mutters Kyle, but you hear the smile in it.

"Just remember—”

You cannot hide any longer. It’s unbearable.

Emerging suddenly—and almost tripping over your own foot in the process—the two men go quiet, their gazes widening as you appear like an apparition before them. Between then is an open bottle of scotch and various containers of Kyle’s favorite takeout spot.

Kyle is out of his seat in a second, heading for you. He whispers your name, a soft thing meant only for you, and all your love comes rushing up to warm your cheeks and soften your insides.

As he nears, the words tumble from you. "You want a small army with me?" you whisper.

"You heard that?" he asks.

The next words you form are dangerous yet you say them anyway. "Do you want to start trying?"

You put every ounce of lust you can muster into those few words. Kyle’s bodily response is immediate. His shoulders straighten, and a hungry need enters his eyes. This man is about to drag you to bed and fuck you raw for hours.

"Johnny," snaps Kyle, voice cracking slightly. He clears his throat. "Time for you to go."

John "Soap" MacTavish

A tornado rips through your senses.

Did you hear Johnny correctly? Surely not.

"You don't understand, Simon."

Johnny is in the bedroom pacing around while he talks to Simon on the phone. At your current distance from out in the hall, it’s difficult to hear Simon’s response.

"You're balls deep in a different lass every week. Don't hardly know their names. And you're going to give me shit about this?"

A snort almost escapes your nose, revealing your location. Johnny isn’t wrong. Simon is a notorious slut among Johnny’s group of friends. There is always a different woman on his arm whenever they go out.

Johnny pauses before continuing. "I love this woman. I want a bloody army of bairns with her. Fuck, I'll take an army of animals if that's what she bloody well wants."

He sounds irritated, but you know it’s just his passion. Johnny can be hotheaded, especially when it comes to the people he cares about. Either that or Simon is giving him shit on the other end.

"I need your support, Simon." All is quiet, and then you hear Johnny’s amused snort. "You're always giving me shit, Lt." He chuckles. “I’ll see you tomorrow at brief.”

You slip around the corner and enter the bedroom. Johnny glances up from his phone, his mouth a wide smile upon glimpsing you. “Come here,” he says with a sultry purr, reaching out.

You go to him without effort.

Wrapping you up in his arms, Johnny kisses the top of your head. You tilt your face upward, going in for something softer.

"I heard you talking on the phone,” you murmur, accepting another kiss from Johnny.

"Did you?"

"You want an army of kids?"

Johnny's neck flushes pink. "I may have said that."

Your hug becomes intimate, hands gently caressing until you find the front of his sweatpants. Johnny groans into your mouth as you find him, lightly rubbing him toward hardness. It’s a tease of a touch. The moment he’s throbbing under your hand, you pull away, fingers toying with the strings of his sweatpants.

"You don't mind if we start now?"

Johnny's gentle embarrassment becomes a sultry glare. "Oh, aye. We have the rest of the day and all night to try."

Simon "Ghost" Riley

"I want her, Johnny."

The pan of brownies you’re holding nearly go crashing to the floor. Simon’s words are a brick wall. You’ve been baking all day because it’s the only thing you can do to distract yourself. The plan is to drop them off with Simon and let the boys devour them. Instead, you’re dumbfounded, standing right outside the door to the meeting room Price’s secretary told you to drop the sweets at.

“Who?” asks Soap absently.

When Simon speaks again, it is your name that falls from his lips. Yes, you and Simon are together, but you’re not together. This is fuck buddies. This is friends with benefits. This is…not a relationship.

Or so you thought.

But you’re at his place of work dropping off fucking brownies. The rest of his team call you by your first name. They expect you at functions when they all bring their significant others along. Yet you and Simon are not a couple.

Not officially anyway.

"Oh, aye?” asks Soap, his tone amused. “And does she want you?"

Yes. More than you know.

You’re fully aware that Johnny and Kyle give Simon shit about you. Not because they don’t like you—they adore you—but because they think Simon needs to put a ring on it. They aren’t quiet about it either.

But Simon has never been so forward with his feelings for you. He might tell you sweet things when his dick is deep inside you, but you’ve never heard him be this blunt.

"Don't care. She's mine, Johnny. I'll make sure of that." The mine is almost a growl, a possessive bite that sends a bolt of need to your core.

