warning ladies !! do not spit in gojo’s mouth unless you’re ready for him to nut instantly!
“c’mon baby,” he whines, voice all breathy and cocky, his blue eyes sparkling looking greedy. “i’ve been good. spit in my mouth, please?”
you laugh, because this six-foot-whatever menace who can literally warp reality is pouting like a brat because he wants your spit.
“you’re so fucking weird, toru.”
“you are weird,” he corrects instantly, tongue already poking out a little. “now c’mon.... i’m dying here. my dick’s so hard it’s bout to file a complaint.”
you roll your eyes but lean in anyway, gripping his jaw with one hand, thumb pressing into the soft skin just under his bottom lip. he opens wider, eyes half-lidded, that signature gojo smirk twitching at the corners because he knows exactly how nasty this is.
you gather it slow on purpose, letting him watch, then spit directly onto his waiting tongue. thick, warm, right in the center.
the sound he makes is downright criminal. a broken little moan-groan that vibrates straight through his chest and into yours.
“fuck— again,” he gasps, “do it again. spit like you mean it.”
you do it again, messier this time, letting some of it miss and drip down his chin. he doesn’t even wipe it. just lets it slide while his eyes roll back.
“you’re actually getting off on this, huh?” you tease, grinding down slow on the massive bulge straining against the fabric. “big bad strongest and all it takes is a little spit to make you stupid?”
“shut up and degrade me properly,” he whines, but he’s grinning like an idiot, tongue still out. “call me a nasty little slut or sum. i’m literally leaking for you right now.”
you laugh again, i mean you can’t help it. before you do the request, you reach down and shove his sweats just low enough to free him. he’s flushed dark at the tip, already dripping down the shaft.
“open wider, pretty boy.”
he obeys instantly, loving every second of being absolutely humiliated by you.
you spit again, then lean down and lick into his mouth, tasting yourself on his tongue while you sink down onto his cock.
satoru’s whole body shudders. he moans into your mouth, hands scrambling on your hips, already babbling.
“more!! fuck— spit on me while you ride me. please baby i’ll do anything. i’ll buy you a country. i’ll cancel infinity for the rest of the night. just keep spitting in my fucking mouth—”
Some mornings, it’s soft and filled with cuddles. Simons warm hand splayed over Johnny’s hip with gentleness that rarely shows. Johnnys fingers curled in blonde locks as hazel eyes trace features, staring back at the Scotsman. Before two pairs of eyes dip down to your sleeping form between them.
Johnny loves staying in bed with you, voice raspy and cracking with morning dryness as he mutters to you, planting kisses all over your face. Simon peels himself away, the throb of a caffeine headache urging him to be the first to get up and make a pot of coffee. But he returns after a few sips and crawls back into bed.
They take turns, spoiling their sweet bird.
Johnny slipping away for his morning jog as Simon keeps you warm under the blankets.
“C’mon, luv… almost nine, need ta’ wake up.” He rumbles beside you, digits trailing up and down your spine as if memorizing each vertebrae.
Other mornings, you wake before them. You squirm your way out from between them, bare feet padding along the wooden floor boards until you’re in the kitchen. Coffee brews as eggs crackle and pop in a greased pan. Simon is first to wake, calling out to you with a twinge of worry lacing his voice.
It’s not until you appear in the bedroom doorway with two mugs that he relaxes, Johnny smiling big and lazy.
“There’s our wee bird… so pretty this mornin’.” Johnny snorts when you grin and plant a wet kiss on his cheek before handing him his coffee. Simon draws in a breath of contentment when he too gets his morning kiss and a sip of his coffee.
Either way, the three of you have soft mornings. One way or another.
i feel like cause soap is a freak he would get turned on by the most random shit like reader telling him she matched her lip liner shade to her nipples (feel free to ignore if you think this is weird it’s just a random thought)
oh no he absolutely would. that man is a freak through and through and he stands by it. matching anything with your body parts? instant boner, obviously. seeing even a hint of your underwear peeking out of your jeans? seeing your stomach when you stretch and your shirt slides up? fuck, the man gets hard from seeing your razor clean and untouched after a shower because Bush Nation survives another day.
but you know that trend where someone will get their partners tip colour on their nails? yea. that. Just imagine telling soap you're getting your nails done and he requests a pic (after sending you some money for them, he knows his place) when youre done. he tells you how pretty they are but doesnt catch on, not until you're on your knees, hands wrapped around his cock and slowly pumping it, thumb sliding over his sensitive tip. he immediately cums when he realises and you best believe he'll be eating you out until the sheets are fucking soaked.
he also proudly shows off your nails to everyone. which also gets him hard.
Summary: You make Johnny’s head spin with everything you do, so it’s no surprise that he wants your teeth sliding against his throat.
[WARNINGS: hickeys + lovebites, not full on smut but heavily suggestive, dirty thoughts, sub!soap. he’s also so in love.]
Johnny found himself in awe of you. He has never met anyone who has made him feel so.. good. He’s never met anyone who has made him feel so needy. Every touch of yours lingers on his skin, burning into his memory whenever your fingertips brush against his arm, just to past by him in a tight space. You always capture one hundred percent of his attention whenever you part your lips to talk, and he hopes that his staring at the curve of your lips isn’t too noticeable. Johnny went for a long time with no distractions, with no one to think about late at night, until you came along.
The first time he thought about you in a less than platonic way, he felt dirty—and wrong. He was laying on his bed with his hands covering his face, feeling the heat on his cheeks increase by the second as his mind is running miles per second, pointing out details about you. Your smile, your facial features, your body, everything. But he began to feel worse—and aroused—when he imagined your hand around his throat with your lips to his jaw, sucking a visible and dark hickey into his skin. He got so hard in his boxer briefs that it fucking hurt.
Johnny knows it’s a bad idea, he knows it is, but that exact thought has been coming back to him every time he thinks about you. Your lips on his neck, claiming him in the form of marks and bites. He can’t help but imagine the faint feeling of you sucking on his skin, pulling it between your teeth and sending shivers down his spine. It’s got him dizzy when he thinks about it, and it’s absolutely down right horrendous when he thinks about you muttering possessive phrases in his ear. Johnny wants to be yours, wants you to show him that he’s yours. He later sits there and quietly curses himself out because nothing has ever happened between you two; he’s getting so attached to this.. idea, an idea that’ll never happen because you haven’t even kissed..
So imagine his surprise when you have him against a wall a week later. Your hand is wrapped around the base of his throat with your lips against his jaw. Johnny’s lips are parted and a soft noise leaves him, his heart jumping out of his chest as his own hands immediately grab onto the back your shirt, his arms wrapped around you in an attempt to pull you closer. You drag your tongue against his skin before sucking on the skin right below his jawline—it’s a horrible idea, a way too obvious spot, but it’s clear that Johnny doesn’t care when he lets out a breathy and drawn out, “FuuuuUck—“
His hands grasp at your shirt again, unable to keep still as you chuckle against his neck, slowly trailing to a different spot on his neck while dragging your tongue. You teasingly give the spot a sloppy kiss and slightly suck on the skin before letting go, murmuring, “You want people to see, don’t you? That’s why you aren’t stopping me.” Johnny nearly whines when you don’t follow through with giving him another hickey, barely hearing you. He swallows spit as he processes your words, head fuzzy already and he nods quickly. “Don’care if they see, wan’em to.”
He’s slurring his words as one of his hands moves from the back of your shirt to the back of your head and he doesn’t necessarily push you against his neck, but he doesn’t know where to keep his hands. Johnny can’t help it, either; he never thought this would happen, he never thought you’d give him what he wanted—no, what he needed. The thing is, receiving a hickey or a lovebite isn’t exactly pleasurable. It’s arousing and even a bit painful at times, but Johnny is chasing that pain—he’s chasing the feeling of your lips on his skin everytime.
