#soap x you

[beloveds-embrace]

(a start to lady whistledown!reader x poly 141)

You never set out to become a sovereign in shadows.

Born the third daughter of a minor earl with more debts than land, your future had been inked long before you ever touched a quill. Like so many women of your station, you were meant to bloom early, marry well, and wither quietly behind silk curtains and social niceties lest you became one of those dreaded spinsters. Instead, you discovered something far more exhilarating than ballrooms and broken promises: the subtle power of knowing everything and saying just enough to keep the entire gentry on edge.

Lady Whistledown, thus, began as a lark.

A whispered alias, used first in a letter slipped beneath a dowager’s tea cup at a dull spring fête: “The Marchioness feigns fainting spells to avoid her husband’s touch. One wonders if it is for lack of desire… or fear of discovery.”

The reaction was immediate. The ripple that followed, delicious.

You wrote again. And again. And again and again and again.

Now, five seasons later, your words are sold at every reputable bookseller in London and traded like gold dust at every party of note. Men fear you; women envy you. Debutantes pray for your blessing; scoundrels pray for your silence. Your identity is the capital’s most carefully guarded mystery- your voice omniscient, your signature anonymous.

Only a few suspects have come close, but none have dared confront you without any solid proof.

Until now.

The parlor of your modest, yet exquisitely curated Mayfair home is unusually silent. Outside, snow slicks the cobbled street, muffling the sound of carriage wheels and gentlemen’s canes. A fire crackles in the hearth, fed with orange blossom logs you had imported from Florence. It perfumes the air; delicate, expensive, calculated. Like everything else about you.

You sit poised in a straight-backed rosewood chair, gloved hands resting on the pages of your most recent Whistledown column fresh off the press, ink still faintly damp.

Across from you sits Duke Price.

John Price is everything a man of his station should not be; rugged instead of polished (albeit still very, very handsome). Weathered by time and war, not just years at court. His dark hair is peppered with gray at the temples, and his trimmed beard frames a mouth set in a line of quiet command. He does not fidget. He does not look away. And when he speaks, it is not with the idle charm of so many peers but with the weight of a man accustomed to obedience.

He has not come to court you.

He has come to uncover you, uncouth and vulgar as that description may be.

“Lady Whistledown,” he says softly, but without pretense. “How long will you pretend not to be her?”

You smile. Not coquettishly, but dangerously; a smile used to wield power.

“A scandalous claim, Your Grace,” you reply, voice honeyed and lethal. “Do you accuse every woman in London who dares to read?”

“You write as someone who’s too clever to tolerate boredom. Someone who’s always watching.” His eyes narrow slightly. “And you knew things about my trade dealings that were never public.”

Ah. There it is.

That last column had struck too close. You had written, subtly, of a sudden dip in Price shipping contracts. “A shadow looms over Price’s waters,” you’d penned. “One wonders if it’s mere fog- or the presence of a rival wolf in the mist.”

Price had wolves, but so did you.

Behind him, standing just out of frame but not out of reach, looms Simon Riley, the other Duke in this tangle of quiet power. He’s dressed far less richly than his title would allow; dark wool, well-cut but subdued. He is known to London’s gentry as Ghost, a nickname born of war, whispered in mercantile corners and port cities, and a nickname that had strayed your hand from writing about him. But also because the textiles and fabrics Duke Riley had were to-die for, and you’d hate to be on his bad side even anonymously.

He says nothing, and he watches everything.

You had noted his habits before, of course. His silence, his precision, his loyalty to Price that went far beyond politics (and vice versa). And you had suspected the others, too.

Johnny MacTavish, Price’s resident chef, seemed entirely too cherished for a servant. His food was the talk of the Belgrave Quarter- decadent, intimate, nourishing in a way no cook-for-hire ought to be. But it was the way Price looked at him during one of your many watched-from-the-balcony dinners that gave the game away. Not just affection- but also Possession. Partnership far too close to be the scandalous friendship between a Duke and his servants.

And then there was Kyle Garrick, the head butler, whose movements through Price’s household were as seamless as silk and as lethal as a blade. You had seen him once while wandering the Price estate during a dinner, shirt sleeves rolled, hands gloved in soot and ash as he helped reset the hearth to an office room himself, Price’s hand low and secure on his back. He was not just the help.

They were a family of secrets, a tangled constellation orbiting Price.

A scandal in a world where scandals could end entire legacies.

You never published it. Not yet, anyways, and not out of just mercy, but also curiosity.

They were hiding. And you were watching, and now, Price is watching back.

“I suppose I’m flattered,” you say, rising slowly, each movement deliberate. You pace the length of the room, silk skirts swishing. “That a man like you would think me capable of undoing dukes with words alone.”

“Not just words,” he replies. “Truth.”

You stop near the hearth, eyes flickering towards the embers. “Why now, Your Grace?”

“Because someone’s trying to end my influence. Undermine my reach. My businesses are being outbid. My name, subtly slandered. And you”- he tilts his head- “have the best seat in the theatre.”

“I am not your enemy, Duke.”

“But you could be an ally.”

You glance at Simon, whose gaze does not waver, and you know he would never leave Price alone. Not truly.

You close the distance between yourself and John Price, stopping barely a breath away.

“And why,” you ask, voice low, “would I choose to entangle myself with four men whose entire existence is a powder keg of scandal?”

His answer is not spoken.

It is offered.

Simon steps forward first. A gloved hand lifts yours, fingers warm even through fabric. He bows- deep, proper- but there is nothing subservient about it. It is a knight’s oath, not a courtier’s gesture.

Behind him, John offers a letter- your name, not your pseudonym, elegantly scrawled in his own hand. An invitation to the Price Estate.

Not for tea, and not for a masquerade, but for the truth he has seemingly promised you.

You’re silent, for now. Because you are not used to being seen like this, unprotected by a fake name and the gossip columns.

John takes your other hand himself. This time, no glove. Skin to skin, scandalous.

“No masks,” he says, voice like thunder over velvet. “Not for us. Come to the Estate. Let us court you, not for spectacle, and not for society. For us, and what we can achieve.”

Your heart- normally ice and ink- stutters. Trembles and beats, excited; so many opportunities, so many chances, new heights of power and fame and the security of a marriage of your choice rather than being given away like cattle-

You exhale.

And for the first time in a decade, Lady Whistledown is speechless.

[metallictastinglifesupportliquid]

Price, texting: Can you come collect your freak of a boyfriend please Price: He's doing things Y/N: No I set him loose on purpose Y/N: He needs enrichment

[codnasties]

trapping soap 🧼 (🌽 link)

soap is very open about his kinks and about all the little sexual things he wants to try and explore. and while he has always wanted to fuck you raw, he has never pushed for it. he understands that is something very intimate and that can have pretty damned consequences.

he won't push for it, but that doen't mean he isn't vocal about his wants. won't ask directly for it, but will subtly let you know. except nothing about soap is exactly subtle, but any ways... so when you make him pull out as he's fucking you as grab the tip of the condom to get it off his cock, he feels like he's going to faint.

not only is he feeling the high of being loves and trusted enough for raw sex, but it's like he has unlocked casual raw banging with you. getting to feel you the way god intended, gummy walls hugging him tighter when he gets back inside your cunt

and when he tried to pull out so he wouldn't cum inside of you and fill you with the decently sized load he's about to blow, you kind of had other plans. using your legs to make him stay inside when he's about to cum, trapping him in place and making him fill you up with his seed.

don't be surprised if all protection disappears the next day

[aethelwyneleigh27]

What they do while you get ready (Scenario)

TF-141 as your boyfriends

Simon "Ghost" Riley who's the type of boyfriend to love watching you do your makeup, your hair rolled up in the curlers while you finish up putting on some lip gloss. You'd look back once in a while to see him staring intently. He definitely plans more date nights out where he knows you like the food. Adores it when you leave kiss marks but would grunt and try to hide it, you know he loves it, he can never hide the slight lifting of the corner of his eyes. He doesn't have the heart to wipe it off unless you tell him to. His heart warms up whenever he sees an elder couple, hoping that one day, that would be you two.