Johnny chuckles but there’s nothing condescending in it. He sounds…happy.

“Finally, Lt. Fucking finally!”

You hear Johnny enthusiastically smack Simon’s back—or shoulder—and then the man growls like he’s aggressively shaking Simon.

“You’re going to fucking crack my ribs, Johnny.”

“I’m just happy for you, Lt.”

You step forward, pressing your shoulder against the doorframe. They are still out of view, but you don’t want to reveal yourself yet.

“Finally going to make an honest woman out of her?” jokes Soap.

Simon snorts. “I’ll even make you an uncle, Johnny.”

“Me? I expect an army, Lt. Five mini-Riley’s running around.

“Fucking hell, Soap.”

Your cheeks are hot, and you’re standing out in the hall like an idiot. The last thing you need is for one of them to open to door and find you here.

Knocking to announce yourself, you open the door of the meeting room. They turn in your direction, but it’s only Johnny’s face that’s clear to you. Simon is wearing a balaclava, and the only part of him you can see are his eyes.

Johnny’s grin is devilish. “What’s that, love?”

“Brownies?”

He perks up. “Gaz is gonna flip his mug.” You hand them over and Johnny removes the foil on top. “I’m eating this entire pan.”

“Fuck off, Sergeant,” says Simon.

Johnny gives him a half-hearted salute before disappearing out the door, a chunk of brownie already shoved in his mouth.

“You just get here?” asks Simon, sauntering forward.

The soft sway of his hips is a tantalizing thing. You’re hypnotized. Locked in.

“No,” you whisper.

“No?”

“I—I heard you and Soap talking.”

Simon is inches away, his broad chest and shoulders seeming impossibly wide, almost boxing you in.

“What do you think?”

“You want me all to yourself?”

Simon’s voice is a growl. “You’ve always been mine. That’s never changed.”

You place your hand on Simon’s chest. “You promised Soap you’d make him an uncle.”

“I did.”

“And if I want to start right now?”

Simon leans in a bit further, his gaze burning like warm whiskey. “Then you should bend yourself over the table and lift that dress.”

taglist:

@glitterypirateduck @km-ffluv @tiredmetalenthusiast @miaraei @cherryofdeath

@ferns-fics @tulipsun-flower @miss-mistinguett @ninman82 @eternallyvenus

@beebeechaos @smileykiddie08 @whisperwispxx @chaostwinsofdestruction @weasleytwins-41

@saoirse06 @unhinged-reader-36 @ravenpoe67 @sageyxbabey @mudisgranapat

@lulurubberduckie @leed-bbg @yawning-grave81 @azkza @nishim

@voids-universe @iloveslasher @talooolaaloolla @sadlonelybagel @haven-1307

@itsberrydreemurstuff @cod-z @keiva1000 @littlemisscriesherselftosleep @blackhawkfanatic

@sammysinger04 @kylies-love-letter @dakotakazansky @suhmie @kadeeesworld

@keiva1000 @jackrabbitem @arrozyfrijoles23 @lovely-ateez @waves-against-a-cliff

@ash-tarte @marispunk @gingergirl06 @certainlygay @greeniegreengreen

[dmitriene]

tf141 as a delivery company, all four boys working so good that all people around you buzz with praises towards them, saying that if you search for someone to help you with some furniture to the new home, you should immediately select their company, and since you just moved to the neighborhood, why not.

it's johnny who you meet first, he's delivering a new bed, because the house is completely empty, and sleeping on the floor is not your best choice, so ordering a bed was a first and most important option, while the other furniture was on it's way.

the first thing you notice is his baby blue eyes, bright pebbles that shine in the morning sun when you greet him, slightly disheveled and dressed in some ordinary pajamas, too sleepy to notice the way johnny's gaze trails down your body and round curves, until asking where you need the bed, bonnie, because he's sure you won't be able to place it yourself.

johnny wonders if you'll let him suck at your cunt as a payment, thoughts clouded with how you'll could have looked sprawled on this new bed, scrabbling at his messy mohawk, mattress stained with a puddle of your syrupy slick and his drool, writhing prettily with your sleeping shorts dangling at your ankle.