Johnny’s body melts when you suck his skin between your lips again, the hand around the base of his neck tightening. He subconsciously pushes his hips against yours as he begins to babble from something so simple. “Mh, need this, I need this—need ya t’mark me. Want ta’belong to ya—“
You bite down on the spot where his neck meets his shoulder, sinking your teeth into his muscle; not enough to break skin, but enough to hurt and leave a mark, and that’s enough for him. Johnny lets out a moan from the bite, the pain radiating up his neck and down his arm, but it only makes his cock twitch in his pants. He’s probably leaking and staining his boxers again, but he doesn’t mind. Not when you borderline laugh at his reaction. You pull away from his neck to look at him. “You like that? Like when I bite you, Johnny?”
Johnny immediately nods as he makes eye contact with you and boy does he look as wrecked as he feels. His mohawk is out of sorts, his clothing is jostled around and his eyelids are lidded while his cheeks remain flushed. His lips are parted to complete the look, and the just want to swallow him whole like this, especially when he looks at you with such adoration, want, and attraction. Your hands move to under his shirt, slowly trailing up his torso, causing him to press into your touch. “Please..” He sputters, begging—and he’s not even sure what he’s begging for completely.
You tilt your head to the side wordlessly as your hands press into his hips, his waist, right below his pecs, groping him until you hear Johnny whine. “Please, Bonnie.” His voice is more insistent and you have a good guess of what he wants when he tilts his head to the side, baring the side of his neck that doesn’t have any hickeys or bites. “I don’t know what you’re asking for, Johnny.” You murmur. your fingers go to his waist band of his pants and you tease him by pulling his pants down just enough for air to brush against his v-line, causing him to shiver. Johnny pushes his hips against yours again as he looks at you with a increasingly reddening face. “Please bite me, mh? Want everyone to see it, feels good when ya do it..” He’s breathless and grunts out when you grab his hips and hold him against your own hips firmly, and Johnny nearly starts rutting against you—but you quickly dig your fingers into the skin of the top part of his exposed hips.
Light pain pricks at his nerves when you do so, and you speak in a low voice. “Keep your hips still or I won’t bite you ever again.” Johnny’s eyes widen when you say that and he nods quickly, putting all of his brat-ish antics to rest. You hum in approval and you lean near his jaw, tracing your lips against his skin. You whisper, “Good boy. Keep yourself still and I’ll leave marks places that you’ll feel for days, hm? Maybe I’ll make you cum, too.”
Johnny’s eyes roll back in his head for a moment at your near-promise, a soft noise leaving his lips as you suck a hickey into the side of his neck, nodding once again—but to be fair, anything you say is something he would nod about. You could promise him that you’ll give him a treat if he’s good and he’ll sink to his knees in front of you, or you could slap him across the face and Johnny would whine for more.
It’s safe to say that he often asks for you to renew your marks on him, getting addicted to the feeling of your touch.
summary; you’re a hockey player, but you’re also johnny’s girlfriend. johnny comes to a realization after watching you get into a fight. 1.2k words!
authors note; this is not exactly what i envisioned, but it’s what i wrote. enjoy :-)
[WARNINGS: reader is implied to be a buff woman, violence, light blood and gore, suggestive content at the end.]
You and Johnny first met at a pub whilst he was on leave. He saw you from across the bar counter, looking up at a TV mounted above the bartender and sipping on something he doesn’t care to remember. What he does remember is you.
God, Johnny never believed falling in love at first sight and he still doesn’t, but holy hell did you stir something within him. Sitting there, back straight with your eyes glued to the TV, fidgeting with something circular, perhaps a coin, between your fingers. The way your bicep is bulging from the tight circumference of the short t-shirt sleeve…
Johnny wasn’t sure what exactly prompted him to talk to you, he definitely already came to the conclusion that you were likely going to just turn him away but holy shit, he’s damned if he left without trying to strike a conversation. Johnny ends up tilting his head, downing the rest of his drink for confidence before slipping into the seat next to you.
That day, Johnny learned that you were a pro hockey player for the professional women’s hockey team back in North America. Honestly, Johnny was surprised but more so by the sport and not the fact that you played one. You told him you were visiting someone here in Scotland, a friend—helping them move while your contract was being figured out. The more you talked, the more Johnny assured himself that it was absolutely a requirement to know you on some level.
Your voice captured his attention, your smile made his stomach tighten and bloom with warmth—even if he couldn’t convince you to go on a date with him, Johnny honestly would be just fine with being only friends. As long as he has a female hockey player in his contacts list, he’d be alright. You find out Johnny likes a bit of hockey himself, mostly paying attention to the international ice hockey federation. After learning that, to Johnny, he could see the way your eyes lit up.
Yes, you did agree to a date with this grinning man. Maybe quite a few dates.
Johnny found himself on his phone way more often whilst waiting with his team to be deployed. Constantly texting you, calling you, the whole nine yards. It earned him some glances and teasing from Ghost and Gaz, even his Captain—but he could tell his boys were happy for him. Johnny seemed more relaxed, laid back instead of his pent up self.
A couple months into the relationship, Johnny was finally able to file for vacation related leave. He was excited—secretly so was Price, as Johnny doesn’t really file for leave often—and you were ecstatic. It took a second to figure out arrangements, at the end of the day you insisted for Johnny to stay with you. Why stay in a hotel room when your spare bedroom is free? He was so reluctant, but you were so insistent with it.
“I have a practice game in a few hours,” You informed Johnny as you opened your refrigerator, taking out two cold water bottles stuffed somewhere in the door. You let the refrigerator door close by itself, and you tossed one of the bottles to Johnny. “Was thinkin’ you could come and watch?”
Johnny grinned, his lip curling ever so slightly where it exposes his top gum near his canine. “I would love to watch ye practice!” Johnny was enthusiastic with it; he’s being truthful, he’s been wanting to watch you in person. Johnny spent a couple nights binge watching the recorded games you played in on YouTube, which honestly was a slight mistake. You are a good player, great actually—but it always stirs something deep in his gut. Something about you bodying another player, even if it warrants a penalty… Gets him hot and sweaty, honestly.
That’s how Johnny found himself sitting in a seat right by the glass, a few feet away from your team’s bench. Tension filled his veins, making his shoulders rise to ears watching you, your team, and the practice enemy team skate around on the ice. The sounds of shouts, sticks slamming against each other as well as the ice, the collisions are harsh. Johnny’s been watching you for a while, keeping his eyes on that jersey of yours and he’s been noticing you’ve been slamming into this other woman.
Before bringing him to practice, you gave him a rundown of your team's roster, as well as the opposite teams. You overall had good things to say about nearly everyone, a smile on your face as you point to different people’s faces on the league’s website. Johnny watched the way your face contorted when you got to this one woman, though. He understands most beef stays on the ice, but the way you spoke about her? Johnny could tell there was something that remained on and off ice. You told him she’s “female Tom Wilson” which made him wince a bit.
So, when he witnessed you collide with that woman for the third time in one practice match, he wasn’t too shocked to see your gloves fly off. “Holy–” Johnny swears, standing up from his seat. His hands shoot to his head, holding it as he hears shouts and whistles blowing. Your hand is crumpled in the woman’s jersey, both your helmet and hers missing. Johnny’s heart is pounding in his chest, his arms feeling heavy as both you and the woman slam into the glass right in front of him.
He reaches forward and bangs on the glass, his eyes widening as he watches your fist make contact with her face square in the middle. Johnny winces as he nearly swears that he could hear her nose crunching under the weight of your fist through the glass. He’s not surprised when drops of blood splatter against the glass, but he still yells your name nonetheless. Part of Johnny is worried, knowing you’re against the woman who usually starts and wins fights, but.. You seem to be holding your own just fine.
Your fist pulls back and makes contact with her face over and over, blood smearing and snarls until a couple of your teammates pull you away from her by your arms. Johnny’s eyes are glued to you as your teammates skate you backwards from the woman, following the curve of the arena. The woman is on her hands and knees on the ice, a couple of her own teammates checking on her. Johnny just barely glanced at how there’s a dripping puddle of blood forming underneath her face because he can’t stop looking at you.
