Callsign: MADDOG

24 years old she/her Iceman and Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw's girl COD Ghost and soap

[twolegsandbleeds]

simon riley, looking down at your upper body hanging off the mattress after he nearly fucks you off of the edge of the bed, cunt still fluttering around him, cum and slick leaking onto the bedsheets. hooking one big arm around your shoulders and hauling you back into bed whilst muttering got you, petal.

you're not sure if he's referring to the fact he's just stopped your head hitting the floor, or the fact you're glassy eyed and trembling from the four orgasms he's pulled from you.

[shiiwriteswee]

Whenever Johnny gets sick, he's nothing but trouble.

He's reckless, so he'd insist that he's fine like he's unbothered, if you aren't careful, you won't even be able to tell he's sick. It's until he gets worse that he'll give in and let you take care of him without complaint.

Though it doesn't seem to end there as even then he's still trying to act tough, refusing to take medicine and will just 'sleep it off'. You can only sigh at his behavior and stay by his side to make sure he actually rests instead of running off somewhere. He's too stubborn for you to convince him otherwise.

Sometimes you'll find him waking up in the middle of the night, feeling around the bed for you.

"Bonnie?"

Once he finds you, he pulls you in, burying his face against your chest, seemingly seeking for your heartbeat. You hum softly in response, pulling away just enough for you to place your hand over his forehead, checking his temperature.

"Ye know ah love ye, right?"

You can't help but feel a smile forming on your lips.

"Yeah, Johnny, I do."

He chortles, eyes barely awake as they stare right at you.

"Good, just making sure."

He goes quiet for a bit before speaking up again.

"And ye love me too?"

You giggle at his impromptu questioning.

"Mhmm.. I love you, Johnny."

He sleepily grins at your answer, right before his eyes fall closed again and he drifts back to sleep.

It's silly how even when he's sick, he seems to worry more about your feelings for him than his own wellbeing.

[takenhost]

Soap🧼

also my blog turned two today 🤗🤗

[ghouljams]

soap x f!reader | a gift for @brethart and @ohtomatoes for their donation to the Anishinabek Nation 7th Generation Charity | if you would like to donate and get a gift you can check this info post to figure out how

prompt: reader is sitting next to 141 at a hockey game and they are shown on the kiss cam, and whoever she is sitting next to kisses her.

cw: for reader being a little tipsy, otherwise it's wholesome first kiss fluff.

It's your favorite story: a hockey game, too many drinks, a rowdy crowd chanting and cheering, and a chance encounter.

Johnny hadn't been there when you arrived, when you'd sat in your ticketed seat and snuggled close to your friend, sipping overpriced beer and discussing which player was your favorite. You barely felt it when he took his seat, but you could hear him cheering.

He was the kind of fan you've always loved sitting next to, the one that knows exactly the right time to start a chant and never seems to manspread too far into your space. You were too busy discussing which player looked the best pressed up against the glass to feel him looking at you, and you didn't even spare him a glance when you got up to refill your drink during half.

Honestly if you and your bestie hadn't stolen to the bar to have a shot before heading back to your seats with your beer, you may not have even stopped joking with her long enough to coo at him to let you through. Even then it's not that you get a good look at him, as much as you notice how tall he is. Tall and broad shouldered, with biceps you could sink your teeth into.

Too bad you notice how handsome he is almost as quickly as you notice he's wearing the opposing team's sweater. It very nearly ruins him, but you like the lopsided smile he throws you as he stands to let you pass —you like the way it softens the blue of his eyes— too much to let something like that stop you.

"You're rooting for the wrong team," you grin, alcohol bubbling in your blood just on the right side of tipsy. Just enough liquid courage to tease the cute guy in the seat next to you as you sit down.

His smile widens and you feel a reflection of the motion on your own face. No ego on this one, no hurt feelings from a little flirting, just a fond look and an indulgent smile. It makes your heart patter in your chest.

"Maybe you should come over tae my side, already sittin' next tae me, could share the sweater." He pats his lap and you roll your eyes.

You turn back to your friend, leaning close to giggle against her as she begs you not to spill the drinks.

"He's trying to be cute," you whisper loud enough for him to hear.

"I am cute!"

You grin, feel your cheeks crease with the force of it. He is cute. You like cute, and your friend is giving you a look that says 'don't you dare,' which means you absolutely should dare.

"We're having a private conversation," you turn to tell him, just as your face lights up the center ice screen a bright red heart tracing its way around you and him. The crowd around you erupts and you start to turn to see what the commotion is.

Johnny sees it before you do, his eyes and hands faster than yours; you just barely register 'wait that's me' before he's grabbing you and then the world narrows in to a single perfect point.

Big warm hands slide over your cheeks, cupping your jaw to turn you back towards him, pressing ever so lightly to tip you. His nose bumps yours even with the directing —perfectly imperfect as every first kiss should be— and you giggle, feeling the pull of his smile as his lips press against yours. Softly, just enough that you could pull away if you wanted to; you really don't want to.

You throw your arms around him and make him kiss you properly, pushing in to feel the chap of his lips and the slight exhale as he leans into you. Relief relaxes his shoulders and you melt into each other.

Then his lips part and, oh. Something sparks, lighting up warm in your chest, and tingling down the tips of your fingers. The slide of his lips fits so deliciously well against your own, unhurried and indulgent. Pressing and parting again and again, following wherever you want to lead. Another soft smile when your teeth catch his lip. Distantly you hear the crowd cheer a second time, but he doesn't pull back. He kisses you, and kisses you, and kisses you.

Warm and giddy: your fingers twisting in his jersey; his big hands sliding to cup your neck; the peak of his tongue, there and gone when you open a little too wide, disturbing the perfect dance you'd fallen into. The crowd cheers a third time, and you pull away to stare at the screen.

Are you still on the kiss cam? Don't they have anyone else to cut to?

"Are you two finally coming up for air?" Your friend asks.

Oh no, you're not still on the cam, they cut back to you. You're the "someone better" that they have to cut to.

"Oh my god," you groan.

"Ah think Ahm in love with you," Johnny says, you glance back at his kiss reddened lips and dreamy eyes. He looks good like this, and you swoop in for another kiss, which he eagerly reaches for.

Until your best friend yanks you back by the neck of your sweater and you make a rather undignified choked sound that kills the kiss cam.

"Vibe killer," you hiss at her. She makes a face and you stick your tongue out at her.

"You don't even know the guy's name." She reasons. It's a good reason, but easily remedied. You look at kiss cam guy.

"Ahm Johnny," he supplies.

"That's Johnny," you pass it along just to watch your friend roll her eyes. She's not mad, but you know well enough that one of you has to be responsible or neither of you will get home.

"Ok, well, don't blame me if you end up on Youtube," She tells you, settling back in to watch the game.

"Yeah, yeah, I'll remember you when I'm famous." You tell her. She snorts and steals your beer to top up her own.

You don't care, more worried about snagging Johnny's phone to punch in your number with a little kiss next to your name than ending up online.

Which you do. "Kiss cam make out" goes semi-viral, with thousands of people watching your movie moment. You only know because Johnny shamelessly sends you the video alongside the dinner reservation details for your first date.

(Years later your best-friend-turned-maid-of-honor plays it during your and Johnny's wedding, but that's a different story.)

[notesfrombeyondunderground]

Fwb Soap has been plaguing my mind so bad recently

He’s the actual worst person in the world to get into a fwb situation with… contrary to popular belief I don't think this man can have casual sex

The first time you guys hooked up you were both pretty hammered, to your defense. He manhandled you to the bathroom while his mouth assaulted yours, and fucked you so hard in the bathroom nearly everyone was staring at you two when you left.