too pretty for your own good, especially when you flash him a beaming smile on his way out, thanking him for his work with flattering tone of voice, and johnny glad you can't see the heavy boner between his legs, hidden beneath the baggy fabric of his working pants, staining his boxers with sticky precum.

then you meet kyle, prettiest boy you've ever seen, fitting to be a model rather than delivery guy, holding a heavy box with bedside table in his hands, honeyed eyes crinkling in bright smile when he asks you where he can place it, since you zoned on his face for too long, and unbeknownst to you, it got him much flustered.

he's a sunshine, a golden boy with how fast he works with his veiny hands, saying that you'll give him less than an hour and the table would be ready for you to use, still wearing a warm smile that makes you melt, nodding dumbly, just watching how kyle works, all but focused on the task in front of him, brows creasing.

his shirt riding up to reveal a glimpse of his lower back, skin smooth, and it's you who wonders about having fun with him, propped on his lap, toying with his most likely lengthy cock, all wet for you, imagining if he would let you play with him, or he'll flip you up and rearrange your glossy cunt till you're dumb.

kyle leaves you with a new furniture for a less than thirty minutes and winking at you when he stands at the doorway, leaning aside on his hip, saying that if you'll need more help, you know where to find him, and his name as well, and this leaves you with suddenly sodden panties and unspoken fantasies.

at the end, you meet simon and john, two bulky men that helped you with your new couch, a big thing that is better than the old, dusty one, and indeed worth of having two big men inside your house, crouched on the floor to settle the furniture up, telling you to not worry about a single thing, lass.

simon is more silent, efficient at his work and seems brooding, but his dark gaze softens everytime he meets your eyes as you check up on them, his hand caressing the small of your back briefly, just after john patted you there in reassurance, too close to the swell of your ass, murmuring that it's their work and you don't have to try and stick up to help in your own house.

cerulean eyes soothingly cold, with comforting smile hiding beneath his facial hair everytime your fingers touch, making you shudder briefly, almost praying so they'll won't notice how you eye them, how your cheeks tingle, but they both do.

wondering how you'll look seated on this plush couch, stripped bare and stretched around john's fat cock, with simon's throbbing girth down your tight little throat, an obedient housewife for them, sweet darling that could help them relieve after hard work, and perhaps, since you're living all alone, they could make you theirs.

it's the moment all of the boys are out on the weekends evening in some town pub, drinking glass after glass of warming, tart liquid, when johnny breaks up in slurring about what a cutie he meet when delivering some really big bed, and when kyle joined next, and then simon, john's eyes squinting as he strokes at his mutton chops, your appearance coming up like pieces of puzzles through their talk, everything fell into place.

all along, they were dreaming of the same bird, in the same house in a small neighborhood, sweet darling with giddy smiles and too longing gazes, and since they're such a good team, why won't they're help you a bit more this time, one for one.

main masterlist. quidelines.

[reveluving]

don’t know if you’re still taking shy!wife requests but if you are what about soap x shy!wife where he sits her in front of a mirror and makes her watch as he plays with her 🤭 but he stops if she looks away

WHY ARE YOU ENCOURAGING FICTIONAL ME’S ULTIMATE KINK UNPROVOKED

Includes: mirror kink (minors DNI!), petnames ('baby'), fingering/fingerfu~cking, thigh-slapping, praising, teasing, edging, mentions of overstimulation

COD x shy!wife thots closed! Thank you, everyone, for your time & amazing minds! I sincerely hope I can do this again with y'all soon! 💌

Come & check out my COD m.list!

It should’ve hit you why he had a sinister smile when you suggested adding a large mirror in the bedroom. Just an innocent idea, you wanted to make the space look bigger.

That was until he came up behind you, toying with the hem of your shirt as he purred.

“Y’don’t possibly think we wouldn’t have some fun with it, did’ya? Just imagine; holdin’ ya in front o’me, appreciatin’ these sweet curves with nothin’ coverin’ ya.”

Your wide eyes weren’t from mortification or anything the like, far from it. But it did make your heart jump like crazy. You were already a little ‘skittish’ at the thought of fully exposing yourself under a bright light, though Johnny, bless your husband, never giving up in showing you what he sees in you, body and soul.

And as he kissed your shoulder, judging by your silence, he knew he got you.

He was leaning against the headboard, his legs spread for you to occupy��handing the spotlight for you to dominate as he worked his wonders in the background.