A feral snarky look on your face, your nose bleeding and bashed, blood dripping from your nose to your teeth, from your lower lip onto your jersey. Your left eyebrow is torn open and so is your upper lip. There’s blood splattered across your knuckles, which are surely broken open and bruised themselves.
Johnny hits the glass, his heart pounding but it skips an entire beat when you make eye contact. His breath stutters in his chest and Johnny’s cursing himself under his breath because his job must have caused wires to cross in his brain.
You look so.. Fucking hell. Johnny feels himself chubbing up in his jeans, a hot shot of arousal shooting down his spine. Your ferality is making his head spin and he shouldn’t be as turned on as he is from the way you spit a mixture of blood and spit onto the ice, being skated away and into the locker room, followed by your team’s medic and an angry coach.
Johnny presses his forehead against his palms, trying to calm his racing heart, his lewd mind, and his cock.
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Can I request just some comfort Fluff with soap? Maybe him just being at home with the reader and finally being about to fully relax
— love your writing 🤍
MINE, OH MINE (Soap x GN!Reader)
soap masterlist — 808 words
a/n: I had actually gotten two of this request, so 🐤 anon, this is for you, too!!! i apologize for my slowness lol this is also short </3
[WARNINGS: None, domestic fluff!]
Johnny has always loved the mornings after he arrives home to you. Of course, he loves that first near rib breaking hug you give each other—he loves the slow and thankful unsteady kiss you share at the front door with his duffel bag at your feet. Johnny loves the way you run your fingers through his messy mohawk during the sweet kiss, the way you lean and melt into him so naturally.
He loves the way you tremble; like you can’t believe he’s with you and he isn’t looking at you through a facetime call. Johnny adores the way you basically refuse to leave his side the rest of the night, barely giving him enough space for him to use the restroom by himself. He doesn’t mind though, because he knows he’s the exact same way. You are clingy the first two days whilst he is clingy all the way up until he has to leave again; neither of you mind.
Johnny loves the way you wear his clothes while he’s away, the way he sees more of his own laundry than yours in the laundry basket by the washing machine down the hall in the laundry room. Johnny loves the way it’s clear when he steps into the bedroom to put his bag away, you hog his side of the bed. He appreciates your insistence on helping him take a bath, his pajamas already in your arms. You know how to massage the knots out of his shoulders and back, you know the exact pattern on how to stroke his hair and tickle his neck to make him incredibly still. Johnny loves the way you’re concerned about his eyes when washing your hair, cupping right about his forehead to prevent any possible droplets of soap to drip down into his tear ducts. Johnny loves that you care enough to squeeze his hair at his hairline to keep it from dripping down his face.
Johnny loves the way you allow him to rub your back once he’s out of the bath and properly dressed; you’re sitting on the bed with the Scot sitting behind you, his legs crossed as his big and rough hands press against the tense muscles of your back through your his shirt. He loves the way you sigh with your lips closed from being content, the way you instinctually lean back into his touch, the way his thumbs press into your shoulder muscles and rub them in circles to relieve the tension that has most certainly built up, deep in your bones and tissue. He loves the way you tilt your head when he peppers soft kisses to your shoulder, leading up to your neck.
What Johnny loves the most, though, is waking up next to you after these nights together, after returning from deployment and missions. He loves waking up with his nose buried into your shoulder with an arm wrapped around you, the other under his own head for comfort. Johnny loves waking up with his head buried in your chest, or maybe your head is buried in his. He loves waking up to see you still sleeping, your lips parted ever so slightly in your sleep, your face devoid of stress and anxiety. If you snore, the man very much treasures every noise coming from you; it’s a sign of life, and he would fall asleep to the sound of it every night if he could.
Johnny likes to run his fingers against your brow ridge and then down your temple to your jaw, his fingertips sliding against your pulse for a moment, just feel your heart go ba-dum ba-dum ba-dum. Sometimes on a rare occasion, you’ll wake before him; which is how he found out you watch him sleep. Of course Johnny isn’t upset when his eyes flutter open and the first thing they do is lock onto yours. He finds out you wait for him to wake up like he waits for you, admiring his face, his chin scar, his hair. You look at him like there’s nothing else in the world and that makes his chest so tight and gooey.
He likes it when you mumble “I can’t understand you” in the mornings, the grogginess thickening his accent. Johnny likes your little smile when his voice rumbles in the morning, the sound penetrating deep into your chest and staying there. Johnny likes it when you kiss him in the morning, despite the fact that his morning breath has always been worse than yours. He likes it when you cup the back of his head in these morning kisses—all he can think about is you, you, you. Johnny likes it when you insist on staying in bed for a bit longer, despite your alarm for work having already gone and past.
part two in my soft moments mini series! i already did price—after this is gaz and ghost, and maybe graves or valeria. this fic contains a dom/sub dynamic, but it’s nonsexual in this fic. :-)
Johnny has no idea what time it is, but he can’t bring himself to care right now. Not when his cheek is pressed up against your thigh, your hand combing through his already messy mohawk, and not when your fingers scratch him under his jaw, sending goosebumps up his spine. Every second of your touch feels like he’s standing under a warm shower on a cold night, the warmth biting at his skin and rippling down to form a puddle beneath his feet—the puddle being any energy to think or do anything himself. He’s kneeling, but you put down a couple of blankets to protect his bare knees and shins. Johnny’s half sitting between your legs—it’s a bit hard for him to do so due to his size—and leaning against your leg, his head against your thigh, and his arms loosely wrapped around your leg. The warmth of your hand spills down his spine and settles deep in his gut in a comforting way.
You smile as you continue to scratch at his jaw and scalp, watching the way his body twitches and then relaxes once he realizes you aren’t pulling away from him, you’re just readjusting. This is one of the rare moments you get to see Johnny so relaxed—his job always has him so hyped up and of course he’s a naturally loud person, but he also just needs a space to.. calm down. And that’s how this developed. Evidence of your previous endeavors are all over Soap’s collarbones, his chest, stomach and thighs—but that’s just the beginning of what he needs. What he needs, is this. Someone to shut his brain up, to cradle his jaw like he’ll slip away, needs someone to keep him safe. Even when he’s naked like he is, no gear, no weapons—he knows you’ll be there to keep him safe. Your fingertips gently scratch from right below his ear to his upper arm, allowing him to sink deeper.
Johnny ignores the low hum of the TV program, he ignores every little creak coming from the house settling because the only thing that matters is right here—you and him. His job doesn’t matter, the mission doesn’t matter, he can’t smell the blood or the gunpowder like this—he smells the sweat, sure, but it isn’t the field. It’s you. He buries his head against your thigh harder than before, and when you him in approval, he melts even further. Any praise, anything positive that comes from you comforts him. You always take care of him when he needs it most, so he allows himself to sink deeper into his brainless headspace, because he knows you’ll bring him back to the surface if it’s required. Like always.
needy, and soon to be pussy-drunk ghost (fem!reader)
connected to this — nsfw below the cut. mdni!!
“please, sweetheart..”
ghost is convinced you want him to die, the way you’re withholding yourself from him. he’s on the bed on knees with you in front of him—laying back on the pillows, your legs spread to give him a view of your wet cunt, how you’re slowly pumping a finger inside of yourself and occasionally slipping it out to rub your clit. it’s pleasant, but you’re doing for the purpose of teasing ghost.
his pupils are wide and dilated, focused on how your finger runs through your wet folds, how nearly creamy strings connect and snap from your finger and your pussy; you always get so horny teasing him, the ghost who hasn’t been able to bury his face between your thighs in weeks. his mask is abandoned somewhere in the room, his face still smudged with eyeblack. “fuckin’ hell—“ ghost groans, watching you spread yourself open to him, a whine leaving you as the cold air touches your hole.
ghost’s jaw aches. his fingers twitch where they remain on his thighs, sprawled out and nearly gripping the fabric of his pants. his gut is hot with need, and his mouth nearly waters every time it seems like you’re contemplating giving him what he wants. “please.” ghost begs—he fucking begs as you slide two fingers inside of yourself this time. “don’t even need t’fuck you, jus’.. just need my mouth on ya, yeah? please, bloody hell—“
A/N: Ugh, I don't feel 27. As a little May 13th birthday treat, I'm releasing some birthday-themed one-shots (All gn x reader in case anyone is confused and decides to give me death threats again LMAO)
Full series out so far:
Birthday Bat(Batfam x Platonic!GN!Reader)
Tactical Cake (Leon Kennedy x GN!Reader)
You got the idea at exactly two in the morning, which should have been everyone’s first warning.