John Price who's the type of boyfriend to be absolutely clueless about makeup but is extremely competent when you ask him to get something. He's a little ashamed to be asking the salesladies for anything the first time but would grow accustomed and finds that it makes it much easier. Genuinely loves buying things he thinks would look good on you and see you try it on. Like Ghost, he likes it when you leave lipstick marks, specifically in darker colors that pop against the skin of his neck. Doesn't care if his knees would give out, he'd help you put on your heels, kissing your knee before he does.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick who is the type of boyfriend to hype you up, he has a sassy mouth so expect him to give you the biggest hype anyone can ever do. He's also a go-with-the-flow kind of lover, he wasn't into skincare but was into a little haircare before you but now whenever you do your skincare, he joins in. The type of man to tease and laugh at you for wearing a clay mask then sulk if you put it on him too. He kisses you even if you whine and say you just put on lipgloss, promising to buy you more if you let him kiss off the rest. He helps you style your hair especially if you curly it.

John "Soap" MacTavish who is the type of boyfriend to be going in completely blind when it comes to anything that's on your vanity, but the thing is, he's willing to learn and hear you so passionately talk about what oxidizing is, cool and warm tone and other things you've said. He has this sketchbook dedicated only to sketches and art of you, his muse. He finds himself making them while you're doing your makeup, a peaceful pastime while his girl is dolling up. His favorite sketch of you was you with hair curlers messily clipped up in your hair while you put the last touch of lipgloss on your lips.

A/n: Hello my loves, guess who's back? 😉

Taglist: @wishesforyou @puff0o0 @simping4konig @simp4konig @blingblong55 @azereus @rustic-guitar-notes @callsignsnowpunisher @anonymuslydumb @skeletalgoats @icarustypicalfall @connorsui @capuccino192 @miss-gms-and-the-rotten-womb @celestialhole @the-second-sage @starryylies @duck-a-doodle @everlastingmoonlightsworld @keiva1000 @poohkie90 @drewsmusee @aleixis @yveevie

[presepohne]

Johnny Soap McTavish who eats you out in front of everyone because he's a nasty fuck.

[disgustingtwitches]

MDNI

Working at a restaurant with 141! (Part 1)

Let's get this out of the way, the restaurant fucking sucks. Don't even know how it's still open. The food is terrible. The owner is an incompetent drunk who's never there. You got referred to the job from a friend of a friend. You did an interview with the head chef/manager, John. He hired you because you were hot.

"The fuckin ass on that one, huh?"

Just like any man that works in a restaurant, they're all horny fucks who love to tease you. You'd run back to the kitchen and ask to tweak an order. Price would wink and say:

"Next time it's gonna cost ya."

When it gets slow (which was all the time), you'd sit in the back and chat about how they met and what they did with their lives. They all get paid under the table for various reasons. Johnny takes smoke breaks with you, sometimes Price joins. Gaz pours shots for everyone after "busy" nights (busy meaning there was an hour where there were two tables to serve instead of one). Ghost... well he's strictly work. Sometimes he engages in banter with the guys, but he only acknowledges you when needed.

Your first month flies by, you basically get paid to sit around and talk with the most charming men on the planet, and Simon.

"He'll warm up eventually. Just gotta loosen 'em up, just like any tight ass."

Soap smirked as he leaned against a counter while everyone was wrapping up for the night.

"Don't you have dishes to put away?"

Ghost snapped while wiping down his station. At least he was nice to look at.

You and Gaz would roll up the forks and knives talking about bullshit, knees touching. Soap and you would light each others smokes by touching one lit end to the unlit one, all while still holding the cigarettes in your mouths (he called it a cigarette kiss). Price would constantly make food for you:

"Gotta plump you up 'fore it starts getting cold, yeah?"

He'd look you up and down while sliding you a basket of fries. And Simon? Cold as ever. Even when he started driving you to and from work because your car broke down. He drove like a madman, but it was totally silent. You made the mistake of reaching for the radio once, he gave a admonitory grunt and you snatched your hand away.

As time went on, you got comfortable with everyone and they got comfortable with you. It started with suggestive jokes.

"Simon's just straightforward, doesn't beat around the bush."

Price said one day while prepping vegetables with Ghost.

"What are you talking about? He beats around the bush all the time Price, you know that."

Soap walked by with a shit eating grin while he was carrying a bucket of dishes to the back. Uproar from the guys. Ghost storms off following Johnny, knife in hand. You want to stop him, but Gaz places a hand on your shoulder.

"Best not to do that, just let 'em settle that amongst themselves."

Johnny comes back disheveled, wearing a different shirt. Simon is stone faced as usual as he goes back to prep. It only got worse after that.

You'd watch as the boys messed with each other more; pats on the back, that turns to squeezes on the shoulders, that turned to slaps on the ass.

"They're just handsy," you think to yourself.

Eye contact that lingers for a second too long.

"They're just close friends," you think to yourself.

Compliments that boarder on harassment.

"They're just joking around," you think to yourself.

Then you entered the walk-in freezer, only to make direct eye contact with Johnny as he has Kyle's dick down his throat.

"Oh, uh-huh..." you think to yourself.

You didn't look at their faces for a week, they acted as if nothing happened. Then, the flirting only got worse.

"Behind!"

Price would yell while grinding up against Simon's ass when passing behind him.

"Yes, Chef."

He'd respond while he continued cooking, unfazed. They seemingly shared clothes: the younger guys preferred to don John and Simon's apparel all the time. You stopped going into the walk-in for a while, you figured you'd give Gaz and Soap some privacy (although they didn't seem to mind an audience). Christ, was everyone fucking everyone here?

You were taking a smoke break with Price when he leaned back on the railing and adjusted himself, it wasn't really adjusting himself as it was more him gripping his thick dick and looking directly into your eyes. You nearly choked as he smiled.

Ghost threw you a hoodie when he dropped you off one night. It started raining before you got home and you were complaining about just getting your hair done. You tried to give it back but he refused to take it.

"Keep it. I don't care about that one anyways."

He shrugged. You'd wear the oversized hoodie to bed, the smell was comforting. Smoky, dusty, boozy, like Javanese vetiver. It smelled like a grown man. Delicious. Accidentally wore it to work one day when you were in a rush getting ready. That started a trend for the rest of them to get you to wear their clothes. It less of a trend and more of a competition honestly. They'd "accidentally" spill drinks or food on you.

"No worries, I've got an extra shirt in my car!"

They'd have a wide, cheeky smile plastered on their faces while giving you their shirt. Of course, they wouldn't take them back either; so you had a growing collection of huge shirts that you'd wear around your apartment. Eventually, you had to go back to the walk-in. Thankfully, there were no exhibitionists present. You were reaching to grab some ketchup when the door opened. You and Johnny stared at each other for a long moment.

"Need help getting that, bonnie?"

Before you could respond he was reaching over you, pressing his chest on your back. He handed you the bottle while his dick grew hard on your ass. He was breathing hard in your ear, waiting for your reaction. You pushed back on him and that's all he needed, he gripped your hips and grinded into you. Even through your jeans you could feel his dick twitch when you moaned. It was a hot minute of panting while he pulled you back onto him desperately, like he was trying to fuck you right through the denim. The door handle clicked. You both froze, staring at the entryway.

"Johnny?"

Gaz's head popped in. Your face got hot while he stared back and forth at the two of you. One thing led to another, and your pants are around your ankles while Johnny is face first in your wet folds. Kyle is standing behind you, fucking your thighs and leaving sloppy kisses on your neck.

"Pretty doll, how long have ye bin waiting fur this, huh?"

Soap looked up at you with so much adoration, like he was servicing a goddess.

"Gonna cum Johnn-"

Gaz whimpered and bit your shoulder to muffle his groans as he came right between your thighs and cunt. Soap cleaned up the mess greedily, savouring the taste of both your juices. He didn't stop eating you out until you finished. Gaz held you up while your knees buckled when you came undone. Gentlemen they are, pulled up your pants for you and wiped the smeared lipgloss from your face. You stumbled out of the freezer, walking past the kitchen. Price's eyes crinkled as he saw you head out onto the floor.