He had a knack for slapping your thighs whenever his touch jolted you into covering your legs. Not painful ones, not unless you were feeling a tad naughty, just surprising ones, but a warning nonetheless. It contrasted with the way he was kissing you, alternating between soft kisses, the ones where he’d leave ticklish smooches on the corner of your lips, and then sliding his tongue against yours, a sign that he could barely conceal his patience.

Sighing in appreciation each time he spreads your lips with his middle and ring finger.

Murmuring praises against your neck in between his kisses.

“Ah-ah. You know the rules.”

“Y’hear that? Fuck. Y’already clenchin’, baby? Just one finger?”

“Eyes on the mirror, baby. That’s it. Such pretty eyes lookin’ a’me.”

“Can y’feel me throbbin’ against ya? If I just… roll my hips… Oh, y’like that, don’t ya?”

The expressiveness of your husband, his eagerness to please you while making you watch yourself didn’t help. Not especially when he doesn’t hesitate to stop, to tease you further whenever your eyes roll back to the point of nearly closing them.

His middle finger was soaked, and so was his ring. The band glistened in the dim light, having played and plunged in your tight heat like his life depended on it so he could hear your whines grow at a higher pitch whenever he’d pick up the pace. Stopping as soon as you closed your eyes whenever it got too much, too good.

His ring played a huge part in it at the start, feeling you jump each time he pressed the initially cold metal against your burning skin.

He found your attempts to wriggle away from his adorable, with one of his muscular arms folding your chest. All while his hand switched between kneading your beautiful breasts and digging his fingers into your soft skin, just enough for you to feel them the next day.

Your voice came out in a long, pathetic whine before you forced out his name, “Nghhh—Johnny…”

Music to his fucking ears.

His fingers were relentless, continuing to rub your clit feverishly, even when you were already three orgasms in. There was something about the way your lips parted every time, or how addictive how juices felt as they smeared most of his fingers or how ruined the sheets were.

Just how he liked it.

And unless you used your safeword anytime soon, he was already planning on laying you on your back, longing for a taste. The mess you had made on his fingers was just the start, shamelessly licking them off by your ear, and with a pop while locking his eyes with your glassy, fucked-out ones in the mirror.

He wanted, hell, he needed to taste you. The real deal. To flick your clit with his tongue, to tease along your lips from your tight hole and up, to nose at the stain you had left on the blankets from just his fingers stretching you.

Oh, his cock swelled just as his mind grew lighthearted just at the very thought of it.

˚ · . f i n . · ˚

[brewed-pangolin]

MDNI 18+

Gym Rat Soap is so outrageously possessive of you that if he comes home to you pleasuring yourself, he takes it as a personal challenge and will go out of his way to make you come solely for him.

And he's not holding back. He'll pull out all his pleasure tricks (except pulling out. That's a possessive no no.)

He starts with his usual tried and true method of fingering you so good against the wall that your legs turn to numbed jelly within minutes. Holding yourself up against his chest while you moan his name into the fabric of his sweat ladened shirt.

"Tha's it, bonnie. Ya come for me. And only me."

Next is his feast. Tossing you onto the dinner table like a sacrificial lamb and delving immediately between your thighs. Lapping at your folds like a starved and dehydrated animal. Hell bent on consuming you whole for his own pleasured ego while you cry his name to the heavens and writhe in steady overstimulation.

"Oh my God, Johnny!"

"No God 'ere, lass. Only me."

To finally close out his pleasured torture and culminate in his ultimate taking of you, he throws you over his shoulder and stomps his way to the bedroom to begin his pièce de résistance. Your calves hoisted onto his shoulders, his hands griping like a vice into the sides of your torso as he pistons his cock at just right angle, making you see stars and completely losing the capacity for speech and all other thoughts until all you could think of was him. And only him.

"Jo-, Jo-, John-"

"Tha's it. Say my name, bonnie."

"JOHNNY!"

And with a series of roars that would undoubtedly have the neighbors calling to report an escaped lion, he empties himself completely into the silken walls of your cunt. Marking you as his own as his hips falter. His hands grabbing at your limp form as he cradles you against his chest and reassures just how good you are for him. For him. And only him.