By breakfast, you had already printed the reservation confirmation, highlighted the time in radioactive yellow, and marched into the mess hall with the kind of bright-eyed determination that made trained soldiers instinctively look for exits. Price noticed first, because Price noticed everything, even the emotional weather of a room before the storm had fully put its boots on. He was standing by the coffee urn with a mug in hand, cap pulled low, beard still slightly damp from the shower, and when his eyes landed on the paper in your hand, his expression shifted by a fraction. Not fear. Captain John Price did not fear many things. But there was a definite calculation there, a small internal ledger opening in his head and immediately trying to determine how expensive, dangerous, or humiliating this was about to become. Gaz sat at the nearest table with one hand around his tea and the other scrolling through his phone, while Soap was halfway through building an architectural disaster out of toast, eggs, and whatever sauce he had found in the kitchen. Ghost stood by the wall because, of course, he did, black hoodie pulled over broad shoulders, mask in place, watching the room with the calm menace of a gargoyle assigned to breakfast duty.
You slapped the paper down on the table.
Soap’s toast collapsed.
Gaz looked up. “That sounded official.”
“It is,” you said. “Birthday orders.”
Price took one slow sip of coffee. “Birthday orders?”
“Yes.”
“We’re doing those now?”
“We are today.”
Soap leaned over the paper, eyes lighting up before he had even read all of it. “Resident Evil escape room?”
Ghost’s head turned.
Gaz’s eyebrows climbed. “You booked us an escape room?”
“I booked us a Resident Evil themed escape room,” you corrected, tapping the confirmation with one finger. “For my birthday. Two hours. Full immersion. Puzzle-based. Horror elements. Actors. Fog. Lab sets. Raccoon City vibes. Leon Kennedy. Love of my life. There may be zombies.”
Price closed his eyes briefly in the way a man might when informed that a goat had been elected to Parliament. “There may be zombies.”
“It says infected personnel on the website, but we all know what that means.”
Soap grinned at you, bright and dangerous. “You wee menace.”
“Thank you.”
“That was not a compliment.”
“It felt like one.”
Gaz picked up the paper and scanned it, his mouth twitching. “It says here no weapons, no excessive force against actors, no breaking props, and no tackling the infected.”
You looked pointedly around the table. “Which is why we’re having this briefing now.”
Ghost said, “No.”
“You don’t even know what I’m asking.”
“No.”
“You have to come.”
“No, I don’t.”
“It’s my birthday.”
Silence settled with the sudden weight of a trapdoor opening under all of them.
Soap made a soft, delighted noise. “That’s dirty.”
Gaz looked between you and Ghost like he was watching someone prod a bear with a party horn. Price’s gaze dipped to his coffee, but not fast enough to hide the faint curve at the corner of his mouth. Ghost stared at you from across the room, unreadable except for the long, glacial pause that followed. Somewhere in that hush, you remembered the last time you tried to mark an occasion, your infamous attempt to make cupcakes on base, the fire alarm going off, Gaz laughing so hard he nearly dropped his tea, and Ghost silently handing you a fire extinguisher with all the ceremony of a knighthood.
You stared back, heart giving one stupid, hopeful little kick behind your ribs. You did not ask for much, not really. You were good at pretending days were just days, at letting milestones pass quietly because it was easier than admitting you wanted anyone to notice. But this year, something in you had rebelled. Something bright, ridiculous, and maybe a little feral had looked at the calendar and said, No. This one is mine.
“It’s my birthday,” you repeated, softer this time, less triumphant and more honest. “I want to go. And I want all of you there.”
Soap’s teasing expression gentled first. Gaz followed. Price looked at you over the rim of his mug, and whatever refusal he had been preparing dissolved somewhere beneath the steady, tired warmth of his eyes. Ghost did not move for a moment. Then he looked away with a small shift of his shoulders, annoyed in a way that sounded suspiciously like surrender.
“Fine,” he said.
You smiled before you could stop yourself.
Soap pointed at him. “Marked down in history. Simon Riley defeated by birthday law.”
Ghost’s eyes cut to him. “Keep talking, and you’re bait.”
“You hear that?” Soap said to you. “He’s already in character.”
By late afternoon, the four of them had been dragged off base and into civilian clothes with varying degrees of cooperation. Price wore a dark jacket, jeans, and the expression of a father who had agreed to one festive activity and was already prepared to confiscate something. Gaz looked effortlessly normal, which meant he could pass for a regular person until someone noticed how he mapped every exit the second he walked into a room.
Soap wore a black T-shirt under an open flannel and looked so excited you feared he might attempt to fistfight a zombie purely for atmosphere. This time, at least, no one tried to wear their shirt inside out like last year's 'stealth mode' attempt, although Soap did check three times just to be sure, and everyone was still banned from costume hats after the infamous sombrero incident. Ghost came in a hoodie, gloves, and his skull mask, because apparently "civilian clothes" meant "same haunting, different fabric."
You had dressed comfortably, ready for crawling under fake laser grids, unlocking cabinets, and screaming for theatrical reasons, though you suspected the real entertainment would be watching the most competent men you knew struggle with a puzzle designed by someone named Trevor who probably lived on energy drinks and horror movie lore.
The escape room building sat between a vape shop and a closed bakery, its front windows plastered with biohazard symbols, fake warning tape, and a poster that read: RACCOON CITY NEEDS YOU. The lobby smelled faintly of dust, rubber masks, and popcorn from a machine in the corner. Red lights pulsed along the ceiling in slow, dramatic beats. Somewhere behind the walls, a distant alarm looped, low and mechanical, like a building dreaming of disaster.
Soap breathed in deeply. “This is brilliant.”
Price glanced at the waiver on the counter. “This is a lawsuit in fancy lighting.”
Gaz nudged your shoulder. “You’re enjoying this too much.”
“I haven’t even begun enjoying this.”
Ghost stood behind you, looming silently at the display of fake severed hands in a glass case. One of the teenage employees at the counter looked at him, looked at the skull mask, then looked at their clipboard with the weary professionalism of someone who had decided they were not paid enough to ask.
“Team name?” the employee asked.
Soap opened his mouth.
“No,” Price said immediately.
“You don’t even know what I was gonna say.”
“I know enough.”
You leaned on the counter. “Put us down as Birthday S.T.A.R.S.”
Gaz made a sound as if he were trying not to laugh.
Soap clutched his chest. “That’s awful. I love it.”
Ghost muttered, “Should’ve stayed in the car.”
“You came in my car,” you said.
“Should’ve stayed in the boot.”
The employee gave the rules in a flat, practiced voice, and you listened very carefully, mostly because you could feel the combined impatience of 141 radiating behind you like a tactical furnace. No touching actors. No climbing unless instructed. No forced entry. Clues were hidden, not buried, inside walls. If anyone needed to leave, they could say the safe word, which was “green herb.” Soap immediately lost his mind at that and had to turn away, shoulders shaking.
"Appropriate," Gaz stage-whispered, "half the team needs healing herbs on a normal day." You added, "Is there a bonus for yelling 'herb' in a Scottish accent?" Ghost looked as though every cell in his body had filed a complaint.
Then the employee opened a heavy black door and gestured into the dark.
“Welcome to the underground lab. You have ninety minutes before the infection reaches the surface.”
You stepped in first.
The door shut behind you with a final, theatrical thunk.
For a second, the room was nearly black. Then, the emergency lights flickered on overhead, bathing everything in red. You stood in what looked like a ruined security office, all cracked monitors, overturned chairs, fake blood dragged across the tiled floor in long, glossy streaks. A corpse in a lab coat slumped over the desk, one hand outstretched toward a locked metal case. Papers littered the room, covered in patient logs, chemical codes, and warnings about viral exposure. Somewhere beyond the walls, something groaned.