~

"You shouldn't do that in there. It's unsanitary. And a health code violation."

Simon looked straight ahead as he weaved between cars. You opened your mouth, but no words came to mind, so you just nodded. Your leg bounced nervously. He grabbed your thigh, stopping the movement. His hand stayed there until you were in front of your place. You stared at him, his brown eyes boring into you.

"G'night."

He pulled his hand away, placing both of them on the steering wheel. You walked into your apartment, dizzy with confusion. "What the fuck is going on?"

[halfadiamond]

Warning: Mentions of sex

Watching Squid Game S3 and like what if you and Soap are both competing

Both of you guys are competing for different reasons but soon found a friendship that develops into a relationship

Soap who’s always horny is always begging to fuck or at least let him eat you out

At night all the other participants have to try and sleep but it’s so hard to when all they can hear is your moans while Soap is eating you out or hearing you guys fuck

The guards are starting to get annoyed with Soap because why is this man always dragging you off to fuck? They’re considering just letting him go with some money so he can stop being horny

Or Guards Soap and Gaz where they protect you and you always manage to win because they rig it for you

When it’s time to sleep, you go sleep at their rooms and sometimes it’s nice where you guys cuddle and sleep peacefully

Other times it ends up with you three having sex, a position they love is Eiffel Tower

Probably some games you never competed in because they kept you in one of their rooms

I should probably elaborate on these 🧐 but it’s probably because I’m desperate for some Gaz x Reader x Soap. I’ve read some but I need more 🙂

[deadboyfriendd]

Soap Breaks Your Heart (18+)

(Content Warnings: Fem!Reader, PinV Unprotected Sex, Fingering, No Aftercare)

Part Two of The Chemicals Between Us

Okay, so you fucked Johnny. 

It’s not a big deal. 

It’s not a big deal because it was easy. Because, as it turns out, Johnny is smart. Smarter than anyone you’ve ever met. Smarter than you. And also, as it so happens, he’s funny, and he knows how to say the right things at the right times. And those simple facts made your heart ache in places you didn’t know you had.

Because this morning, after feeling super sorry for yourself for two days, you stepped into the scalding stream of shower water and scrubbed yourself of him and all of the ugly feelings he brought with him. Being alone was easier when it was on your terms.

It was the way he knew to talk to you about Tigers Eye. And the way he knew to circulate back to your sad corner of the bar with a double shot of top-shelf tequila on the rocks. And the way he knew the right things to say to you at the right time.

Because it was all intel to him. 

Because, as it turns out, you’re easy. And not in the way Johnny was. 

So now you’re left here, at the same desk, behind the same barrier of dual monitors, with a way worse feeling sinking heavy in your chest and a dirty feeling on your skin because you decided to be easy. And you got hurt. And it was your fault. Because you are too sensitive to be sleeping with any man in your periphery who talks nicely to you. 

You didn’t take much convincing. A few nice words and the kiss of pretty eyelashes. Hot breath and spoken words whispered across your neck. His imposing nature and the way he knew that he had you exactly where he wanted you. He had read you for filth, and you never even questioned it. 

And now, for the next seven weeks, this antpile of a base will swell to a population in the thousands. And, out of those thousand, there is a very minute chance that you will run into him again at some point in the near future. The odds were made insurmountably higher by the fact that he was actively seeking you out at this very moment. 

He stands sure in the doorway, eyes scanning over your office until it settles on the set of desks haphazardly discarded in the corner, hidden behind the wingspan of dual monitors and rolls of print medium. 

It should be easy to talk to him, something short and concise, and not angry, because then being angry would make it real.

Hi Sergeant, how can I help you? Easy. Professional. You can do this. 

But then he rolls his thumb over the knuckle of his pinkie finger, and suddenly, it’s the bar all over again.

You can feel that hardened finger pad over the golden band of that Tigerseye, trying not to stare at that little intimate touch. The way he spun it around and around your knuckle, as if he didn’t notice it either.

That same ring that grew hot against the skin of his face like a brand as he fucked into you. But you digress. 

You’d tried not to notice, but the words died on your tongue faster than you could scramble to piece them back together in your mind. 

Because you realize that, despite your firm effort to convince yourself that he is the last person you want in your vicinity at this very moment, he also happens to be the only one who might understand how you’re feeling right now. And you hate him for it. 

+

He fit into your space all too easily, like the brandished beams of your condo, the midcentury Spanish revival that sold you on a place this far away from the base being a stupidly perfect backdrop for how pretty he actually was. 

His eyes tracked along the vaults of the ceiling, scraping the banister of your kitchen, and landing on you. You can feel them track as you move back and forth from the cabinet to the kettle to the cabinet again. 

“ – Your favorite song, then?” He leans on his elbows over the quartzite, tracking your every movement as you scan for the only two matching mugs within a five-mile radius. 

He flirts like he's been doing all night, the warm glow of the lamps scattered around your living space casting a vignette over the hills and valleys of his face. And he’s good at it. He knows what to say to get under your skin just enough for it to push back. 

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” You beam at him over your shoulder, the most at ease you’ve been since before you left for work this morning. 

“Aye, I would.” He nods, returning that smile with a squint of his eyes. 

“Only if you tell me your name.”

“You know my name.” His thick brow furrows, knit together in confusion right in the middle, “And my callsign. You’re not that drunk, now, are you?”

“Your full name, Soap.” He sighs. If it annoyed him, at least it didn’t last long,  “John. Alexander. Callum. Malcolm. MacTavish.” He punctuates every name in that syrupy drawl of his. Despite every effort of your heart telling you not to, you still want to taste it on your tongue. 

You can’t help but laugh, if only slightly, “That’s a mouthful.”

“On with it, then.” He gestures outward, waiting for a response that won’t come.

You tap the side of your nose in knowing, your sarcastic smirk plastered across your face. As quickly as you can register it, he’s around the bend of your island, the cold of the granite biting at your lower back beneath your rucked-up shirt. Johnny is fast to warm it with his hands, smoothing around down your sides and across the plane of it. 

And you let it happen, because it’s not a big deal. Because you’re diplomatic, personable, and professional. And it’s not considered fraternization because you work for two separate entities. 

And it wouldn’t be a big deal. Because you’d both get a good fuck, and maybe, if you were lucky, he’d stay and cuddle you afterwards. And then you’d go back to work Monday morning and deny it ever happened. 

+

You had no idea what he was saying– until you see his finger cross your screen, trailing Improvised Explosive Devices. 

“Can you shorten this to just the abbreviations?” He asks, lowly, “I think they’ve heard it enough times to know what it means.” 

Demolitions. Right.

You felt like an explosive in your own regard. Fuse lit, internal timer ticking away until eventually, you exploded into a fine pink mist all over him. They’d have to hose you off the walls and replace the carpet on the floors. But at least then you’d be free from this torture. 

You nodded along as he spoke, voice lower than you’d heard it before.

“Sorry about Friday,” His voice was a low hum that settled in a familiar place low in your belly, “I wanted to stay for longer.” 

He was close again, impossibly close. A woodsy musky smell that was now familiar to you. A smell you would have to go home and wash your sheets of. And scrub his kiss from your mug and rid every trace of him that ever touched your space. 

“‘S Fine.” It wasn’t, “I know how a one-night stand works.” 

But you’d let him do it. Because he’s friendly, and he’s imposing, and that makes it so much harder to be jaded and insufferable when he’s looking, actually looking at you, perceiving you in a way that you hate. His eyes rake over you, and you attempt to hide within your own skin. 

He shrinks himself for you, crouching by your desk instead of standing over you, and the way he looks up is too familiar. It almost makes it seem genuine. And it almost makes you angrier. 

There was no need for overcompensating niceties, at least, not anymore. Not that you thought. Johnny had gotten what he wanted, and so had you, you guessed. 