Gym Rat Soap Masterlist

[oceantornadoo]

my FAVORITE johnny trope is touchy best friend!johnny. he tugs you into his lap while he’s working, one hand on your stomach pudge while the other does paperwork. sits his chin on the crux of your shoulder, scruff nuzzling your jaw as he softly reads out what he’s working on. no one really knows why or how it started; why it’s johnny instead of anyone else. two sergeants, two twin flames, never one without the other but somehow have yet to cross the line to anything more.

“jus’ platonic, bonnie” as you share a bed in a safe house, something about giving the captain more space (there was definitely a free comfy couch, not that it matters). his leg swung over yours, one hand that started on your stomach ending up on your tit, the other curving around your pillow. you’re so used to waking up to his morning wood, grinding against him in your sleep. sometimes he’ll hear you getting off next to him while he feigns sleep, fingers making a mess between your thighs. you’ll wake and hear him in the shower, the skin on skin slap of him jacking off. lines so blurry that you’ll use the bathroom anyways, brushing your teeth or using the toilet while he showers. he practically encourages it, tells you your routine comforts him. he’s your protector, always has your back, always listens to your whining. you both stop mentioning hookups and thirsty ex’s, quenching the need for intimacy with each other.

there’s definitely bets flying around the task force about when you’ll get together, but the lines have always been blurry so unless they genuinely see you fucking, they’ll never really know. you could show up one day with matching rings and it would be shrugged off.

inevitable.

don’t even get me started on when you’re both drunk.

[celestialprincesse]

can we get a mid/plus size reader feeling insecure x Soap :,) i love how you write his accent btw

UGHHH I forgot how much I love writing for Johnny he's just the cutest ever I want to squeeze his cheeks and live inside his ribs💕

Warnings: afab reader, tooth rotting fluff🎀

The mirror feels like your worst enemy today. You know, rationally, that you're being nitpicky and self critical, something that you're trying to stop, but today is just - it's not happening. Between PMSing and the giant crater of a pimple that decided to darken your day, you find yourself sniffling, glaring at your reflection like it's her fault.

"Hey, hey, hen?!" You didn't even realise Johnny had come in until you'd felt his calloused hands around your biceps, turning you to face him with his fingers tilting your head this way and that as though to discern what's wrong. "Now what's got ye all sniffly, hey? Ye gonna tell me?" He croons, brushing errant hairs that had been stuck to your face by salty tears. When you look at him, really look at him, at his unfairly blue eyes, framed by thick lashes and sheltered under brows furrowed in concern, you only serve to make yourself feel worse. He's so so beautiful it makes your gut wrench, and you're just you.

"It's nothing. Stupid." You grumble, trying to wrench away and hide your despair. Johnny, like a dog with a bone, won't have it. He's seen you're upset, and now he'll do everything in his power to make you happy again, anything to see that soft smile and a flush on your lovely soft cheeks. "Nah s'no nothin'. If it were nothin' ye wouldn't be crying now would ye? Hm?" It's practically impossible not to melt under that ever soft voice and the warmth of his palms cupping your cheeks, guiding you back out of your mind and towards him. "Just -" You grumble shyly, coaxed by a thumb brushing loving strokes across your cheekbone. "I dunno, I just feel insecure, I guess. Like I'm not pretty enough, good enough. I see all these girls online and on tv and stuff and they're so - so perfect. Why can't I be like that." "Right, ok." Johnny hums, taking a moment to process your words, looking at the wall as he tries to gather his thoughts, which are currently full of 'what the fuck' and 'how could she ever think that'.

"Ye're no perfect." He says bluntly, but the look in his eyes tells you he's far from finished speaking. "Ye're no perfect the same way I'm no perfect. The same way no one's perfect. So what if ye don't look like some shitty model or pornstar or whatever, ye hear me?" Johnny looks at you with an expression somewhere torn between reverence and frustration. "You think that?" You sniffle pathetically, wiping at your ruddy cheeks. "I think that if I wanted some perfect girl with no flaws whatsoever, I'd have to buy some fuckin' freaky sex robot or some shite. But I don't want perfect - and anyone who claims to be a man, but won't go near a woman with a pimple, or fuckin' - shite, I dunno, hairy pits or a wee bit of cellulite - is no man. You hear me?" You nod dumbly, a little surprised by the passion in his outburst, the way his blue eyes burn like the hottest part of a flame. "Real men want real women, and you, my beautiful, beautiful hen, are as real as they come, okay?"