You didn't really talk to him for a while after that.... until he texted you "ye up? 😗" at God knows what hour. Truly a shameless man.

And yes, you answered, because he has the most beautiful blue eyes you've ever seen, and he kissed you like he was trying to meld your souls together and fucked you stupid in a grimy pub bathroom but it still somehow felt romantic.

Things were going pretty smooth for the first couple of weeks, surprisingly. You had an agreement. You were using each other for sex, it was simple. He was just someone you could go to that would help you relieve your stress or frustration. Definitely didn't fill some deep void inside of you that craves romance. Absolutely not, you told yourself. Not with him.

Soap didn't give a shit

He always said or did something that silently crossed the line that you’ve mutually agreed on. Pressing his sweaty forehead against yours, forcing you to meet his hungry eyes as you come.

Staying on top of you a little too long after he finishes, until the panting that fills the room settles down into slow, tired breaths.

Whispering gentle things that no one else will hear into your ear instead of the dirty talk you were promised. You think you might’ve even heard him croak out an “I love you” once when he came.

Begging you to stay the night, insisting that he sleeps better when you're here, close to him. Holding you flush to his chest, softly running his fingers through your hair while you drift off to sleep listening to the gentle rhythm of his heart.

He's even started to make you breakfast now. Walking into the bedroom in the morning, only in sweats that lay low on his hips, carrying a cup of coffee. Handing you the coffee, he leans into you and kisses your forehead.

"I made eggs. Not sure if ye like scrambled, but that's what I went with."

Okay fine, maybe you will give him an actual chance. You do like scrambled eggs, after all.

[bunnygfsblog]

Johnny ‘soap’ MacTavish x Hyper fem!reader

Head cannons

Soap- who meets you on a night out in Glasgow after he begged the rest of the 141 to go on an outing in the city after a long mission and doesn’t shut up about you as soon as he sees you

“Just look at ‘er. Perfect ass in that dress. Think she’ll be interested in me?”

To which ghost responded with “in your dreams.”

You obviously approach him first after seeing him watch your every move for over an hour and at first he thought you where going for Ghost or Gaz not him, but when you hand him your empty glass and tell him to get your another he instantly folds and basically runs to the bar to get you a refill of whatever fruity cocktail he had seen you drinking from across the room

soap- who carries one of the lipglosses you thought you lost so he can remember the taste of your lips when he’s on missions

Simp! Soap- who lets you decorate his entire house pink and covered in bows and designer products just to see you smile

Soap- who would live between your legs if you let him. He’s a complete munch and the first thing he does after getting back home after being deployed is throwing you down on your pretty pink cushions and pulling your thong to the side to get a taste of what he’s been missing

“Been takin’ care of ‘er for me Bonnie girl?”

“Such a perfect fuckin’ pussy.”

“Not stoppin’ till you paint my face princess.”

soap- who talks about you so much to the 141 that they basically know everything about you, from what overpriced perfume Soap buys for you, to what size bra you wear coz he can’t stop talking about how “My Bonnie girl has the most perfect tits you’d ever see.”

Soap- who fucked you till you’re a cock drunk mess. Making you cum on his tongue , fingers and dick before he lets himself get close to finishing “coz his princess deserves to feel good.”

Soap- who calls your pussy his coz he’s the only one allowed to see or touch it

“This is daddy’s pretty pussy princess.”

“All fuckin’ mine.”

Soap- who when you push money over to help with the bill at a restaurant just puts more money on top of your own before pushing it back telling you to spoil yourself with it later

soap- who desperately wants to fuck a baby into you and claim you from the inside out. Constantly begging you to get off your birth control so he can have a mini you running round the house

Soap- who would Beat the absolute shit out of anyone who disrespected or looked at your wrong, before instantly softening to check if you’re okay and promising a shopping spree and a matcha to make you feel better.

This is my first ever head cannon post so I hope you like it

[twolegsandbleeds]

thinking thoughts about being perched in simon's lap on the sofa, legs either side of his spread thighs, held open and pinned there. johnny's head between your legs, breath hot, tongue working against you, making noises no man should be making just from going down on another person. simon's fingers tangled in johnny's skightly grown out mohawk, gripping just tight enough to keep him exactly where you need him, other arm banded across your chest, forearm braced just under your collarbones - not rough, but solid. there. present. giving you no room to buck, squirm - do anything but take it.

"jus' stay still for johnny, petal. rude to try an' run away from a man tryin' 'is best." 

like you've got any choice but to do exactly that, trapped in the cage of simon's body with johnny trapped between your thighs.

[bambislife4ever]

Cuffin season

Mdni! Cockwarming, blowjob, slight degradation, face sitting, squirting

Summary: Simon and reader are having a cuddly and comfy autumn day at home, that turns into more.

A/n: not really proofread, i don’t use Ai. I enjoyed this one a lot and if you didn’t notice, i absolutely can’t wait for autumn and this heatwave to end 🫩

You loved autumn, especially because of Halloween, the comforting vibes and the warm lights, sweaters and boots and definitely cinnamon rolls. If autumn would be a real person, they would look like you, that’s how much you loved it and Simon Riley knew that. He saw the way your eyes lit up at the mention of baking together, when it started raining and he especially loved that you cuddled so much with him, specifically under the one blanket with black cats and pumpkins printed on it.

Simon Riley didn’t care about seasons, why would he when he was deployed in so many different weather zones and so many different conditions everywhere?

That was until he met you, the love of his life, now he couldn’t wait for autumn, because he loved the way you used him for his warmth and his now slightly soft chest and stomach; all from the gained weight since he retired from the military. He especially loved how you were stealing his sweaters and warm clothes.

You snuggled closer to Simon, nuzzling into the crook of his neck as you woke up to him tracing patterns on your back and the rain gently tapping against the window. It was a comfortable friday afternoon and you both had come home from work, both exhausted and so ready for a romantic weekend together. "Hi," you mumbled, your voice still heavy with sleep and slightly raspy. "Afternoon," he grumbles softly, suddenly turning you over as he settled onto your chest, his body heavy and warm. Sighing contentedly, you slowly run your fingers through his hair and close your eyes again, listening to him as he starts grumbling and talking about his day. Halfway through you’re barely listening to his words, completely fixated on how deep and raspy his voice was, how it made you relax and feel safe. God, he should not have an effect on you like that, it was moments like this that made you want to stop the time, so that this never ended.

"You okay, love?," he caressed your lips with his thumb and looked up at you, noticing how lost you were in your thoughts. You hum and nod before you place a soft kiss on his lips, he immediately responds by pulling you closer and deepening the kiss, tracing your tongue and groaning at the taste of you. "Mm fuck, love," he rests his forehead against yours and closed his eyes for a moment, before looking into your chocolatey eyes. He couldn’t look away and neither could you, his own dark eyes captivating you.

"We should get up or something."

"Or something sounds great," he scoffs as he nuzzles into the crook if your neck, not making a move to get up. "Sii," you giggle as he breathes against that sensitive spot of your neck. He smiles satisfied and rolls over onto his back again.

Without thinking you straddle his lap and place your hands on his chest. "Well i love this view," you tease him, feeling him slowly getting hard in his sweatpants. "So do you apparently."