You didn’t like it– the way his eyes made you feel. You didn’t like this neediness or this want for him, this way that you clung to his closeness, not when you’d scrubbed your skin raw of this feeling this morning. 

Something something you didn't need anyone. Because alone was easy. Your feelings belonged to you and only you, and you could control them that way. 

But now there was no one to blame but yourself. You’d gone and you’d fucked Johnny and still, you were alone. But you hadn’t chosen it for yourself this time, and still, it was your fault. It had been too much for him, too fast. 

You had been too much for him, all at once. And now he was uncomfortable asking you to do your job, and now he would be uncomfortable for the next seven weeks. And it was your fault. 

+

You don’t expect him to drag you up his body and cradle you against his, your toes fighting to stay on the ground. The alarm sounds in your brain, fighting to make you stay on the ground, to not let him know how heavy you are. 

“Calm down,” He bites the pliant flesh of your neck between words, “If I dindnae think I could carry you, I wouldn’t have picked you up.” 

It’s enough to calm the alarm in your brain enough to relax back into the scratch of his beard against your collarbone. Enough so that maybe you might enjoy yourself. 

“I’ll take you to bed, no use in counter fucking.” He pulls himself from your neck, those same piercing eyes raking over your face again, “Where is your room?”

Johnny has a way of exposing parts of you to himself without you even knowing. He steals the breath from your lungs and pulls all of your embarrassing whines and choked cries from your body and drinks them like wine.

When he opens your door, he doesn’t scan the room for the suggestions of you, because he already has you soft and pliant and needy between his fingers. He molds you beneath them as they pull at your clothes and leave burning lines down your flesh, one hand still cradling the back of your neck as he maps your trachea down between the valleys of your breasts and back again. 

“How do you want it?” He asks, louder than you’d expect. Still firm with you, but without the bark of the base behind it. His hands grip the fat of your hip, kneading in wait. 

“Wha–?” You’re already too foggy for words, that delicious, warm contact fogging your brain and you were already swimming in it. 

Johnny chuckled under his breath as he rose to his full height, separating his body from yours but leaving the contact against your hip that you so desperately needed. 

“Words, lass,” He said again, “I’ll keep touching you if you keep telling me what you want.”

You know better than to ask for head, that worry grinding at the pink matter of your brain until it turns into a pulp of shame and filth. He didn’t know you from Adam. You had been too dirty for head. 

“Fingers, please.” You cry out, and he nods.

Both of his hands find the bends of your knees, and he slides them slowly up your thighs and back down again. “Thank you,” He whispers, lips pressing against the side of your knee in haste before he spreads your legs. 

“That was good.” He says to you, his eyes locking on yours once more, his fingers slide you apart, dragging a slow rhythm against you to get you used to the touch. Little, agonizing circles against your clit that make your legs twitch and tears well in your eyes. 

He sinks a finger into you, and you sigh in relief, your muscles releasing all of the tension that you didn’t know you were holding. Johnny sets a pace with the second finger, a slow slide that becomes agonizing until he speeds up. 

Your fingers scramble for purchase against the taughtness of his stomach, clutching at skin and hair as you find your release, hot and violent and racking your body in tremors and cries. He shushes them with slow rocks of fingers and kisses, and you still rock against his thigh as he slots it between your legs. 

It is frantic and sloppy and full of an animalistic reproach.. Your hands find his neck, already beaded with a fine mist of sweat and scratchy with the new growth of hair where it had been previously trimmed. You wanted him to touch you with all of the resolve of you had never been confident enough to down, you wanted him to take you here– to make you shake and shiver all of the worries that had plagued you to the bone. 

To feel close to someone was foreboding, it was dangerous and rekcless and every part of your body screamed against it but pulled towards him with reckless abandon. To feel safe with someone was something you clung to like a vice. 

Both of his arms entrap you tightly, almost too tightly to be comfortable, and keeps a crushing weight to keep your body taught against his. You whine, all woman and all desperation, as your back braces against the plush of white cotton sheets. 

When you gyrate your hip against his thigh, unsparingly, the broad planes of his hands cling to the valley of your back between your shoulder blades relentlessly. It brings you up towards him instead of away against the wall. You can feel the harness of his braced between your bodies, and it sparks a churning feeling deep in the pit of your belly. 

You are whining, his tongue funding purchase within your mouth and making a home there. He does not expect you to initiate the act, but when your hands slide down the tautness of his abdomen, and pull his shirt out from his pants.

There is no sense of familiarity to this. Sure, you had been with other people. This had not been new to you, but this franticness, this panic and desperation was. It was risky, and it felt dirty, though, not incorrect. Johnny reaches up, pulling the shirt from over of his head, his fingers turning tender against your waist as he guides you.

\When you see him, he is heavy and broad, there is a statuesque nature to him, the roundness of his face clinging to just enough roundness like the naivety of youth, though, just as you were all woman, he was all man. Even in his softness. He is soft in the way he looks down at you, and allows your eyes to skim over him. 

You are not womanly in the way you disregard the messiness of your hair, the tear streaks that stick against your hot cheeks. 

There is a change of pace as he kisses you this time, unhurriedly and exploring. Your fingers grasp around the thick bone of his wrists, thumbs tethering you to the ligaments of his wrists beneath his desert-warmed skin. 

Behind the fast-paced nature and desperation of it all, there lies a sticky sweetness. Dark and slow-moving like molasses against your skin. It finds a resemblance in his lips against your neck that trail your collarbones. If it were a different circumstance, perhaps, this would have been slower. He would have taken you like a lover, but you needed him here and now, and he would have to give you that. 

His voice was hoarse, moan rumbling low and deep from the confines of his lungs. He is rushed with feeling– taken aback by the crudeness of your language and comfort with your raw body. This was not what he had dreamed of, but rarely was it ever. The thrill changed quickly from an excited tingle to an aching need. His thumbs pull the hair from your face as he braces himself on his elbows, the soft smattering of hair on his stomach becoming flush with yours. 

There was a resounding softness in his promises of, “I’ll take care of you” that reverberated with the building of tears that formed against his pretty lash line, though, not enough to break the surface tension and spill over his even prettier face. 

There is a relentlessness in the way he rocks his hips against your core, desperate for the feeling of closeness. A single tear buds against the corner of his eye, dripping down his pretty red cheek and on to your chest. You had half a mind to swipe it away with your thumb. He fucks you languidly in the building spring heat. The tackiness of your skin turns to a slide as he works you. 

His hips stutter in a pistoning motion, punching a moan out of your core that was not frilly or rehearsed. Please don’t stop’s resounding off of his chest like prayers. He is a little rougher than before, your back arching in pleasure. His voice is broken as he presses hot, open-mouthed kisses to the column of your throat. 

There is a certain inevitability, like you both know that this will need to come to an abrupt end, and you whine with the filthiness of it all. There is a soft soreness that buds from within your core, and from the way he cries out, whiny and vulnerable, you know he feels it, too. There is a reciprocating cry that resounds from both your mouths, and you know he has reached his apex when he spills inside of you, moving slowly and then coming to a stop. 

You do not stop him when he drops a heavy head against your sternum, instead resulting in pushing the hair away from his face. His head bobs up and down on your chest as you breathe, his own falling out of sync with yours. There is a resounding whisper that leaves his lips, and you are not sure if you are meant to hear. You reply anyways. 

“You can sleep in my bed if you want to.” 

“Can’t.” He says, voice gravelly after a fleeting moment of resounding breaths, “Gotta be at the proving grounds in the morning.”

The kiss to your forehead that he leaves in haste as he peels his body from yours feels way more like a goodbye than it should. It’s too soft and your heart is too tender from being fucked within an inch of your life. 

You’re being weird about it. This is being an adult. They can have sex and not be together about it. He doesn’t owe you anything because you fucked him. You should stop being so needy about it. 

But you feel raw and dirty in this absence. Like a band-aid ripped off with the wound still open. 

And now you’re a hypocrite, too. 