You felt ridiculous joy rise in your chest.
“This is so cool,” you whispered.
Price stepped past you, eyes moving automatically across the room. “Don’t touch anything yet.”
“It’s an escape room, Price. Touching things is the point.”
“Organized touching.”
Gaz laughed under his breath and picked up a clipboard from the floor. “Patient list. There are numbers circled.”
Soap crouched by the fake corpse. “Our dead friend’s got a keycard under his hand.”
“Ask permission,” you said solemnly.
Soap looked at the corpse. “Sorry, mate.” He lifted the rubber hand, took the keycard, and immediately the corpse jerked upright with a recorded scream.
Soap screamed too.
Not a little. Not politely. A full, startled, soul-ejected yelp that echoed off the walls and made Gaz double over laughing. Price turned sharply, hand half-raised before remembering the no-weapons rule. Ghost did not flinch, but his eyes snapped to Soap with such murderous dryness you nearly folded in half.
Soap pressed a hand to his chest. “That was cheap.”
“You apologized to a mannequin,” Ghost said.
“It had presence.”
You laughed so hard your eyes watered, and that more than anything loosened the room. Gaz was still grinning as he matched the circled patient numbers to a keypad on the wall. Price sorted through lab notes with a gruff efficiency that made even fake paperwork feel like part of a classified operation. Ghost found a UV flashlight taped under the desk within thirty seconds, because of course he did, and when invisible ink appeared across the wall spelling out DON’T TRUST WESKER, you gasped loudly enough for Soap to whip around.
“What?” he demanded.
“Nothing,” you said. “I’m just emotionally fulfilled.”
“You’re a nerd.”
“It’s my birthday. I’m a decorated nerd.”
Gaz entered the first code. A cabinet popped open with a hiss, revealing three colored vials, a laminated map of the facility, and a plastic pistol-shaped scanner that the employee had explained was used to identify infected samples. Soap grabbed it instantly.
“No shooting actors,” Price warned.
“It’s a scanner.”
“I know what I said.”
The next room was a laboratory choked with fog. Glass tubes glowed sickly green along the walls. A fake containment chamber stood cracked open in the center, its door clawed from the inside. The air smelled like machine fog and cold metal, and something about the lighting made everyone’s faces look sharper, stranger, half-human under the red emergency wash. Your hand brushed Gaz’s sleeve as you moved in, and he glanced down, not quite taking your hand but staying close enough that the offer was there. It was the kind of quiet care that never announced itself. You felt it anyway.
A speaker crackled overhead. “Attention. Viral breach detected. All personnel proceed to decontamination.”
Soap looked delighted. “Aye, see, I could work here.”
“No, you couldn’t,” Gaz said.
“I’d be great in a zombie outbreak.”
“You’d get bitten trying to pet something.”
“It might be lonely.”
Ghost moved toward a locked medical fridge. “Focus.”
“Bossy for a man who didn’t want to come,” you said.
Ghost did not look at you, but his voice came back low. “Still here.”
The words landed softer than they should have. Still here. With him, everything gentle arrived disguised as a blunt object. For a second, the realization pulsed through you: these small acts, so easily dismissed, meant everything. You smiled to yourself, a little helpless, a little grateful, and turned back to the puzzles before your heart could do anything embarrassing, holding tight to the warmth of being together.
The lab puzzle required mixing the colored vials according to a formula hidden across three different stations. Price became alarmed about it. He lined the vials up with military precision, assigned Gaz to the map, told Soap not to touch anything unless supervised, and somehow made a fake antidote puzzle feel like defusing an actual biochemical weapon. You watched him argue with a laminated instruction card and felt a warmth spread behind your ribs.
“You know we don’t actually die if we mess it up, right?” you asked.
Price gave you a look. “That’s no excuse for poor procedure.”
Soap whispered, “He’s having fun.”
“I heard that.”
“You were meant to.”
Then the lights cut out.
A siren wailed. Red strobes burst through the dark. Something slammed against the glass of the cracked containment chamber. You jumped back into Gaz, who caught you by the shoulders automatically, steady and warm. A figure in torn lab scrubs lurched out of a hidden door with a guttural moan, face painted gray, contacts gleaming under the strobe.
You shrieked. Not because you were truly frightened, but because it felt right, and because joy sometimes needed a dramatic exit. Soap shouted something Scottish and delighted. Price stepped in front of you on instinct before stopping himself. Ghost moved faster than anyone, one gloved hand catching the back of Soap’s shirt before Soap could square up like the infected actor had personally insulted his mother.
“No tackling,” Ghost said.
“I wasn’t gonna.”
“You shifted your weight.”
“I shift my weight all the time.”
“You were gonna tackle the zombie,” Gaz said, still holding your shoulders and laughing.
The actor groaned magnificently and pointed toward a keypad before staggering back into the dark.
You clapped a hand over your mouth. “They gave us a clue.”
Soap stared after them. “That zombie’s a team player.”
The clue got you into decontamination, which was really a narrow hallway with flashing lights, hanging plastic strips, and a voiceover announcing that all contaminated subjects would be incinerated. You had to solve a pressure-plate sequence to cross safely. Soap kept trying to rush it. Price kept catching him by the collar. Gaz figured out the rhythm. Ghost, infuriatingly, memorized the entire sequence after watching it once and crossed with the smooth, silent confidence of a man who had never once been humbled by recreational puzzles.
You stood at the start of the plates, eyeing the flashing pattern. “I hate that he’s good at this.”
Ghost turned from the other side. “You wanted me here.”
“I wanted you mediocre here.”
“Disappointing you already.”
“No,” you said, and the word came out too honest, too quick. His eyes held yours through the red-lit haze. “Not that.”
The hallway seemed to quiet around you for half a heartbeat, though the alarms were still blaring and Soap was muttering numbers under his breath. Ghost said nothing, but something in his posture changed, a tiny easing at the edges. You crossed the plates carefully, Gaz counting for you, Price watching your feet, Soap cheering in whispers as if volume might set off the fake incinerator.
When you reached the other side, Ghost’s hand hovered near your elbow, not touching unless needed.
“You’re fine,” he said.
“I know.”
“Good.”
The final room was the director’s office, all dark wood, flickering monitors, and ominous corporate villain décor. A huge Umbrella-style logo dominated the wall, altered just enough to avoid copyright, which made it funnier. There was a locked briefcase on the desk, a chessboard with missing pieces, a bookshelf with hidden switches, and a red-glowing countdown timer above the exit door. Twenty-two minutes left.
For a while, the five of you moved like a strange little machine. Gaz cracked the monitor password using employee birthdays from a file. Soap found a chess piece inside a fake plant and crowed like he had discovered buried treasure. Price decoded a memo by holding it over a lamp, and when a hidden message appeared, he looked personally vindicated. Ghost discovered that the bookshelf switches corresponded to the order of infection stages listed in the lab notes. You found the last key taped beneath the director’s nameplate and unlocked the briefcase to reveal a final vial labeled CURE and a card that read: Only one team member can carry the cure to extraction. Choose wisely.
Soap immediately pointed at you. “Birthday immunity.”
Gaz nodded. “Birthday immunity.”
Price took the vial and placed it in your hand with ceremonial seriousness. “Don’t drop it.”
“It’s plastic.”
“Still.”
Ghost looked at the timer. “Move.”
The exit required one last code, hidden in a recorded message that played from the office phone. The message was distorted, layered with static, and accompanied by a dramatic voice speaking about betrayal, containment, and the collapse of Raccoon City. You all leaned in around the desk, trying to catch the numbers beneath the noise.
“Seven,” Gaz said.
“Two,” Price added.
“Was that a nine?” you asked.
“Five,” Ghost said.
Soap frowned. “I heard sandwich.”
“You heard sandwich?” Gaz asked.
“I’m hungry.”
“You had cake in the car.”