"Fucking hell, love,“ he groans as his hips buck up, grinding his hardening dick against your pussy. Leaning down you start kissing his neck and grabbing the small pudge of his stomach, moaning at the feeling. "Feel‘ s good," you sigh, stroking him with one hand over his sweatpants, making his hips twitch. He moans as your hand massages his sensitive mushroom tip, his precum soaking and turning his pants dark grey. Your eyes darken and you lean down to suck on the dark spot, before you take him out and slowly let your spit drip down on his twitching cock. "So hard for me, so good," you mumble snd lean down to suck on his sensitive tip. The moment his salty precum spreads on your tongue, you close your eyes and moan, suckling on him. "Please- oh fuck- come on love,“ he encourages, his voice broken. His hands pull your hair back, giving him some control as he nudges you to suck him slowly, all of him.

"Mmfuck," you moan around him as he thrusts inside your mouth, your eyes rolling back as he hits the back if your throat. You feel your own slick pooling in your panties, your clit pulsing and swelling.

"Yeahh, such a good girl for me, taking all of me- fuuck-" the sound of his pleasure, especially his deep and throaty moans make you whine.

You look up at him dazed, giving him silent permission to use you for his own pleasure. He doesn’t even waste s second and fucks up into you, making you deepthroat him and hag slightly. He was sol big in your mouth, so you started jerking off what didn’t fit into your mouth, your other hand busy with massaging his balls. "Just like that, god yes. You like letting me fuck your throat, like a slut? All mine yeah? Come on, make me cum, love, i want to cum- fuck- down your throat."

His pupils are blown and his stomach is flexing just like his thighs as he fucks up into you. You hollow your cheeks and start tracing the veiny underside of his cock, making his hips buck before he finally pulls you down, pushing your nose against his fine and scratch hairs on his base as he fills your throat up. You gag hard and moan desperately around him, the vibrations intensifying his pleasure.

The line between pleasure and pain start blurring as you slowly pull him out of your mouth, just to suck his sensitive and angry red tip. Your hand starts stroking the rest of his cock and his moan is desperate, his hands shaking as he pulls you off of him completely. "Desperate slut," he scoffs hoarsely, before he pulls you into a kiss, tasting himself on your tongue.

Not even a minute later he rips your tights and panties off, desperate to have you sitting on his face.

He doesn’t even let you protest, just spanking your ass as you whine, his tongue dragging along your slut, up to your clit. "Look at you all wet and swollen for me, tell me what you want, sweetheart. Come on, use your words," he breathes shakily against your clit, his lips brushing against it, only enough to tease you.

"Ahh oh- please, Si, please make me cum, please suck my clit-" you shriek the moment he sucks your clit into his mouth, making you cum embarrassingly quick. "Already baby, mhmm, not done with you," he tsks amused, his fingers curving i side of you and teasing that sensitive spot that makes your stomach quiver. "Simon," you shriek and cry, your thighs trembling next to his head. He looks up at you, watching every reaction as he feasts on you.

"I- you need to stop," you gasp as your lips part in a silent scream, tears springing into your eyes as his lips and his tongue suck your sensitive bud harder.

Your orgasm builds quick again, this time it’s different though, he knows it, he did this to you more than once, making you squirt on his face, on his lap, lapping up your orgasm. He doubles his efforts and doesn’t give you a chance to protest before you scream his name and soak his face entirely, thighs trembling, tears running down your face.

He hums approvingly as he laps your juices up, not waisting one drop, before he finally pulls you back down onto his chest, slowly grinding his hardening cock against your pulsing cunt, still dripping down on him. "You wanna keep my cock warm, sweetheart? Look at you baby, cunt begging to be filled, he coos, before you sniffle and nod. Slowly he slides inside of you until the hairs around his base are nuzzled against your overstimulated clit. "Oh, good girl, fuck," he hisses as you squeeze him, though not making a move to fuck you.

"Gonna stay like this the rest of the day, love, all mine ."

[notesfrombeyondunderground]

Soap is deaf in one ear, btw. The result of years of being too close to explosions and gunfire. He didn't really mind, I mean, there was basically nothing he could do, might as well accept it.

He didn't really mind until he met you. You, who even when he's making you feel the most intense pleasure of your life, are quiet. Not completely quiet, sure you make some sound, but it's never loud enough for Johnny's liking. He just can't hear you :(. That's why whenever you fuck, he makes sure to grip your jaw and force your mouth open right next to his good ear. He makes sure to do everything in his power to make you feel as good as possible, to hear your quiet moans and shaky breaths. He loves every sound you make, no matter how small :)

[07x1x4x1]

50 first dates

It takes one glance for him to fall in love at a dingy pub.

— pairing: John MacTavish × fem!Reader

— cw: 18+ | post–MW3; medical inaccuracies; angst; PTSD; memory loss; hurt/comfort; humor; friendship; pining; smut; fluff; romance; wc: 6.9k

"'M just sayin', lads—it's been a while." Johnny announces this to the table with the easy confidence of a man stating a fact, tipping his pint glass towards his two companions like he's presenting evidence.

He's freshly showered, smelling like that cedar body wash he's been using since rehab, and his mohawk is styled the way he only bothers with when he's feeling good enough to exert the kind of effort that signals intent.

"Define 'a while,'" Kyle says mildly, not looking up from his phone beneath the table.

"Months, mate. Fuckin’ months." Johnny takes a long drink and scans the pub with the lazy, appreciative gaze of a man on the hunt. "I'm dryin' up over here. Witherin' on the vine. 'S embarrassin'."

"That's one word for it," Simon mutters into his whisky.

Kyle's thumb pauses on his phone screen. He doesn't look at Simon, and Simon doesn't look at him, but the silence between them is loaded with a practiced, wordless exchange refined over months of navigating nights exactly like this one.

Because Johnny has not, in fact, gone months without getting laid.

Johnny had sex with his wife four days ago. Kyle knows this because you'd texted the group chat—the one Johnny doesn't know exists, one labelled "Ops" on Kyle's phone and "X" on Simon's—to let them know Johnny was having a good week.

Remembering things. Sleeping through the night without nightmares. Being present.

Four days ago. And now he's sitting in a pub in Hereford telling his mates he's been in a drought, and his eyes are doing that thing they do when a bad episode is ramping up; brighter than usual, slightly too wide, running hot with a manic energy that looks like confidence if you don't know what you're looking at.

But Kyle knows what he's looking at.

He glances at Simon. Simon gives the smallest nod—a millimetre of movement, barely perceptible—and Kyle opens the Ops chat beneath the table.

Bad night. Swan. Come when you can.

Swan is the code. You'd all agreed on it together in the early days, back when the episodes were frequent and terrifying and no one knew the rules yet. Swan means he doesn't know you. Pub means to come find him. Home means they'll bring him to you immediately.

Your reply comes seconds later as if you’ve been bracing for it, which you have. Just in case.

Omw. 20 min. How bad?

Kyle replies,

Flirty. Scanning the room. Hasn't clocked it yet.

Three dots, then: Dress up or down?

Kyle looks at Johnny, who is now leaning back in his chair with his arms spread wide, grinning across the room, radiating the particular Scottish charm that made him dangerous in pubs long before the injury and wedding.

Up. He's in a good mood.

Three dots appear again, longer this time, and one simple word follows because Kyle hesitated sending it.

Horny…

Got it.

He puts his phone away and picks up his pint casually. "So what's your type again, Johnny? Since you're on the pull tonight."

Johnny snorts, mumbling into his glass. "Ye know my type."

"Mm. Remind me."