You watched him as he parted from the tomb of your sheets, pulling the pieces of himself from your room where the settled– pieces of him falling like dust in the sterile shell of your place. He left nothing behind but a sinking “oh shit” feeling in your chest that you tried to ignore, along with the gnawing feeling in your chest as the door closed that you were alone again, and this time, it hadn’t been by choice.  

Okay, maybe you fucked soap. And maybe it was a big deal, because you liked it.

+

Next Part

[beloveds-embrace]

okay but what about memory loss with fae john where when you keep trying to escape he feeds you some fae wine to get you nice and settled again?

Dark fae themes, memory manipulation, and drugging (fae wine).

The forest breathes.

Not in the way living things normally do, but in that strange, trembling hush only fae woodlands can manage- where the light slants just so, like it’s filtering through thick, golden honey. The trees watch you, the wind is listening, and you know better. You do.

But still, you run.

Your bare feet slap against moss and roots and dew-slicked stones, the thin nightgown clinging to your skin as you dart through the silver-starred fog. Your breath comes out in sharp little gasps, panic hammering in your chest like a frantic hummingbird.

You don’t remember why you need to run, not really. Just the taste of something wrong curled like the smoke of a burning house in the back of your throat; a sureness. A thrum in your bones that this place- this glimmering palace of vine-draped archways and softly smiling men and gentle servants- is not where you belong.

You were trapped.

You are trapped.

“There she is.” A gentle voice calls to your right, and your stomach drops before you even see her.

One of the servants, with pink,!rose-petal skin and eyes like polished amber, stepping out from between the trees. She doesn’t grab you- because she doesn’t have to. She just smiles, apologetically, like she’s explaining something very simple to a confused child.

“You’re not supposed to be out here, sweet thing,” she says kindly, hands clasped. “His Majesty’s been worried. Why don’t you come back before you catch another fever?”

You shake your head, stumbling back. “I’m not sick. I’m not sick, you’re all lying- !”

The world tilts and your knees go soft, breath catching in your throat. You stagger sideways, clutching a tree for balance as that strange fog rolls over your mind again- hot, syrupy, cloying.

“I’m not…” Your voice breaks.

But then there are hands on you. Not rough, and not cruel- but familiar. A scent like smoke and deep forest and wild storms coils around you, and then-

“Love,” comes a voice behind your ear, soft and low and warm as summer thunder, the rumbling of the earth. “What I’ve I told you about wandering off?”

You freeze; you know that voice. You always know it.

John’s arms curl around you, strong and careful, as if you’re something breakable. His fingers stroke your hair like he’s soothing a frightened animal and not the poor human queen he keeps like a bird in a gilded cage. “Look at you,” he murmurs, tsking. “No shoes again. That delicate little head of yours must be burning up.”

“I’m not sick, John,” you whisper, and your throat hurts from how hoarse you voice is, trembling in his hold. “You’re doing this. You’re-“

“Hush now,” John croons, the weight of his magic curling around your spine like a fist plucking flowers and weeds. “You’re only saying that because you forgot your tonic again. You always forget, but that’s alright.”

You try to pull away, but he turns your face gently toward him, his thumb brushing your lower lip.

“Come,” he says. “Let’s get you something to help you settle down.”

You don’t agree, and yoy don’t resist. You just walk beside him, feet numb, heart screaming, another chance at freedom ripped right out from under you. The servant girl from before only giggles, bowing her head when you and John pass by.

Back in the palace, soft laughter echoes through the winding halls; echoes of Johnny and Kyle, flitting through the ivy-draped balconies like warm wind, always watching. Kyle, ever sickly-sweet, greets you with a worried little frown, brushing his fingers across your forehead like a doting lover.

“Still feverish,” he says softly to John. “Poor thing. She was trying to climb the garden wall again.”

Johnny smiles from where he’s perched on the stone banister, golden eyes glinting. “Might have tae add more guards,” he teases gently. “Can’t have our bonnie lass thinkin’ she can fly.”

But it’s not teasing, not really. It’s a warning; a reminder.

You’re theirs.

The throne room is a dreamscape of tangled vines and hanging lanterns. A soft seat is waiting for you- too plush, too comfortable- and John settles you into it like a man setting down a beloved doll.

Then comes the goblet, brought by Simon. Simon, who remains silent, yet brushes cold fingers across the damp skin of your cheeks.

Delicate crystal. Liquid the color of garnet, glittering like crushed stars.

“No-“ you try, but he hushes you, tilting the rim to your lips.

“Just a sip,” he murmurs, “for your nerves, beloved. Listen to us.”

It tastes like velvet; like sunlight; like crushed fruit and something rotten and wicked underneath. You swallow without meaning to, and feel how the warmth spreads fast. Too fast.

Your head tips back against the cushions, eyes fluttering. You feel floaty, slow and dreamy. The weight of fear slips from your shoulders like silk, and something in your chest unclenches.

“There she is,” Johnny coos, kneeling beside you now, his hand stroking your thigh. “Our good girl.”

“Just needed her drink, yeah?” Kyle murmurs, brushing strands of your hair from your forehead. “Bit of calm to keep her from hurting herself.”

John watches you, eyes dark with triumph and adoration both. He leans down, brushing a kiss to your temple.

“See?” he murmurs. “You always feel better when you stay close.”

You blink slowly, the fog thick in your mind now. Maybe… Maybe they’re right. You do always forget things. Your thoughts feel like wet paper, fragile and torn. Maybe you are sick.

Maybe you never left.

And the forest exhales again, soft and slow and satisfied.

And outside the palace walls, no one asks questions. Everyone knows the poor human queen is ill, always confused, always trying to wander off. But it’s all right.

The king and his men takes such good care of her.

[crashingcryptid]

I just kinda whipped this up so I feel like it isn't that great but I hope you like it anyway 😭🙏

If Soap had been conscious, he would've begged for his team not to call his fiancé. The fiancé they didn't even know he had until she marched into the hospital room with a seething face that could make Ghost shrink in on himself.

"Johnathan MacTavish!" You exclaim, giving the nurse who walked her in a small smile before snapping your head back to your injured significant other. Johnny suck back in the bed a little, still a little drugged up from the medicine, but trying his best to give you his infamous puppy eyes.

"Lass, please don be mad... ya know I hate it what ya made at me.." He slurs slightly, reaching out a clumsy hand for you. Even with your burning glare, he was so happy to see you, wearing a simple green sundress, sandles, and some jewelry he'd bought for you over the years. "Please, lass... m sorry."

You sigh, glare becoming weaker as your squared shoulders slump, and you sit on the edge of his bed. "You are so lucky I love you, you crazy reckless man." You shakily huff, gently rubbing his chest before looking over at his team. "Thank you for calling me. He would've told you not to if he could, but I would've found out anyway." You give the injured man another half-hearted glare as you take his hand and gently kiss his knuckles.

"I jus don want you to worry." He murmurs, returning your affectionate gesture, making you fondly roll your eyes.

"Kinda hard to hide a bullet wound in the head, Johnny.." You say quietly, making him look down bashfully.

Hours pass, Soap starts to sober up just slightly from the medications, and gets something to eat from the hospital. You talk with the team, visually out of place around the military gear and broad men, but you were witty, sarcastic, and genuinely sweet.

You doted on Soap, clearly devoted to the rambunctious scottish man. Watching the two of you interact, the team shares a few little glances and smirks, all of them imagining what it would be like to have you. It got late enough that Soap urged you to go home and sleep.

"You can't sleep here in the hospital it's s not comfortable, love." Price declared, interrupting what had been 5 minutes of back and forth bickering. "We'll stay and look after him, and if anything happens, I'll call you directly." He assures, watching you gear up to bicker with him. He fights to keep a little smile off his face.

Finally, you kiss Johnny goodnight and leave the hospital with a promise to be back first thing in the morning. Once you leave, the team turns to Johnny with wide eyes and even wider smirks, and he just chuckles quietly, already knowing they're question.

How soon until he told you that, since they were a team, they typically shared, well, everything.