“That was pre-outbreak cake.”
The timer hit three minutes.
You punched in 7259. Red light. Wrong.
“Damn,” you whispered.
Price’s jaw tightened. Gaz replayed the message. Soap finally went quiet, focus sharpening beneath the humor. Ghost stood close behind you, his presence steady at your back. The voice crackled again.
“Seven,” Gaz said.
“Two,” Price said.
“Not five,” Ghost corrected. “Fight.”
You blinked. “Resident Evil puzzle logic. Boss fight. It’s not a number. It’s a word.”
Soap snapped his fingers. “Tyrant.”
You looked at the keypad, then the letters beneath the numbers. TYRANT. 897268.
Green light.
The exit door unlocked with a heavy clunk just as the timer dipped under sixty seconds. Soap whooped. Gaz grabbed your sleeve and pulled you through the door with the others behind you. Fog spilled after you into the lobby as if the room itself had exhaled defeat.
At the end, Leon Kennedy’s voice crackled from a digital frame at the end of the hallway, a spotlight shining directly on the frame.
Leon congratulated the group. Then he did a backflip.
“He’s so dreamy,” you sighed.
Gaz and Soap scoffed. “He’s fake.”
You turned to them, eyes narrowed in defense of your beautiful blonde man.
“Leon is a tactical genius. And hot. And biceps.”
The employee behind the counter clapped politely, dead-eyed from too many bachelor parties and corporate team-building groups.
“Congratulations. You saved the city.”
Soap threw both arms up. “Never doubted us.”
“You screamed at a mannequin,” Gaz said.
“It screamed first.”
Price signed the completion board with your team name while pretending not to care about your finishing time. Ghost lingered near the wall again, but when the employee offered to take a team photo in front of the biohazard backdrop, he did not leave. He stood behind you, huge and still, while Soap threw an arm around your shoulders and Gaz leaned in on your other side. Price stood close enough that his shoulder brushed yours. The paper crown Soap had bought from the lobby gift shelf sat crooked on your head, black with a little red biohazard symbol in the center, and you looked at the camera with flushed cheeks and a grin you could not seem to tame.
Outside, night had settled over the parking lot, cool and deep, the pavement shining faintly under the streetlamps. The world felt strangely soft after all that red light and fog, ordinary in a way that seemed almost magical. Soap was still arguing that he would have survived the outbreak. Gaz was listing every reason he would not. Price walked beside you with his hands in his jacket pockets, quiet but close. Ghost trailed just behind, the sound of his boots steady in the dark.
You slowed near the car, looking back at the glowing windows of the escape room. “Thank you for coming.”
You shrugged, suddenly embarrassed. “I know it was ridiculous.”
“It was,” Price said.
You laughed under your breath. “Thanks.”
His eyes warmed. “Was also worth it.”
Soap bumped your shoulder gently. “Best outbreak I’ve ever been dragged into.”
“You loved it.”
“Aye. Don’t let it go to your head.”
Gaz held up the photo strip the employee had printed, the five of you caught in a ridiculous little frame of smoke and fake biohazard tape. “We’re keeping this.”
Ghost reached for it.
Gaz moved it out of reach. “No.”
“Destroy it.”
“Absolutely not.”
“It’s evidence.”
“It’s memories.”
Soap leaned in. “Same thing, LT.”
You looked at Ghost, smiling. “You had fun.”
“No.”
“You made the zombie clue-giver nervous.”
“That was not fun.”
“You solved half the room.”
“That was efficiency.”
“You came because it was my birthday.”
Ghost went still.
The others quieted with the kind of subtle grace they sometimes had when something mattered. The parking lot lights hummed above you. Somewhere down the road, a car passed, its headlights sweeping over the curb and gone.
Ghost looked at you for a long moment, then said, “You asked.”
It was not much. It was everything. Your birthday had been fake blood, cheap fog, a plastic cure vial, Soap screaming at a corpse, Gaz laughing with his whole face, Price pretending he wasn't deeply invested in the puzzle procedure, and Ghost standing in a themed escape room because you wanted him there. It should have been silly. It was silly. But under it, threaded through every ridiculous second, was the thing you had been too afraid to ask for directly.
They showed up.
You looked down at the little photo strip in Gaz’s hand, at all of you crammed together in red light, alive and absurd and yours in the only way people like them could be.
Let me keep this, you thought. Just this. Just them.
Then Soap ruined the moment by saying, “Next year, we’re doing haunted laser tag.”
Price immediately said, “No.”
Gaz said, “Maybe.”
Ghost said, “Absolutely not.”
You grinned, birthday crown slipping lower over your forehead. “It’s my birthday next year too.”
Ghost stared at you.
Soap started laughing.
And under the cool hush of the parking lot, with fake city-saving behind you and real warmth walking beside you, you let yourself believe, just for tonight, that some wishes did not need candles to come true.
A/N: Happy Birthday to anyone celebrating their birthday and reading this!!! Hope you have a great birthday!
Johnny, even if he's a demolitions expert and damn good with his hands, cannot for the life of him paint his own nails.
Why is he painting his nails? He found a colour he really liked and thought, why not. Not like anyone would be brave enough to say anything to him, if they were he'd just bite their head off. Easy.
But for fucks sake, why isn't it drying faster, it's annoying as fuck because every time he thinks it's dry it's just- not.
He's spent almost four hours on them and he's frustrated. But he ain't a quitter, especially when he's this invested now.
So after a few more grueling hours of trying to get the hang of it, he's pretty happy with the results. They're not perfect and probably not entirely dry yet again, but he can't be assed to do them again.
And next morning, when Ghost glances at them, raises an amused eyebrow and murmurs, in that low, lovely voice of his, "Think you can do mine next?"
Well, Johnny is damn happy with his painted nails.
thinking about soap who's been nothing but bratty towards you.... (ALT link; AO3)
18+ MDNI !!!
CW: fem!reader, sounding (it's there but not the main event), pegging, use of mommy, dom/sub dynamics, brat!soap, humiliation, body shaming kinda ? (making fun of his size but he likes it), soap has a tramp stamp, implied hyperspermia, cringe dialogue, abrupt ending (i gave up), longer-ish fic (1.6K words)
Johnny's been on his worst behavior all week. He just came back from a long mission, and he's always so pent up after being away from you.
Normally, you're happy to just let him expend his energy, but for some reason, this time's different. He's been a brat to you since the second he came back.
It started small. A quick sarcastic remark or an eye roll here and there. You were willing to look past that and brush it off as a bad day or an extra rough mission.
It all came to a head when he tried to stop you from going to the store.
"Dinnae want you to leave, hen. Need you here with me," he'd whined.
He flips up your skirt and presses his half-hard cock against your ass. He's slowly grinding himself against you– as if that'd actually convince you.
"Johnny, I have to go to the store. Can I trust you to be good while I'm gone?" you ask.
There goes another eye roll. "Be good," he mocks you. "I'm not a dog, bonnie,” Debateable, you think to yourself. “ You can't tell me what I can, and cannae do."
You don't speak– you don't need to– the moment you push him off and walk into the bedroom, he knows he's fucked.
He follows you without a word, quietly sitting on the bed. "I'm sorry," he tries to apologize, only to be cut off by the shake of your head.
"Here's what's going to happen," you start. "I'm going to the store. You're going to prep and stretch yourself for me while I'm gone. When I get back, I expect to see you ass up on the bed ready for me," you order.
You watch him shift his legs and adjust his jeans. You should've realized sooner this was what he wanted. No, this is what he needed.
You dig in the bedside drawer for a moment before pulling out what you're looking for.
When he looks up at you, he instantly recognizes the metal ring with the small ball-ended arm. "Since I can't trust you not to cum I'm gonna have to plug you up," you say with faux sympathy.
The whine he lets out is pathetic, and you can see the tears forming in the corner of his eyes.
"Please, not that, I'll be good, I promise. 'S too much," he begs, his hands grabbing at the edges of your skirt.
"Color?" you softly grip his jaw.
He leans into your touch. "Green," he whispers.