"Funny. Smart," he takes a sip of his drink, smacks his lips while his eyes keep scanning, “Can handle her drink. Someone who doesnae take my shite." He pauses, something flickering behind his eyes—a shadow, there and gone again, like a cloud passing over the sun. "Someone who laughs at ma’ jokes even when they're rubbish and rides me like it’s our last day on bloody earth." He grins; baby blue’s gleaming mischievously.

Simon turns away to roll his eyes while Kyle's chest tightens but smiles anyway. "High bloody standards for a man with that fuckass haircut."

"Fuck off, Garrick. This haircut is iconic."

Simon says nothing. He drinks his whisky, watches the door, waits.

You arrive in eighteen minutes.

You're wearing the deep green dress—the one Johnny told you made you look like "somethin' oot of a Bond film" on your second anniversary, the one you now keep in the back of the wardrobe now specifically for nights like this. Your hair is done. You're wearing the perfume he bought you three Christmases ago that he won't remember buying right now.

You pause outside the pub, sit in your car for thirty seconds, and breathe.

This is the seventh time. You know because you keep count, not physically, but in your body. In the specific way your hands shake when Kyle's text comes through while he is out with Johnny and the practiced steadiness you layer over it like gauze over a wound.

The first time was the worst. Two months post-injury, Johnny still in a neck brace, waking up in the hospital and looking at you with polite confusion and asking the nurse who you were. You'd made it to the corridor before your legs gave out, and Simon had caught you with one strong arm and no words, holding you upright against the wall while Price talked to the doctors and Kyle distracted Johnny.

You'd learned the rules since then. The triggers and early tells. The protocols. You'd built a system—you and his brothers in more than arms, the lot of you holding Johnny's world together like scaffolding around a building that keeps forgetting its own foundations.

On good days, Johnny knows you; he knows the house, the wedding photos, the way you take your tea. On those days, he calls you by the nickname only he uses and reaches for you in his sleep and laughs at the same terrible jokes he's been telling for years.

On bad days, you're a stranger.

Tonight is a bad day, even though it had started good initially. And sometimes that happens, too.

You check your reflection one more time; smooth the dress, tuck your wedding ring into your jacket pocket, because he can't see it yet, not until the timing is right, and you saunter into the pub, hips swaying.

You spot them immediately. Corner booth, usual spot. Kyle is facing the door, which means he sees you first, and his expression does a complicated thing—relief and grief and a non-verbal "Go on then, you've got this,"—before he schools it into easy neutrality.

Simon is beside him, facing away from the door now, though you know he clocked you the moment you walked in, always does. He can feel a change in a room's atmosphere the way other people feel a draft, and your presence has become one of the things he's attuned to, though he'd rather be waterboarded again than admit it.

And Johnny.

Johnny is mid-sentence, gesticulating with his pint, lit up and alive and devastating, and he hasn't seen you yet.

You order a drink at the bar. Gin and tonic. You position yourself where his sightline will catch you naturally—not too close, not too obvious, like setting a lure and waiting for the current to do its work.

It barely takes a minute.

His gaze sweeps the room, passes over you, and snaps back. You watch it happen in your peripherals; the double-take, the slight parting of his naturally pouty lips, the way his entire body reorients towards you like a compass needle finding north.

"Ho-ly shite," he breathes, still staring. "Lads. Lads. Two o'clock."

Kyle makes a show of looking when his arm is being nudged repeatedly. "Yeah? Which one?"

"The—Are ye blind?" He scoffs, offended on your behalf. "Her. Right there. At the bar."

"She's alright." Kyle shrugs, and the casualness of it is Oscar-worthy.

"Alright? She's fuckin'—" Johnny runs a hand over his mohawk, a nervous tell he's had since he was a teenager and will probably have until he's ninety. "She's fuckin' gorgeous is what she is."

Simon lifts his glass. Takes a slow drink, sets it down deliberately.

"Go talk to her then," he says with a shrug, and his voice is perfectly flat, perfectly controlled, and if anyone at this table could hear the hairline fracture running through those five words, they'd understand something that Simon has long decided to take to his next grave, because he's watched this happen too many times now.

He's watched Johnny fall in love with you for the first time seven more times after the real one, the first time, and each time, he involuntarily catalogues the way Johnny looks at you—stunned and reverent, immediately and irrevocably gone—and files it beside the thing he keeps locked in the deepest, most fortified room in his chest cavity.

He doesn't want you instead of Johnny. That's not what this is. It's worse than that, and quieter, and it has no name because he refuses to give it one.

What he wants is to be someone who could be loved the way you love Johnny; he wants to understand what it feels like to be chosen over seven times by a brain that can't hold onto anything else.

What he desperately wants—is to stop fucking wanting.

"Go on," Simon says again, when Johnny hesitates. "Before someone else does."

Johnny grins wider and slides out of the booth.

And he approaches you with more confidence than caution along with a smile that could talk its way out of an international incident.

"A'right?" He leans against the bar beside you with all his bulk, leaving just enough space for plausible deniability, and you almost laugh because it's exactly how he did it the first time—the real first time—at a pub in Edinburgh six years ago.

"A'right," you reply, letting the corner of your mouth lift.

"Johnny." He extends his hand. "John MacTavish."

You take it. His palm is warm and rough and so achingly familiar that you have to swallow hard against the lump that rises in your throat.

And you give him your name in return; no surname, because hearing his own last name come out of your mouth would raise questions you're not ready to choreograph around yet.

"Can I buy ye a drink?" he asks casually, nodding at your gin and tonic. "Or are ye waitin' for someone?"

"I might be."

"Oh, aye?" His eyebrows lift, and the grin sharpens. "Lucky bloke."

Your lips purse. "Who says it's a bloke?"

He barks a genuine laugh and the sound of it hits you right in the sternum because it's the same laugh, it's always the same laugh, whether he knows you or not.

"Fair enough. Can I buy ye a drink while ye wait for whoever's lucky enough to have ye, then?"

You hold his gaze, eyes crinkling in the corners as you suppress a smile before you cave in. "Go on."

Johnny buys you a cocktail, then a water, and you let him.

He tells you he's military—"Aye, the kind ye cannae ask aboot, sorry, love"—and that he's recently recovered from an injury he's vague about; he points at his two mates sitting in the corner booth who are "Absolutely shite wingmen, don't even look at ‘em." And he tells you that you have the best laugh he's ever heard, and he says it with such disarming sincerity that you almost believe he's saying it for the first time.

He might be. That's the thing. To him, he is.

You tell him you're a—and you pause here, every time, because this is the part where you have to build a version of yourself that's close enough to the truth that you won't trip over the details but far enough from reality that he won't start connecting dots prematurely. You tell him what you do, where you live, staying vague, and you make him laugh, and his hand finds the small of your back at some point and stays there, warm and heavy through the dress, and you let it because it belongs there.

At the booth, Kyle is watching with the practiced eye of a director monitoring a scene he's staged before. He tracks the beats—the body language closing in, the first touch, the moment Johnny leans down to hear you over the music and stays close—and he nods to himself, satisfied with the outcome.

Simon is staring at the table. His glass is empty. He doesn't order another.

"He's doing well tonight," Kyle says quietly, because someone should break the silence, and Simon sure won't.

Simon nods, not lifting his eyes from the sticky surface. "He always does well with ‘er."

The sentence hangs between them. Kyle looks at Simon and sees something in the set of his Lieutenant's jaw that he files away and will never, ever mention aloud.

"You good, LT?"

"Fine."

He's not fine. Kyle knows, but he chooses not to push it.

Johnny drives you home after assuring you he only had two pints.