Making you worry wasn't the only reason that Johnny hadn't wanted to tell you to come to the hospital. It was mostly because he knew once his men had laid eyes on you, there was only a matter of time before you and them became more... formally introduced

Being Soap’s s/o and the team having no idea that he has an s/o until he’s in the hospital (from getting shot by Makarov) and having to call his emergency contact. Anyway, now they want him to share you [with them]

[partiallysame]

Johnny strutting up to older!reader in a bar with the tired “can I buy ye a drink” and you just look him up and down and ask “oh baby. How old are you? Where’s your dad?” In the most condescending yet sweet voice he’s ever heard and the man is lowkey bricked up. He’s stunned just staring at you stuttering out “ ‘m 26” You look over his shoulder to the rest of the 141 sitting at a table. “Either come back in ten years or send your mutton chops daddy over. Ok sweetheart” your hand is shooing him away and he’s walking a little stiff bc you just unlocked a kink in him he did not know he had.

[rottingpink]

cod men with fussy wives

cw. fluff, innuendo, cunnilingus, lovemaking, reader is a bit insufferable but she means well. SMUT

synopsis. price, simon and johnny with very naggy wives who show them love and care they've never experienced before

john price

john is the typical gruff, stern guy who knows when to be serious, calm, or regulated, but around his wife, all he is is soft. he spends all day gritting his teeth during combat, pushing through with wounds the size of golf balls and scolding recruits when they fuck up, and so when he's on leave for a few days to see you, all he wants to do is relax, make love to you, eat your cooking, and maybe go fishing or do some home renovations. you, however, have a different plan. you're on his ass the second he gets home. not that he minds too much. you're too beautiful to be annoyed at.

he's sitting on the couch trying to eat a biscuit, and you gently pry it out of his hands mid bite. "john, did you take your omega-3s today?"

he signs, hand grazing your hip as you stand in front of him. "no, love. not today. but i used that nicotine patch you told me to use to help with the smokin'."

your eyes light up. "you're using them, darling?"

his heart thuds pridefully at your reaction, like it usually does when you call him darling in that dreamy little tone of voice.

"wore 'em everyday for ya, m'love," he murmurs, reaching for your hips so he can tug you gently to stand between his knees. "damn if i don't like a good smoke, but i like my woman's happiness a little more."

you giggle, nuzzling your nose into his hair, relishing in the pleasant, clean scent. "just a little?"

he laughs, bringing you into a sitting position on his knee. "a lot, love. y'said it's no good for m'lungs, and i wanna be around long enough to see our grandbabies. can't have that if 'm coughin' up ash everyday."

your lip wobbles. "oh john," you coo, lacing you arms around his neck tightly. you're so proud of him that you feel your eyes start to well up. you nuzzle your face into his neck to hide the way you're getting so emotional. you're so proud of him. "there there..." he bounces you in his lap a little to soothe you. "you're the sweetest lil' thing, aren't ya? takin' care of me so good. wouldn't know what to do without you."

you sniffle and snuggle into him so tight that you're nearly suffocating.

he tries to act like the fussing annoys him most times, but really, he relishes in it. he rarely smokes unless he's very stressed and isn't a heavy drinker. after all, you told him, "don't drink if you're looking for an escape from your problems, m'kay? 's what i'm here for."

his health's never been better.

what happens if he doesn't wanna be nagged one particular day?

he's been on edge all morning. one of the younger dogs knocked the sheep pen open early this morning and let half a dozen of them loose, and price has been running around like his head's on fire trying to corral them back inside and soothe the other distressed sheep. he just got back in all sweaty and stressed, drinking a large mug of coffee. then a second. third. on the fourth, you stepped in, suggesting that he might wanna slow down, and he snapped. "god's sake woman, d'you ever let up? i don't need a bloody nanny all the time. enough with the naggin' "

you shut up immediately, drawing your hand back with your brows scrunched.

slowly, you stop asking about his vitamins. stop shoveling extra greens on his plate. stop massaging rosemary oil into his hair at night. you stop. it's relieving for about fifteen minutes. then, he's disturbed. the silence brings him no peace whatsoever. he lasts until the evening of the same day, and he corners you while you're making dinner, hugging you from behind. "darlin'," he murmurs into your ear, mouthing at the lobe.

no answer. he huffs, dragging you against him and pressing soft, open mouthed kisses down your ear, along your jaw, to your throat, where he licks a broad stripe back up to your sweet spot. "c'mon darlin', 'm sorry. you know i get heated fast, hm?" his big hands travel along your body, his left now splaying on your breast, and the right squeezing your hip. "just had a terrible morning, nearly lost our sheep, had to run around like an idiot for an hour... 'n i lost my cool with you. 's not okay, i know."

"hate it when you raise your voice at me, john." you say softly, and his heart just about breaks. he didn't mean to, really. he loves when you're bossy with him. it shows you care and it's incredibly sexy. he'd just been very irate this particular morning. he's been with you years and hasn't complained seriously about the nagging ever, and he's not about to start now.

he squeezes your tit in his palm and kisses your cheek. "i know beautiful, i know. i love you s'much, hm? gonna make it up to you..."

he's on his knees behind you soon after, eating your pussy under your dress while you try to cook. his tongue laps at your soaked hole, causing his beard to get soaked with your juices. the thick hair scratches pleasantly against your folds while the spoon you're holding clatters onto the counter, your eyes fluttering shut and hands scrabbling forwards for something to hold - you settle on the heavy stand mixer ahead of you.

he's apologizing with a mouthful of your pussy, hands squeezing your ass and giving your thighs a little pinch any time you try to close 'em.

" 'm sorry. need you fussin', darling, alright? don't ever stop." your breath hilts each time his tongue drags upwards and flattens over your clit. his nose keeps nudging your ass because his big hands keep you spread wide for him.

you sway a little, thighs trembling with the overwhelming amount of pleasure he's inflicting on you, but all he does is grunt and pull you back against his face harder. "this what it takes t'get you talkin' to me again?" he rasps against your cunt. "fine, i'll eat this sweet fuckin’ pussy 'til you forgive me."

you gasp when he sucks on your clit and tips you forward so you're fully presented for him, tongue fucking in and out of your sloppy hole. the food you were tying to make is long forgotten at this point, but he doesn't care at all. all he wants to stuff his face with anyway is your sloppy cunt.

"john, mmh!" you cry out, thighs clamping around his head, but he smacks your ass hard and shoves your thighs wide once more.

"no, no, you'll take it," he grunts. "this is my apology, yeah? let me make it right an' show you how much i love your fussin'. "

you cream onto his face with a loud whine. grinding against his chin and into his mouth, and even then, he continues for a second round, mouthing at your folds and mumbling, "couple more, wife. apology's not done."

johnny "soap" mactavish

johnny's a firecracker and a wildcard. he lives on the edge and likes the unknown that comes with being reckless and unprepared. but when he met, dated, and then married you, he did have to learn to exert some degree of control over himself and his life, because damn you're a very meticulous, bossy little thing. not that he minds. having his woman fuss over him and baby him and give him extra special treatment all day, every day doesn't really feel punishing. your fussing is basically foreplay for him.

you'll tell him, "johnny, you're not going on a run with a level 6 UV outside with no sunscreen on. cmere so i can put it all on you."

"...whatever tha' means."

you frown. "johnny, you're not funny. a level 6 is dangerous. cancerous without protection."

he chuckles. "you just want an excuse to rub y'lil hands all over me, ain' that right?"

"johnny!"

you literally have to tackle him onto the living room floor sometimes to rub sunscreen on his face, because he keeps dodging you and laughing. squirming like a kid while you try to get his ears and nose. "you won't wanna shag me if i've got white goo all over m'cheeks, lass, 'm not havin' it."

"you'll thank me when you don't have skin cancer in twenty years," you huff, massaging the liquid into his cheeks while you straddle him. it's the only way he'll ever sit still anyway. his hands reach up to paw at your hips, and he tilts his head, smiling up at you.