[your-local-simp-writers]

A Morning Ritual

Word Count: 421

Warnings: None

Soap x Fem! Wife! Reader ︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶

The first light of dawn crept through the blinds, casting a serene glow over the quiet kitchen. You stood there, the warmth of your coffee cup seeping into your palms, lost in the tranquility of the morning. The world was still asleep, and in this rare moment of peace, you found solace.

The sound of footsteps approached, a familiar cadence that quickened your heartbeat. You didn’t need to look to know it was Soap, your husband, the man whose presence was both a comfort and an exhilaration. His arms encircled your waist, a secure fortress in the soft light, and you leaned back against his solid chest.

“Good morning, love,” Soap murmured, his voice a soothing balm. His breath tickled your neck, sending a shiver down your spine that had nothing to do with the cool air of the morning.

“Morning,” you replied, your voice barely above a whisper. You could feel the stubble on his chin as he nuzzled into your hair, a gentle reminder of the man who faced danger every day yet always made it back to you.

Turning within his embrace, you looked up at him, his blue eyes reflecting the love and life you shared. His gaze held a promise, a silent vow that transcended words. You reached up, your fingers brushing against his cheek, and he leaned down to meet your lips.

The kiss was soft at first, a tender exploration that spoke of years of shared mornings just like this one. But as Soap’s hands moved to draw you closer, the kiss deepened, igniting a familiar fire between you. It was a dance as old as time, a rhythm you both knew by heart.

His lips moved against yours with a passion that belied the early hour, a kiss that was both a greeting and a farewell. It was a reminder of what waited for him at home, a reason to fight, to survive, to return.

As the kiss ended, you both lingered, foreheads pressed together, sharing breaths and the silent language of hearts intertwined. “I’ll be thinking of you,” he said, his voice rough with emotion.

“And I’ll be here, waiting,” you assured him, your hand lingering on his as he reluctantly pulled away.

With one last look, Soap picked up his gear, his figure silhouetted against the lightening sky. And as the door closed behind him, you knew that no matter where he went or what he faced, he carried your love with him, a shield against the uncertainties of the world.

[ryuzakemo128]

Toxic

Pairing: John ‘Soap’ MacTavish x Ex-gf! Female reader

Content Warning: Dead Dove Do Not Eat, Sexual Assault, Verbal Abuse, physical abuse, Victim Blaming, Neglectful parents, Ex-gf! Female reader, Abuse against Men. Cheating. Suicide.

“Maybe if you didn’t piss her off, she wouldn’t have hit you” his mother says, excusing the fact you have hit him multiple times last night.

“Maybe if you were more of a man, she wouldn’t have slept with Price yesterday.” Another jab at him. Another reminder of how you never saw him as ‘man’ enough for you.

“Maybe if you took her to dinner more often, she wouldn’t have slept with Simon.” Another reminder that nothing he made for you was considered good enough.

“Maybe if you shaved off that stupid hair, cut like a real man, you wouldn’t have her crawling over to Gaz’s place so often.” His father berated. Another reminder that his looks weren’t enough, no matter how much he worked out.

Johnny tried to kill himself multiple times, but you wouldn’t let him. Spitting in his face about how much of a pussy he is.

You sexually assaulted him despite him saying, ‘No’ multiple times. “Now you know how it feels to be a woman.” You snarled, teeth flashing in a look of pure disgust as you continued to violate him against his consent.

Maybe he wanted it. He heard you say with a cold-hearted giggle.

He didn’t want it. You forced it onto him.

“Men can’t get abused.” His mother rolled her eyes at his confession.

“Men should be in control and strong. Don’t admit you’re a victim, you will be seen as weak by all women.” His father scolded.

“No one will ever take you seriously.” His father berated again.

“You’re stronger than her, you can’t be abused. Liar, like every man who talks of being ‘abused’.” His mother screamed at him.

“You are a man, you will never be abused like a woman is likely to be. Stop lying.” His aunt chastised one Christmas.

John felt obligated to fix himself for you. It is always his fault, right? Never yours.

John tried, and he killed himself because nothing he did was ever enough for you. Not once. Not ever.