This is the part that always makes your chest tighten—the navigation and logistics of getting him into his own house without it feeling like a trap. You give him directions, turn by turn, and he follows them cheerfully, one hand on the wheel of your car (his car, technically; the one you drove to the pub) and the other on your thigh, thumb tracing idle patterns on your skin.

"Nice neighbourhood," he remarks as you turn onto the street. His street. Your street.

"It's alright," you manage, and your voice is steady, which is a miracle.

He pulls into the driveway and kills the engine, and you watch his eyes move over the front of the house; over the garden you maintain together, the blue door he painted last spring during a particularly good month, the porch light that you left on tonight because you knew you'd be bringing him home.

"Lovely place," he says, and there's nothing in his voice but genuine appreciation, no recognition, no alarm, and the absence of it is a knife you've learned to hold without flinching.

"Come inside then," you tell him, and he grins genuinely. "Thought ye'd never ask."

The front door is where it starts getting tricky.

His boots are by the mat. Not a guest's boots—his boots, broken in and muddy, sitting beside a pair of your trainers in the easy domesticity of a shared household. Johnny glances down at them, and you see the first flicker; not quite recognition yet, just a stutter, a brief glitch in the narrative he's been building all evening.

"Those are—" he starts, then stops, and shakes his head. "Those look like mine."

He lets out a short laugh, but there's an edge to it. A hesitation. His eyes move from the boots to you, narrowing playfully, but you can see the question forming underneath.

"Ye're not married, are ye?" He asks it like a joke, but his gaze drops to your left hand—still bare, ring safely tucked in your jacket pocket—and then sweeps back to the boots. "Because I'm no' that kind of bloke, love. I don’t do that."

"I'm not married," you lie, and it tastes like glass shards in your mouth.

"Good." The grin returns full force, satisfied, and he reaches for your waist again. "'Cause I'd hate to have to fight some poor bastard for ye."

He moves on, pulling you towards him, and you let out a breath you were holding. Then he pauses, looks down at his own left hand, still resting on your hip, and you watch his brow furrow.

"What the—" He lifts his hand, turning it in the dim hallway light. The gold band sits on his ring finger, catching the glow from the porch light through the glass panel in the door. He stares at it like it appeared there by magic, and you always wonder if he only notices it at this point, because some part in his brain does recognize the terrain subconsciously.

"When did I—" He touches the ring with his other thumb, turning it as he mutters. "I don't—Why am I wearin' a—"

"Johnny," you say softly, and take his hand, folding your fingers over his. "Come to the bedroom with me."

He looks at the ring, then at you. The furrow deepens, but the panic hasn't arrived yet—just confusion surfacing, sitting like sediment at the bottom of a glass that hasn't been stirred yet.

"Aye," he says slowly, nodding. "Aye, alright."

The hallway is next.

You've learned to control the environment—certain photos stay up because removing them would make the house feel wrong, and a wrong-feeling house agitates him in ways that are harder to manage than the photos themselves. The wedding portrait stays on the wall at the end of the corridor, but the hallway lighting is dim enough that it doesn't register unless he's looking for it.

He's not looking at anything but you; one hand finding your waist as you move through the darkened house, his mouth is close to your ear.

"Ye smell incredible," he murmurs, nose brushing through your hair. "Been thinkin' aboot this all night."

You chuckle softly with a knot in your chest. "Have you?"

"Since the second I saw ye in that pub." His grip tightens, pulling you back against him, and his lips find the side of your neck. "Couldn't think about anythin' else."

You lean into him; let him hold you and his hands wander over the fabric of your dress while his mouth traces a warm, open path along your throat.

"Bedroom?" you whisper.

"Christ, yes."

You lead him by the hand. Down the hall, past the closed door of the bathroom where his toothbrush sits in the holder beside yours and the spare room where Simon once slept on the floor for three days during a particularly bad episode because he refused to leave either of you alone to deal with it and refused a bed on top of it.

The bedroom.

You open the door and let him walk in first, which is a deliberate choice—it lets you watch his face as the room registers. The king-sized bed you share. The nightstand with his book on it, dog-eared and half-read. Your wardrobe, open slightly, his fatigues visible on the shelf beside your clothes.

And on the dresser, in a simple frame—a photograph. Not the wedding portrait. A smaller, candid snapshot. Him and you, laughing at something you don’t even remember off-camera, his arm around your shoulders, your face turned into his chest. Kyle took it at a barbecue over eighteen months ago, back when things were still normal, back before the world broke.

And because his vigilance training is seared somewhere deeper into his brain, Johnny sees the photograph first.

He goes still. Not the easy stillness of before, but tighter and alert. The stillness of a soldier who's walked into a room and sensed that the intel doesn't match the terrain.

"What—" He drops your hand and crosses to the dresser to pick up the frame without asking. His brow furrows deeper while his thumb traces the edge of it.

"That's me," he says slowly.

Your stomach drops; you stay back, swallowing hard. "Yes."

"That's—" He looks at you. Back at the photo, then back at you. His breathing changes, shallow and faster now, and you can see the confusion calcifying into something harder, edged with the beginning of panic.

"Why is there a fuckin’ photo of me in yer house?"

"Johnny—"

"Why are my fuckin’ things here?" He's turning now, scanning the room with fresh eyes, and you watch the details hit him one by one—the boots downstairs, the book on the nightstand, the fatigues in the wardrobe. His toothbrush. His cologne on the bathroom shelf. The indent on his side of the bed.

"What the fuck is this?!" His voice pitches up and his chest is heaving, and you recognise the spiral; the moment the ground drops out from under him, and he can't find the edges of what is real. "Who the fuck are ye? What—Why do ye have—"

"Johnny." You step towards him, hands raised, palms open, the way you'd approach a wounded animal. The way the counsellor taught you. "Johnny, listen to my voice."

"Don't fuckin'—" He backs away and bumps into the dresser, and the frame rattles, and his hands are shaking. "Tell me what's goin' on. Now!"

"You live here," you say carefully, evenly. "This is your house. Our house."

"No. No, I've got a flat, I've got—"

Your expression drops to something pained yet soft. "You don't have a flat, sweetheart. You haven't had a flat in three years. You live here. With me."

He stares at you. His jaw is working, his fists are clenched at his sides, and his eyes are wild with the terror of a man whose own mind has suddenly become enemy territory.

"We're married, Johnny." You keep your voice steady and warm. You don't move closer yet, but you produce your own wedding band from your pocket and slip it on deliberately, matching his. "Three years. We got married at your mum's church in Glasgow, and you cried during the vows, and Kyle was your best man and he cried even harder."

Something flickers. Not memory, not quite yet, but a tremor, a fault line opening in the panic.

"Kyle—" he repeats, and his voice cracks on the name.

You nod enthusiastically. "Kyle Garrick. Gaz. Your best mate. He was at the pub tonight. So was Simon."

His blue eyes widen and flicker to meet yours. "Simon…"

"Ghost. Your Lieutenant. Tall, angry, won't take his mask off. He's probably sitting in his car outside right now making sure you got home safe, because that's what he does."

Johnny's breathing is ragged. His eyes are darting around the room, and you can see him trying to force the pieces together, grasping for edges that won't line up.

"I don't—" His voice breaks. "I don't remember."

Your heart breaks all over again; hands clenching and unclenching at your sides while you suppress the reflex to reach for him.

"I know."

"Why don't I remember?"

You sigh and your shoulders drop with it. "Because you were hurt. On a mission, ten months ago. You were shot, Johnny. In the head."