"y'look s'cute on top o' me, don't ya?" he coos, giving your ass a playful slap. you roll you eyes and squeeze his cheek in retaliation, and he laughs and continues. "do y'love me more now that i've been properly slathered?" he teases, raising his brows as you finish rubbing in the last bit of cream.

you kiss his forehead. "only a little."

he smiles. "hm. maybe i should scald myself in the sun so you can love me up more."

"johnny."

"…right, right. responsible. m'havin' a growth arc for m'wife,"

"are you?"

"…no. but m'health has improved dramatically since y'started bullyin' me into slatherin' my skin twice a day."

you lean in so your lips brush his "that's cause i want you around forever, dummy."

johnny smiles softer at your words, tugging you down so your forehead rests on his and his beefy arms wrap around you. "i know," he hums, kissing your lips softly. " 'm not goin' anywhere, bonnie. not if i can help it."

what happens if he doesn't wanna be nagged one particular day?

he'd got home only yesterday from being deployed for several weeks. he hadn't seen his loving wife in ages, and the distance didn't do to well on him mentally. he's really not in the mood for fussing. he just needs to eat, fill you up with his cum a few times tonight, and go to bed.

you, however, had been nagging him the minute he came home. needing a breather, he offered to go grab groceries and run errands, hoping that the little break would help him cool off so he didn't snap at you. he's never raised his voice at you, and he doesn't plan on it today.

but when he got back with a dark bottle of bourbon...

"baby? did you only offer to go so you could buy that nonsense? i told you i hate when you drink-"

he interrupts you. "for fuck's sake, can I breathe without you hoverin'? you're not my mum."

you glare at him. not the sweet glare when you're admiring him, or the shy one, or the deadpan one when he does something dumb and you pretend to be mad at him, the angry wife one. oh, he is not a big fan of this look.

weirdly, though, instead of telling him how rude that was and that he knows you're just trying to look out for him, you turn and walk away in an eerie, icy silence. fuck, this isn't good. "bonnie, c'mon. i didnae mean that. c'mere,"

you swat his hand away lightly, deciding you won't be "mothering" him anymore. and so in the following days, you don't tell him to put on sunscreen. you don't pout when he only sleeps four hours. you barely touch him or look at him.

he tries to charm you at first, knowing how much of a sucker you are for his flirting and pretty words, but it doesn't work this time. you don't bite or get on his case or boss him in the way that makes him hard as hell. no shoving his chest when he gets too close or mewling "johnny please," when he teases you. none of it.

you've been eerily polite, and it's driving him mental. on the second day of this, he tries to nuzzle into your neck while you're folding laundry, whispering, "miss you s'much baby, 'm gonna make it up to you properly tonight."

you pull away and hand him rolled up socks. "drawer." he watches you for a moment, hands slack by his sides, socks limp in his grip.

you're distant. johnny's not good with distance from you. the next day, he's extremely restless, wandering around you like a lost puppy in only a pair of sweats sitting low on his hips, hoping you'll come put that greasy spf you always fuss about all over him. he even lies out on the balcony chair for a full twenty minutes in the sun just to bait you, but you give him nothing. you do spare him a glance periodically through the glass door, but you say nothing. he ends up with a sunburn on his chest and the bridge of his nose.

that night, when you dont wiggle into his chest like normal or ask if he had a vitamin after he ate dinner, he turns to his side to face you, needing to put an end to your stonewalling. "bon."

you hum. he can't tell if it's acknowledgement or just the sound you make when you're falling asleep.

"c'mon," he murmurs, wrapping his arms around you and tugging you into his chest. "i wasn't nice to you, i know that. didn' mean to be a dick. just been so stressed 'n on edge 'n i spoke outta turn."

while you're deciding whether or not to believe him, he gets closer, forehead nudging yours. "i'll pour the bourbon down the sink tomorrow," he says quietly. "swear it."

your fingers toy with the hem of his sleep shirt. it's the first time in days you've touched him without pushing him away. "you can drink if you want to." you murmur, twisting the fabric in your hands. " 'm sorry if i'm being overbearing."

"y'not, baby." he kisses your cheek. "just wanna do whatever makes you happy. you're the boss, aren't you?"

you wake up the next morning with his head between your legs, slow and steady, taking his time kissing down your body, from your tummy, to your hip, down to your inner thigh, and then your tender core.

his big palms wrap around the backs of your thighs and pull them over his shoulders, locking you in place while his mouth sucks and works at your pussy. he's so focused that he's making pleased little groans, crotch rutting absentmindedly against the mattress. he's grateful to have you back in his arms and your pussy, dripping and sweet as nectar, accessible to him once more, but he needs to make you cum to really feel forgiven.

he's slow and paced, kissing on you like he's starved. the slow drag of his tongue through your folds and the way his lips close over your clit and suck just softly enough to make your thighs tremble is euphoric, and you find yourself blanking on why you were mad at him to begin with.

his arms are wrapped around your thighs so firm you can barely move. and every time you try to squirm, he groans low and pulls you right back down, nose buried, face flushed and mouth messy. you can feel his beard brushing you, scratchy and warm, and your fingers automatically slide into his hair. "that's it, baby," he mumbles between pussy kisses. "lemme say sorry proper."

you whimper, back arching when he flattens his tongue against your clit and gives it a slow, firm swirl. he just groans again with enjoyment when you close your thighs around his head. he loves being smothered. he doesn't even care if he breathes, as long as you're happy and in love with him. when your pleasure crests and you cum on his face, he licks at your folds firmer, dragging that orgasm out of you. he keeps his mouth on you, gentler now. just soft licks and little kisses, tongue soothing over your puffy folds while his big hands rub slow circles into your thighs.

he doesn't stop until your hand in his hair goes limp. you sigh, letting him kiss back up your body to give you a little break before he goes back for more. he rests on your chest, nuzzling into your flesh gently. "you're forgiven, johnny." you huff, a little tired.

he grins, mouth still wet, eyes gleaming with relief. "thank fuck. boss me all you want, love. swear it gets me hard, anyway."

simon "ghost" riley

simon riley is commanding. he’s the most domineering presence in any room he walks in. makes the greatest of men lower their gaze when he approaches. he's taken down large enemy groups all on his own, has killed men with his bare hands, and… he comes home to you telling him "you can't eat that, baby. it's got monosodium glutamate in it. that makes you sick, remember?" and listens every time.

"…right," he'll say after a pause. "forgot abou' that. what d’you want me to eat then?"

he'd drop the bag of crisps he picked up on his way home with the god forsaken MSG in it the second you mentioned it and would nod. "mm. wouldn' wan' to spoil my dinner anyway, right love?" while gently taking you into his arms and pressing his lips to yours.

you're not controlling, either. the fussing is very particular. typically just a soft, offhand reminder from the only person in the world who really knows and prioritizes him before anything else. you love him so much and this is part of the way you show it. how could he complain?

you know everything about him, which is huge, considering he is a man of few words and is dreadful at being vulnerable. you know what wrecks his stomach, what gives him headaches, how he gets irritable and loopy when he doesn't sleep at least six hours in the night. you know his favorite clothing fabric and how he just wants to hold you when he's upset.

your voice is so warm and quietly certain that he has to listen every time. once you advise him not to do something, everything in him short circuits. his brute force logic disappears. because you say no, or "you shouldn't si, take this instead," and it's a done deal.

you don't even realize what it does to him, how something as simple as your concern twists itself into a soft knot in his stomach, how it makes him ache, not because you're bossing him, but because you're taking car and watching over him in a way no one else does.

he often glares at you and raises a brow ever so slightly at the way you, a tiny thing with big, expressive eyes and pouty lips just told a tank of a man what to do and expected him to listen.

he does though. listens to your bossy ass every time. and for all his stoicism, the man melts under your fussing.

he's in the shower with you brought that annoying cleanser you insist he needs to use every night and wash it off after thirty seconds because he's got sensitive skin.

"love. this shit's greasy."

"it's hydrating, si. good for your skin. protects the barrier."