You didn't rush yourself while out, wanting to test his patience, but you also weren't deliberately slow.
From the check-in texts you'd sent him, you could tell he was starting to get into that floaty headspace.
You set your items on the counter as you entered the apartment. You hear a faint buzzing noise coming from the bedroom and the familiar sound of Johnny’s moaning.
The plug is still snugly pressed into his tip, the metal ring shining against the head of his cock. He’s on all fours on the bed, and you can see the vibrating plug pushed into his hole. He’d listened to your instructions– good.
“Look at you. You did so good for me, baby,” you coo at him, running a hand along his lower back. Your fingers trace the intricate design he’d gotten tattooed there ages ago.
“Mmm- wanna be good for you,” He glances back at you. He’s got that far-off look in his eyes, and you can tell he’s been on the edge for a while.
You slowly peel away your clothes, your heart breaking when he whines at the loss of skin-to-skin contact. “I know, I know.” You try to soothe him. “You want Mommy to fuck you right, baby?”
The broken moan that leaves his lips sends heat pooling straight to your stomach.
You try to be as quick as possible, pulling out Johnny’s favorite of your toys. It wasn’t massive by any means around six inches– bigger than his own– and attached to a pair of black underwear.
“Look so pretty like this, all stretched out and ready for my cock.” You kneel behind him on the bed, reaching over him to grab the bottle of lube off the nightstand. You slowly fist the silicone, spreading the sticky gel from the tip to the base.
One of your hands finds its way to his hip; the other slowly pulls the plug out of his ass. You bite your lip, watching how his hole flutters and he tries not to whine at the empty feeling.
You line the tip up with his entrance, slowly pushing into his hole. He gasps and tries to push back, only for you to grip his hips so tight your nails press crescent shapes into his skin.
“Not so fast, baby; we need to take it slow. Don’t want you to get overwhelmed,” you coo, leaning down to press kisses along his spine.
“Please, Mommy, I can take it. Been waiting. Need you to fuck me, nnf-” he lets out a sudden moan as you slowly sink further and further into him. Your hips still, as the base of your strap presses snugly against his hole.
You don’t move, not yet, instead reaching down to gently grab the ring pressed around the head of his cock. “You gotta tell me if this hurts, okay?” you whisper into his ear. You slowly pull the metal out of his tip, but not completely removing it.
You glance at his face, looking for any sign of discomfort, only to find he’s blissed out. He’s got his head in the pillow, and his eyes are screwed shut. His lips are parted as short breaths leave his mouth.
You gently push the small rod back in, not as far as it was but enough to make him shudder. “Please,” he sobs.
“Fine, but you can’t cum yet. Gotta be a good boy and wait for permission.” You never could deny him anything.
You slowly pull the rod all the way out, one of your hands tracing soothing circles on his hip. “Color?” you ask softly.
He lets out a shaky whimper. “Green, please, need you to move,” he pleads.
Your hand runs along his back before settling back on his hips. You yank your hips back, pulling out of him, leaving only the tip before slamming back into him.
“Feels so good, love your cock, Mommy. ‘S so big, nngh!” His eyes are fluttering, and he’s rocking his hips back to meet your thrusts.
Your eyes glance down at his tramp stamp, wanting nothing more than to paint white all over the pretty ink.
You continue to hammer into him, pressing your thumbs down into the dimples on his back. You snake an arm over his hip, reaching out to finally touch his throbbing cock.
“So much bigger than yours, right, baby?” You can feel him twitch at your words. “Can barely even call this pathetic thing a dick. That’s why I gotta fuck you, yeah? Can’t do shit with that tiny cock of yours,” you taunt, watching the effect your words have on him.
His thighs are shaking, and his eyes are rolled back. The only sound he’s capable of making right now is that pathetic wailing– he always gets like that right before he cums.
You start to stroke him, watching his ass shake as you harshly thrust in and out of him.
“Mm, please wanna cum, please, cannae take it.” It takes everything in him to form the barely coherent words.
You give a hum in response, squeezing tight the base of his cock. Any other day you’d make him apologize properly, but you can tell how bad he needs this. “Go ahead,” you say, pressing a kiss to his shoulder.
Your permission is all he needs to finally let go; you rest his tip in your palm, catching his cum in your hand. You love when Johnny cums– there’s always so much.
You gently pull out of him as he gives one final shudder before collapsing into the mattress. You wipe his cum off on the dildo, letting the tip hover just over his lower back tattoo. You watch in fascination as the sticky, white liquid slowly drips off the silicone and coats the ink.
He looks at you over his shoulder. “Tha’ tattoo was the best drunken choice I ever made,” his words come out slurred.
You let out a chuckle, hopping off the bed to remove the strap on. “I’m gonna get us some clean clothes and something to wipe you off; I’ll be right back."
You always let him know before walking away– especially after rougher sessions.
True to your word, you return five minutes later in one of his old shirts and a pair of shorts. The wet rag in your hand feels soothing as you wipe him down before handing him a pair of boxers.
He huffs as he struggles to put them on without standing up, eventually caving in and letting you help tug them on.
You crawl in bed next to him, lying face to face as he wraps an arm around your waist. “You did so perfect for me, baby, still feeling okay?” you check in.
He gives a nod, nuzzling against your hand that’s resting on his cheek. “Mhm, sleepy and a little sore but good. ‘M sorry you didnae cum,” he apologizes, avoiding your gaze.
“Johnny, don’t worry about it. Trust me, I got plenty of pleasure out of that– I like making you feel good,” you say, pressing a kiss against his lips.
okay wait smutty fluffy Johnny before the ache, pulled this from the drafts ✨🧍♀️
cw: 18+ smut ! fuzzy Johnny :) oral m!recieve. Soap x reader.
Johnny always buzzes it close, trims it down, keeps it neat. His chest, his jaw, his armpits, even the little line that leads down from his navel to the waistband of his boxers. You’ve watched him in the bathroom before, towel slung low, dragging the razor in careful strokes. Just keeps everything neat, maybe like a uniform that extends under his clothes, or maybe thing to make himself more palatable.
He only explained it to you once, "he likes the neatness, makes him feel more cohesive." At the time, you'd let it slide, but after many of Johnny's other shy habits and strange little insistences (on your behalf), it's likely that a previous partner is to blame.
But now it’s winter.
He’s home, on leave, and you’ve been feeding him thick soups and cheesy casseroles and baked treats right off the tray, and for once, he’s let himself be soft.
His beard is patchier than you expected, not quite thick, but enough to rasp under your palm when you cup his face. His chest hair is more like a warm dusting, just enough to curl slightly when he steps out of the shower all damp and flushed. He hasn’t lifted a weight in a week. His belly is a little round when he sits down and exhales all at once, letting himself be. And you adore him for it.
You find him sprawled on the couch one afternoon, still warm from a nap. His hair’s grown too, curling at the back of his neck, sides starting to blend with the mohawk, and he’s wearing nothing but loose joggers, blanket pushed away in sleep. There’s crumbs in the corner of his mouth.
“Oi,” he mumbles as you straddle his lap. “What’s all this, then?”
“I missed you.”
“You’ve been sittin’ right next to me for an hour.”
“No,” you whisper, kissing the underside of his jaw, where the hair is a little thicker, “I missed this you.”
He blinks, and you feel his hands find your hips, thumbs brushing the hem of your shirt. “What, the grizzly me? Not exactly model material right now, love.”
You kiss him again. “Exactly why I want you.”
You do want him, your whole body’s warm with it. He tastes like sugar and cocoa, smells like your detergent and his sweat. You kiss down his neck, down his chest, where the hair is still soft from his earlier shower. You mouth over his skin, tongue working slowly across his chest, tracing the spread of hair as it narrows toward his stomach, sliding from his lap to settle between his knees. You feel his breath catch when you get to the soft little roll just below his ribs and give him a playful nip.
When you slip down to your knees, he tries to sit up, flustered.
“Wait, love—’s not—m’not trimmed. You don’t have to—”
You shush him with a look.