His hand moves before he's conscious of it—fingers lifting to his temple, searching, and you watch the exact moment they find it. The ridge of scar tissue above his left ear and temple, healed but tight, a furrow carved into the skin where the bullet grazed bone instead of passing through it.

He should be dead. The doctors said so. Kyle said so. Simon said so, once, in the kitchen at one a.m., in a voice so flat it sounded like a weather report. He should be dead. The bullet was two millimetres from killing him.

Two millimetres. The width of a pencil lead. The margin between a funeral and a life that keeps resetting.

Johnny's fingers trace the scar slowly, mapping the terrain of a wound he doesn't remember receiving. His face goes blank, not calm, but emptied, like the shock has pushed everything else out to make room for this one impossible fact.

"I was shot in the head," he repeats, toneless.

"By a man named Makarov. On a mission in," you sigh again, rubbing both hands over your face before regaining some composure. "It doesn't matter where. What matters is you survived, Johnny. You're here… With me."

"I don't—" His fingers press harder against the scar, like he's trying to push through it into the memory underneath. "I can't feel—It doesn't hurt."

"It pulls sometimes. When you're tired, or when the weather changes. You rub at it without realising. And then you ask me to put Bepanthen on it for you."

He drops his hand. Stares at it like it belongs to someone else.

A sound comes out of him that you've heard before and will never get used to—a small, gutted noise from deep in his throat, barely human, like something being torn at the root.

His gaze lifts. "I forget you?"

"Sometimes." Your voice is steady, but your eyes are not. "But you always come back. Every time, Johnny. You always come back."

He's staring at you with an expression that is no longer panic but something rawer, more exposed. The look of a man standing in the wreckage of a life he can't remember building and trying to find anything solid enough to hold on to.

"Come here," you say softly, finally, and you open your arms to him.

And Johnny doesn’t hesitate. He crosses the room in two strides and crashes into you.

His arms wrap around you so tightly it hurts, his face burying into the crook of your neck, and the ragged, broken sound he makes fills the bedroom and settles into the walls like a stain that will never come out.

You hold him like always. One hand on the back of his head, fingers carding through the short hair at the nape of his neck, the other arm banded around his broad back. You press your lips to his temple and breathe him in; cedar and sweat and the faint antiseptic undertone that hasn't fully left his skin since the hospital.

"It's okay," you murmur into his hair. "I'm here. I've got you."

"'M sorry—" He's shaking in your embrace. "I'm so fuckin' sorry, I didn't—I didnae know."

"You don't have to be sorry."

"I was chattin' ye up like some—like ye were some random—"

"I know." You pull back just enough to take his face in your hands, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. His eyes are red and wet and searching yours desperately, looking for the anchor he can feel but can't see.

"You chat me up every time," you tell him, and you let yourself smile wetly because he needs to see it, needs to see that this isn't a tragedy to you—it's a Tuesday. It's the life you chose, and you'd choose it again. Every day for the rest of your shared life. "Same lines, same moves. You always lead with buying me a drink."

A wet, startled laugh punches out of him. "Aye?"

"Every time. Kyle says your material is tragic."

"Kyle can fuck off." He sniffs hard, blinking, and his hands are still gripping the fabric of your dress at your hips like he's afraid you'll evaporate. "Do I—Do I at least have good chat?"

You snort. "The worst."

His eyes widen comically. "The worst?"

"Absolutely appalling. I fall for it every time."

He laughs again, and this time it's closer to real and his forehead drops against yours as you breathe the same air, and the room settles around you like a held breath being released.

"Ye married me," he whispers, like he's testing the shape of it. "Ye actually married me."

You nod again, nuzzling your forehead against his. "Voluntarily and everything."

"Yer off yer heid."

"Probably," you brush your nose against his tenderly, "but you're stuck with me, MacTavish."

His hands slide from your hips to your waist, pulling you closer, and when his mouth finds yours, the kiss is tentative at first; careful and questioning, the kiss of a man who isn't sure what he's allowed to take yet.

You answer by threading your fingers into his mohawk, pulling him deeper, and kissing him back with every ounce of the love you've been carrying all evening behind the heavy mask of a stranger.

He groans into your mouth; his hands tighten on your waist, and the tentativeness dissolves into urgency, warm and achingly familiar.

"Tell me what ye like," he murmurs against your lips, and the earnestness in his voice—the genuine desire to get it right and learn you, not knowing he already has—makes your heart crack along an old fault line.

"I'll show you," you whisper. "I'll show you everything."

You undress him slowly.

The henley first, peeled over his head, and your hands trace the landscape of him; the scars he doesn't remember getting, the ink he doesn't remember sitting for, the topography of muscle and damage that your fingers have memorised over years of exactly this. Touching and mapping him; loving the body that keeps forgetting it's loved.

He watches you with wonder, his chest rising and falling unevenly. You trace each scar you find and when your fingers reach his jaw, you let your thumb drift up to his temple, brushing feather-light over the ridge of scar tissue there.

He flinches. Not from pain but from the strangeness of being touched somewhere he didn't know existed until twenty minutes ago.

"Does that bother you?" you ask, pulling your hand back.

"No." He catches your wrist and guides your fingers back. "Do it again."

You trace the scar slowly, gently, and his eyes flutter closed, and for a moment his face is so open and so unguarded that you have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep yourself together.

"Sounds aboot right," he murmurs, half to himself. "Hero and an eejit."

You push him back onto the bed, your marital bed, and he goes willingly, pulling you with him until you're straddling his lap, the skirt of your dress riding up around your thighs. His hands grip your hips, and he looks up at you with those bright blue eyes—burning with more than just lust.

"Christ, yer beautiful," he breathes. "D'ye know that?"

"You tell me." You lean down and press your mouth to the hinge of his stubbled jaw. "Every time."

"Good," he murmurs. "'S important ye hear it."

You kiss down his neck, his hairy chest, tracing the lines of his tattoos with your tongue and flicking one of his nipples. He groans and his hips roll up against you, the hard line of his fat cock pressing against your inner thigh through his jeans, and his fingers dig into the meat of your hips.

"Fuck. Ye don't have to—" You shake your head with a smile, shushing him. "I want to. Always do. I love sucking you off."

Johnny grins wolfishly. "I can see why I married ye."

And he groans with delight as you slide off his lap to kneel between his legs while the look on his face makes your eyes sting again, though you’ve become good at blinking it away. You undo his belt carefully, his button, his zipper, and free him from his briefs, and his cock springs up thick and hard.

You know this cock well; know the weight of it on your tongue, the exact pressure to stroke it that makes his abs clench, the spot beneath the mushroomy head where he's most sensitive. You know that he likes it slow at first and messy by the end, that he'll try to be polite about it until he can't, that his hand will find the back of your head and his hips will stutter and he'll warn you in a voice that's already gone before he comes down your throat in needy pulses.

You take him in your mouth, and the relieved, guttural sound he makes fills the room.

His eyes squeeze shut; his chest heaves. "Oh Christ—oh fuck—!"

You work him slowly. Tongue flat against the underside of his shaft, lips tight around the flushed tip, one hand wrapped around the base. You hollow your cheeks and take him deeper, and his hand flies to the back of your head—not pushing but needing to touch you—and his thighs tense on either side of your shoulders.

Johnny babbles through it, always does when you give him oral; accent thickening with random gibberish and praise.

You pull off with a slick pop and look up at him through your lashes, stroking him slowly from root to cockhead before you duck lower, and you lick a long, slow stripe over his balls, tonguing along the seam until you feel the exact moment his brain short-circuits.