"don't wan' hydrating."

you rub into his cheekbones anyway while his eyes are locked on you and his breath comes out slow and heavy. you're standing between his legs in the steam, having him lower his head slightly so you can reach your hands into his short hair once you've finished with the cleanser. you're squinting up at him, so serious as you massage something into his scalp like you're not both bare, soaked, and pressed up against each other.

simon has both massive hands holding your waist while he backs you into a corner of the shower, letting you fuss about exfoliants and scalp health with your tits smushed against his body and your eyes fixed on his face and not his cock nudging against your body, aching and swollen from the sight of you. he's trying to focus but he's so distracted by your body, the way you smell, and how soft you are in his hands.

you tilt your head up, rub a little cream into his hair, mumbling, "gotta keep your scalp health up to par, si", and he loses it.

simon grabs your face in both hands and pushes his mouth against yours, catching you off guard. you squeak into his mouth, and he groans and takes the opportunity to slide his tongue into your mouth, water pouring down both of you, beard scratchy on your chin.

"god," he mutters hoarsely between kisses, "you fuss over me like I’m your bloody housepet."

you let out another noise in his mouth, not knowing if that means he hates it or not, but he nips your lower lip, trails his lips along your jaw and up to your ear. " 's a good thing, love. don't pout."

you moan softly, tilting your head to give him more access to your neck and jaw. the reassurance felt great, and you find yourself melting into his touch.

" 'm gonna fuck you," he mutters, voice cracked with need, hand already sliding down your back to grip your ass. "righ' now. can't take it anymore." you look up through your lashes, lashes wet, lip caught in your teeth.

"but you still have conditioner in," you stare up at him coyly.

"finish after. s'not like 'm goin' anywhere."

what happens if he doesn't wanna be nagged one particular day?

simon didn't mean to snap at you. the harsh tone came out by itself. it's just that he's so tired and sore, joints in his body stiff with exhaustion. all he needs is a breather for five minutes, but you're there by the kitchen counter when he gets home. "hi baby! why don't you start with some of the stir fry i made! dunno if drinking black tea on an empty stomach is the best idea."

normally, he'd melt for your nagging and let you tug the tea bag and mug out of his hands and shove a plate of the lunch you made and a cup of water in his hands instead, and then kiss you stupid for giving a shit, but today, he bristles.

"jesus christ, can i just eat what i want for once?" his voice comes out sharp and cold in a tone he's never used on you before.

you blink, lips parting as you stand frozen in place with the wooden spoon you were using to cook laying limply in your hand. your mouth opens and then closes, and you give him a faint little nod and turn away.

he immediately notices your silence. you're never silent like this, so when you give him a faint little nod and walk off, he knows he screwed up bad. he stews on his stupidity for hours, up until you're laying in bed beside him and not once have you reminded him to put on that charcoal mask you always insist "draws out toxins."

you're just sitting beside him. not even sulking, just indifferent. you know what you're doing, of course. and it's working. he stares at the ceiling for a while, grinding his molars, heart pounding in his chest. he clears his throat in hopes of getting your attention and fails.

"not g'na remind me about the mask tonight?"

you flip a page. "no. thought you didn't want to be nagged."

he winces.

"didn’ mean it like that, sweetheart."

"right." you're still not looking at him or touching him.

he can't survive without your fussing much longer. he doesn't have your eyes on him or your little giggles or your hands all over him and sweet night routines and it's making him crazy.

he sits up and breathes in deeply, before reaching for you quietly. you glance over with confusion just as he peels your book out of your hands. "what are you..?"

he's already tugging you across the bed, laying you down on the bed before peeling off your clothes. "simon! wh-what are you doing?" you glare up at him with confusion, squirming under him as he shimmies your panties down your legs and tossing it to the floor.

"apologizin' to m'wife."

he scoops you up and places you on his face with no warning, your pussy lined up with his mouth. he holds you there, palms spread over your ass, fingers sinking into your soft flesh, before diving in.

he groans like a starved man the second he licks into you. his tongue is slow at first, sliding between your folds, and lapping at your soft, juicy pussy. you're still half mad but you can't stop the way your head tips back as he sucks your clit into his mouth and holds it there. you squeal, bucking your hips to try and get away from the overwhelming amount of pleasure, but he doesn't let up, tilting you hips up a little so he can slip his tongue into your soaked hole.

he tongues your entrance and licks you open messily, making you squirm into his mouth. you pull at his hair and try to lift yourself off, whining. "s-simon... s'too much..!"

he slaps your ass. "you don't get to leave me like that, love. won't let you be mad at me."

[callmecoke]

“You’re mine. You belong to me.” overrated, boring, tiresome, vaguely misogynistic undertones. -5/10

“I’m yours. I belong to you.” new, exciting, thrilling, beautiful, man who respects women, soft femdom coded, 10/10

[sillyswriting]

changed it to dad johnny, because father felt too strict for johnny. he is just a man who loves his children to death 🙂‍↕️

──  ✩ dad johnny 'soap' mactavish

johnny mactavish has always wanted a big family. this is an anthology of slice-of-life moments shared between johnny, his wife, and their wee bairns. status : on going

🧸 johnny loves his bonnie's post-partum body

🧸 johnny's teenage son comes home crying

[spurbleu]

kinda a continuation of this, but Johnny finally getting to fuck you after being in the friend zone for years and being a bastard about it. implied breeding kink.

it adds insult to injury that he’s good.

bent over your childhood bed, drooling on nostalgia and the dust that collected after your absence while abroad. he’s no different, barely able to fit through your front door, shoulders taking the brunt force of the decade he’s been away.

that, and his cock.

palm swallowing your moans so your families don’t hear how he ruins your cunt with it, thick middle reshaping the gums of your walls. you can smell the holiday perfume and champagne melting off your neck as he sucks under your jaw. it’s snowing outside, but the the flakes look bleary behind the tears that boils your waterline.

“y’should see yerself, doll-“ grunts when you flatten your ass against his pelvis, rutting deeper until you bite at his callouses, “a braw mess. must regret not lettin’ me n’yer cunt sooner, mm?”

pushes on your shoulder blades until your throat is stuffed with the feathers in your pillows. fastens his fingers around your hips and angles you just right so he’s brushing against your womb.

dandelion fires light behind your eyes, and you remember how a younger johnny used to talk you through counting them when you looked at the sun too long.

things change fast.

“fuck- squeezin’ me dry, aren’t ye,” he pants, lowering himself until he’s next to your ear, “even yer body knew y’always wanted me. fuckin’ made for me, precious. dinnae why y’held out fer so long.”

“ah- johnny don’t-“

“what? cum inside?” he laughs, and you burry your face into pillow case cotton when he quickens the pace, “why nae make tis permanent, yeah? have meh whenever y’need.”

buries himself to the hilt, and you feel warm confliction fill your womb in ropes until your shaking in the aftermath of your own orgasm.

holds your lower back as he leads you downstairs. plays with the kids while you get water and talk with the mothers.

he sends you a look after picking one up and blowing a raspberry into their stomach, and suddenly you’re aware that this was always going to happen.

and now there’s no way back.

[arabellasfvv]

When you blow johnny and just keep gagging and choking he'll most likely laugh at you. But because you don't just let things slide–that man needs to be put in his place anyway–you pull out one of your dildos, and tell him to suck it. He laughs incredulously at first, though not totally opposedto the idea. But once he saw the expression on your face he knows you're serious. And he was never one to turn down a challenge.

Safe to say he's gagging like a bitch. Can barely take half the thing without tears stinging at his eyes. And if you're mean you tell him, "well, that's pathetic, baby." In a mocking tone. (lt makes his cock twitch dw) and if you're even meaner you decide to 'help out'. Forcing the toy down his throat with your hand. Do it over and over. Like he does when fucking your throat without consideration. He's a mess by the end, sweaty, eyes red with tears flowing from them, drooled all over the toy, down on himself like some mutt. But some time during it he came without even being touched.

He doesn't make fun of you again.