“I want to,” you say, grinning.
And when you mouth at him through his joggers, drawing that soft little moan from him you love, then tug them down and take him in with slow, wet slide, he finally forgets to be self-conscious. His hand falls to your head gently, fingers scratching loosely at your scalp.
He whimpers when you moan around him.
“Oh fuck, sweetheart—”
You take your time, messy and adoring and needy. Every soft sound he makes is a gift that has you craving more. Every little flex of his thighs, the way his belly tenses under your palms, the way his cock twitches in your mouth, it's so fucking good.
He lets out a hoarse cry when he cums, hot and trembling into your mouth. You kiss his tip again as you pull away. Then his thighs. Then his stomach once again.
You crawl back into his lap, wipe your mouth, and press your forehead to his.
“Gorgeous,” you breathe. “Fuck, you're wonderful.”
He chuckles, dazed. “You think so?”
“Yup.”
“‘S not even my good season.”
You brush your fingers through his beard, kiss his nose, and whisper, “Winter looks real fucking good on you, Johnny.”
And when you end up tangled on the couch, your head on his soft chest, his hand stroking lazily over your back, he falls asleep—again—like that, a man warm and fed and loved.
Simon Riley and Johnny “Soap” MacTavish aren’t obvious about it—not in the way civilians expect. There’s no grand declarations, no lingering touches in plain sight, no soft words whispered where others might hear.
It’s subtler than that.
It’s the way Soap always knows when Ghost is about to speak, cutting in just a second before him like he can feel it coming.
It’s the way Ghost stands just a fraction closer to Soap than anyone else, even in a crowded room.
It’s the silence between them—comfortable, heavy, full.
You don’t mean to notice it.
But you do.
And somehow… they notice you noticing.
It starts small.
It always does.
You’re newer to the team—not green, not by a long shot—but new enough that you’re still finding your place among them. You keep your head down, do your job, don’t overstep.
But you’re observant.
Too observant, maybe.
Because one evening, when the mission’s done and the adrenaline’s worn off, you catch it again—Soap tossing Ghost a glance across the room, something unreadable passing between them.
You don’t stare.
You’ve learned better than that.
But when you look away, you find Ghost already looking at you.
Not sharp. Not threatening.
Just… aware.
It sends a strange feeling curling low in your chest.
After that, things shift.
Not dramatically. Not enough for anyone else to clock it.
But for you?
It’s everything.
Soap starts sitting next to you more often. At first, it feels like coincidence—limited space, proximity, whatever excuse you tell yourself.
Until it isn’t.
Until it happens every time.
He’s easy to talk to. Warm, teasing, effortlessly drawing you out of your shell without making it feel like work. You find yourself laughing more than you have in months—maybe longer.
Ghost, on the other hand…
Ghost watches.
He doesn’t insert himself into conversations. Doesn’t try to pull your attention.
But he’s there.
Always there.
And when you do speak to him, when your eyes meet through that skull mask, there’s something grounding about it. Something steady.
Like he’s weighing you.
Not judging.
Just… deciding.
It’s Soap who breaks the tension.
Of course it is.
“You’re thinkin’ too hard again,” he says one night, dropping into the seat beside you with a quiet grunt.
You blink, pulled from your thoughts. “Am not.”
“Aye, you are.” He nudges your shoulder lightly. “You get this look. Like you’re tryin’ to solve a puzzle no one gave you.”
You huff softly. “Maybe I just like puzzles.”
“Dangerous habit, that.”
You glance at him, catching the grin tugging at his mouth. “Why?”
“Because sometimes,” he says, voice dipping just slightly, “you find answers you weren’t meant to.”
The words linger.
Heavy.
You don’t respond right away.
Instead, your gaze flicks across the room—unconsciously, instinctively.
To Ghost.
He’s already looking.
Of course he is.
And this time… he doesn’t look away.
The shift happens all at once.
And not at all.
It’s after a mission—long, exhausting, the kind that leaves your bones aching and your mind too wired to rest. The three of you end up in the same space, same time, same quiet aftermath.
Soap sprawls out like he owns the place, boots kicked off, arm slung lazily over the back of the couch.
Ghost stands near the wall, silent as ever.
And you…
You hover.
Caught between staying and leaving.
“You can sit, y’know,” Soap says, glancing at you. “We don’t bite.”
There’s a beat.
Then Ghost adds, low and dry, “He might.”
Soap snorts. “Only if invited.”
You hesitate—just for a second—before sitting down.
Not too close.
But not far, either.
The space between you feels… charged.
Different.
Soap studies you for a moment, something more serious settling behind his usual ease.
“You’ve noticed, haven’t you?”
Your breath catches.
You could lie.
You should lie.
But something about the way they’re both looking at you—open, unguarded in a way they aren’t with anyone else—makes it impossible.
“…Yeah,” you admit quietly.
Silence stretches.
Not uncomfortable.
Just… real.
Ghost shifts first, pushing off the wall and stepping closer. Not imposing. Not overwhelming.
Just present.
“And?” he asks.
One word.
But it carries weight.
You swallow, fingers curling slightly against your knees. “It doesn’t bother me.”
Soap’s gaze sharpens—not suspicious, but searching.
“And what does it do, then?”
You hesitate.
Because the truth feels dangerous.
But you’ve already come this far.
“It makes sense,” you say softly. “The way you two are… it fits.”
Another silence.
Heavier this time.
But not in a bad way.
Ghost exhales slowly, something almost like relief in the sound.
Soap leans back, running a hand over the back of his neck, a rare flicker of uncertainty breaking through.
“Good,” he mutters. “That’s… good.”
You frown slightly. “Why?”
The two of them exchange a glance.
And this time—
You understand it.
Not the exact meaning.
But the feeling behind it.
A decision.
Already made.
Soap looks back at you first.
“Because,” he says carefully, “we’ve been thinkin’…”
Ghost steps closer.
Close enough now that you can feel his presence beside you—solid, steady, grounding.
“…about you,” he finishes.
Your heart stutters.
“About… me?”
Soap nods, expression softer now, more serious than you’ve ever seen him.
“Aye.”
Ghost’s voice is quieter, but it lands harder.
“We don’t do anything halfway.”
The implication hangs in the air.
Clear.
Unavoidable.
You look between them—Soap’s warmth, Ghost’s quiet intensity—and something inside you shifts.
Not fear.
Not hesitation.
Something else.
Something… right.
“You’re asking me,” you say slowly, “to be part of this.”
It’s not really a question.
Soap smiles faintly. “Only if you want to be.”
Ghost doesn’t smile.
But his hand—gloved, steady—comes to rest on the back of the couch behind you.
All sharp corners and teeth, voice like gravel, presence heavy enough to make people straighten without realizing why. Ghost barely slept, barely ate, and when he did it was whatever was fast and forgettable. He wore his gear until it was threadbare. Holes at the knees, seams splitting at the shoulders, socks worn thin enough to show skin.
You noticed.
You always did.
It started small. A container left on his desk, nothing labeled, just home cooked food still warm. He stared at it like it might bite him. Ate it anyway. Every last bit. You pretended not to see.
Then shirts appeared in his locker. Same size. Same dark colors he liked. Pants folded neatly. Fresh socks. Underwear tucked at the bottom, no comment, no eye contact, no expectation. Just there.
Ghost never said thank you.
But he started eating more.
Started wearing clothes that did not look like they had survived a war on their own.
The night he came to your door, it was late. Too late. You opened it to blood, not all of it his, dried and fresh smeared together. His mask was off. You saw him fully for the first time. The scarred face, the pulled skin, the truth of him laid bare and exhausted.
His eyes flicked up to you, braced for something. Pity. Fear. Distance.
You just opened your arms.
“Oh baby,” you said softly. “Come here.”
That was all it took.
Simon folded into you like gravity finally won. Hands clutching your shirt, forehead pressed into your shoulder, breath shuddering out of him like he had been holding it for years. All that dominance, all that rage, gone in the quiet of your doorway.
You held him. No questions. No orders. Just steady hands and warmth.