"Holy shite—oh my God—nghh—" He grits his teeth, his eyes squeeze shut, and John MacTavish whines when you take one into your mouth gently, sucking softly, while his entire body arches off the mattress. His hand fists in the sheets; another sound comes out of him that is less word than sensation, more guttural and ecstatic.

"How did ye—Nobody does—How do ye know—"

You release him and press a kiss to his inner thigh, looking up at him with eyes that are bright and wet, but steadier.

"Because I'm your wife, Johnny."

The words land. You watch them hit; watch his expression cycle through shock and confusion and then something that isn't memory but is adjacent to it, deeper than recall, carved into the bedrock beneath the damaged circuitry.

Recognition.

"My wife," he repeats, and his voice is thick and full of awe.

You kiss his hip, nodding. "Your wife."

"Christ Almighty." His hand comes up to cover his mouth, and his eyes are shining as he pulls it back just enough to stare at his wedding ring again. "Oh my God, ye're my wife."

"I am."

"And ye—ye know—ye know exactly what I—"

"Everything." You crawl back up his body and straddle him again, cupping his face, pressing your forehead to his. "I know everything, Johnny. Every filthy, unhinged, ridiculous thing you're into, because you've spent years showing me, and I love it, and I love you, and you don't have to hold back."

And then Johnny kisses you hard and desperately; his hands suddenly everywhere at once—your hair, your waist, tugging at your dress, pulling it over your head with shaking fingers. He gets it off and throws it somewhere and then his hands are on your bare skin and the sound he makes is reverent.

"Ye're not—This isn't—"

"This isn't a hookup," you finish for him. "This is us. And I want all of it."

The dam breaks open behind his eyes, not quite memory, but permission, and the shift is seismic. His grip and breathing changes. The careful, polite restraint of a man on a first date incinerates, and what replaces it is raw, hungry, and known.

He flips you onto your back in one fluid motion, and the strength of it, the ease, makes you gasp. He's between your thighs before you can draw your next breath, yanking your underwear down your legs and tossing them over his shoulder, and then his mouth is on you without preamble, just his tongue on your clit, furious with intent.

Your head tips back with a shameless moan as he sucks and laps at your cunt.

"Tell me," he growls against you, the vibration making your hips buck. "Tell me what ye like, tell me everything, I wanna know—I wanna know every fuckin' thing—"

"Your fingers—Two—Hah, yes! Yes, like that—"

He drives two thick fingers into you, curls them, and your spine lifts off the bed. He reads you like a detonation sequence; adapting to your needs, adjusting pressure and angle and rhythm with the same tactical precision he brought to every mission, and within minutes you're shaking apart under his mouth, your hands fisted in his mohawk, his name tearing out of you on a scream.

And he doesn't let up but works you through the orgasm, licking you through the aftershocks, and when you drag him up by the shoulders and pull him over your body like a weighted blanket, his chin is slick and his eyes are blazing and the grin on his face is the most Johnny thing you've seen all night.

"Good?" he asks, like he genuinely needs the feedback.

Your hand curls around his nape as you pull him down, breathing against his lips. "Get inside me. Now."

"Fuck. Yes, ma'am."

He lines himself up, drags his cock through your drenched cunt and pushes in, slow at first, until your breath catches at the stretch and fullness, the feeling of home that hits you every time no matter how many times you do this, and he is fully sheathed inside.

Johnny cusses under his breath, his voice strained, and his arms braced on either side of your head; his face close enough that you can see every flicker of sensation crossing his features whenever you squeeze and clench around him.

"Move," you breathe. "Don't hold back. You never hold back with me."

"Don’t hold back," Johnny repeats and groans breathlessly, head hanging with the resigned realization that this will have a quick end, before he nods and folds your legs up, draping them over his shoulders. "Aye… I can do that."

And then his hips drive forward in a thrust that knocks the headboard against the wall, and the sound that punches out of both of you is obscene. He sets a relentless pace, hard and deep, fucking you the way you asked him to—with everything and nothing held in reserve—and the slap of skin on skin fills the bedroom along with your cries and his grunts and the rhythmic bang of the headboard.

"This what ye like?" he pants, one hand gripping the wooden frame for leverage. "This how I fuck ma wife?"

"Yes!" you cry out. "God, yes, please—Harder!"

"Harder she says—Fuckin' hell!" He adjusts your right leg over his shoulder, canting your hip up even further, and the change in angle makes you see stars, his cock massaging that spot inside you that makes your pussy tighten and your vision white out. "Look at ye takin' it. Fuckin’ look at ye. Yer a fuckin' dream, ye know that?"

"Johnny, 'm close," you mewl while your nails dig into his flexing biceps.

"Aye, I can fuckin’ feel it." His hand slides between your bodies, thumb rubbing your clit with unerring accuracy while a beads of sweat run down his chest, disappearing into the coarse hair. "C'mon, love. Gimme it, lemme feel ye."

And when he makes you tip over and your inner walls convulse around his cock in rhythmic, desperate pulses, Johnny follows you over the edge barely three thrusts later with a guttural moan and your name bitten into the skin of your shoulder as he buries himself to the hilt, spilling his load inside you.

He collapses over you, trembling, his face pressed into your neck while your legs slide off his shoulders with a satisfied sigh, and you hold him through the aftershocks the way you always did in nights like this one; a hand in his hair, the other on his sweat-slick back, feeling his heart pound against your chest.

For a long time, neither of you moves as the room settles. Your breathing evens out, syncs up, falls into the rhythm of two people who've been sharing a bed long enough that their bodies know how to find each other even in the dark.

"Hey," Johnny says eventually, muffled against your neck.

You smile despite everything, eyes welling up with tears. "Hey."

"I love ye."

You press your lips to his temple and whisper, "I love you too."

"D'ye think—" He lifts his head; his eyes are glossy and he suddenly looks unbearably young. "D'ye think I'll remember this tomorrow?"

The question sits between you, heavy and terrible but honest. You swallow hard, consider lying, but choosing not to.

"I don't know. Sometimes you do, other times you don’t," you say truthfully, because you promised yourself early on that you'd never lie to him about this. "But if you don't, I'll remember for both of us."

A tear slips down his face. Then another. He wipes them roughly with the back of his hand and lets out a wet, shaky laugh.

"And then ye'll just… What, fall in love with me again?"

"Johnny." You take his face in your hands and hold his gaze. "I've never stopped."

He makes a choked sound and kisses you again, slower this time, tasting of salt and beer.

He falls asleep with his head on your chest and his arms around your waist, and you stay awake longer than necessary, fingers carding through his short hair, listening to the slow rhythm of his breathing.

Outside, across the street, a black truck sits with its engine off.

Simon Riley watches the bedroom light go on through the upstairs window, and he watches it stay on for a long time before it’s switched off again.

And then he sits in the dark, in the quiet, and he wonders.

Not about what is happening inside. Not about them, specifically.

About the shape of a life where someone waits for you; where someone takes a phone call at nine p.m. on a Friday and puts on the green dress and drives to a pub and falls in love with you again because you asked her to, even though you didn't know you were asking.

He wonders what it would feel like to walk into a room and have someone's entire body reorient towards you; to be the answer to a question someone didn't know they were carrying.

And Simon wonders if he's capable of that. If the thing inside him that was broken long before any mission, long before any scar, is the kind of broken that someone could love around, the way you love around Johnny's.

He wonders, and he doesn't find an answer—somehow never does—and after a while, he starts the car and drives home to an empty flat.

And he locks the door behind him and sits in the silence that he chose, keeps choosing, and has never learned to want.

[total-killer-brainrot]

Johnny grabbed your arm right as he threw the grenade. Dragging you around the corner so the blast wouldn't hit you. But still covering you with his whole body anyway.

After the explosion you glanced up, confused to see the eager grin on his face. Out of breath and excited as he took your hand in his. Sliding the grenade pin onto your finger.

"Marry me..."

You giggled. Tilting your hand so the oversized ring clinked against the gold already adorning your finger.

"We're already married, baby."

He cursed softly. Cupping your cheeks to kiss you gently.

"Was'nae enough. Le's do it again."

[twolegsandbleeds]

cw: afab+f!reader, virginity loss (a/n virginity is a social construct). 4k words.

simon knows you haven't had sex before.

it wasn't a big secret. you'd told him early on in your relationship, when things got a little too heated on the couch and you'd panicked when his hand slid under your shirt and his fingertips grazed your bare stomach.

you'd sat there and twisted the hem of your shirt between your fingers, eyes firmly on the hardwood floor of simon's flat, quietly telling him that it wasn't because you didn't want to, you just hadn't found anyone that you trusted not to make it a… thing. a conquest. an oh look i fucked a virgin story that gets told to mates at the pub. that the older you got the harder it was to find someone who… understood. and the longer you left it? well. the more the anxiety about it built, until the idea of sex became an almost impossible landscape to traverse.

he'd watched the way you fidgeted. listened as you spoke but wouldn't meet his eye.

then shrugged.

"love, i like spendin' time with you. i like kissin' you like we're fuckin' teenagers. not gonna stop seein' you just cause you 'aven't got laid before." he'd paused, considered his words, "ball's in yer court now sweetheart. you want t' fuck? tell me. an' i'll do what i can to make it right for you."

and the ball… stayed in your court. for months. no pressure. no wandering hands where you didn't want them. just dates and kisses and the one time you were ovulating and overwhelmingly horny and asked him to go down on you on the sofa. and even then, with your thighs trembling around his head and your fingers tight in his hair and the taste of you on his tongue he hadn't pushed, just pulled you into his lap after you'd come down and held you like he realised just how overwhelming it was for you to be close to someone in that way.

he was… surprisingly sweet about it all for a man who looked like he might kill someone for breathing wrong in his company.

sweet enough that the idea of having sex with him stopped feeling like something insurmountable and started feeling more like excitement curling through your veins instead of terror.

so you told him. over dinner one evening. all casual.

he'd looked up from his pasta, nodded. "want me to… book a hotel? or a cabin? you wanted to go away for the weekend, anyway." a pause and then, "or is that too much pressure?"

you'd blinked. once. twice. like the idea of making an occasion of it hadn't even crossed your mind. you'd swallowed softly and then nodded. "yeah. that would be… nice actually." but then you'd pulled a face - eyebrows knitted together, lips pursed. "…what if i bleed on their sheets?" like the idea of inconveniencing hotel or air b&b staff was more concerning to you than the fact you might bleed at all.

then it was simon's turn to blink. "… i'll bring some blankets. if yer that worried love." he'd offered back - not mocking. just cataloguing all the things he can do to make this less stressful for you. there's a pause, "might not bleed. not everyone does."

you'd stared at him.

he'd shrugged.

"been doin' some… recon. about how to make it easier for you." he'd admitted quietly. "not… done this with someone who ain't before. don't want to… traumatise you or some shite. want you to enjoy it. not suffer though it."

your heart had flared warm in your chest.

you'd smiled softly down into your pasta.

"cabin would be nice."

the drive was quiet, just the low sound of what you teasingly called simon's dad rock coming from the car speakers. his right hand was on the wheel; left resting on your thigh whenever he didn't need to change gears, rubbing gentle circles with his thumb on the side of your knee.

"love, i want t' talk before we get there."

you spine stiffens automatically at the words, eyes flaring wide as your head snaps around to look at him.

the corners of his lips twitch.

"not like that love. you don't need t' act like i'm sendin' you to the headteachers office."

you can't help but laugh - a soft little huff of air as your shoulder relax.

"sorry, habit." you murmur back, slumping back into the seat. "so, if i'm not in trouble, what do you want to talk about, si?"

he rolls his eyes. "in trouble? when th' fuck 'ave you ever been in trouble with me love?" he grumbles back, but the crinkles in the corners of his eyes give away that he's nowhere near mad. there's a moment of silence - not heavy, but there - before he continues carefully, "i just want to talk about… expectations. or a lack of 'em really."

you open your mouth to interject. he squeezes your knee to stop you.

"jus' let me talk a minute love." he says softly, glancing across at you for just a split second. "i jus' want to be clear with you. we're goin' away for the weekend. that's all. i know we've said we'd… y'know. but if you don't want to? if you change yer mind? at any time? that's fine love. i just want t' 'ave a nice weekend with you. that's all."

you're quiet for a moment, warmth flaring in your chest. that feeling that's so close to love you can almost reach out and grab it. for a moment you don't know what to say, how to shape a sentence that conveys how much you appreciate that - or how sure you actually are about this weekend. and when you open your mouth? nothing eloquent comes out.

"i bought fancy knickers."

simon's eyebrows shoot up to his hairline, but he doesn't take his eyes off the road. he clears his throat slightly, absolutely shoving the image of you in whatever you mean by fancy knickers somewhere deep in the back of his brain so he doesn't drive you both into a ditch.

you bite your lip, suppress a laugh that threatens to bubble out of your throat. "i just mean… i went out and bought special pants for the occasion. i've been uh, looking forward to it. but… thank you. for being so sweet about it."

he glances sidelong at you, eyebrows pinched into a frown "it's not sweet. it's basic consent, love." he says quietly, squeezing your knee again and for a moment you think he's got more serious talk to get out of his system before you get to your destination; but then his mouth twitches in the corners, "but i am lookin' forward to seein' these fancy knickers, in that case."

simon has outdone himself with his choice of weekend getaway destination.

a cabin nestled in the clearing of a forest. log burner. claw foot bathtub on the deck.

no neighbours for miles; unless you count the owls currently hooting from the trees.

it's perfect.

he presses a kiss to the side of your head, "go unpack. i'll put th' kettle on."

forty minutes later you're curled into simon's side on the back deck, mug clutched in both hands, both just staring at the night sky with quiet awe; the stars visible here in a way they aren't back home.

your new fancy knickers and matching bra have already been slipped on under your sweatpants and hoodie. simon looks down at you, at how soft and open your face looks; the way your jaw hangs slightly loose with amazement as you look up at the sky. his chest flares warm, unable to stop the way his entire expression softens.

"i've been under a lot of nice skies, all over the world." he says quietly. "but this one might be my favourite."

he doesn't need to say it's because you're there. you can tell from the way his arm tightens around your shoulders, the way he leans his weight into you slightly.

you melt inside. like butter left on the counter on a hot day. that same warm feeling from the car flaring in your chest as you tilt your face to his.

then you're kissing him. mug discarded on the deck. half crawled into his lap, his arms wrapping around your waist to steady you.

for the first time in the months you've been together you're not holding anything back. you're not trying to leash yourself to stop this going further than you're ready for. you're all in.

simon can feel the difference. the way you're letting the energy you usually keep simmering under your skin out into the air around you; the way you kiss him deeper, let your hands wander over his chest and biceps.

he's instantly, painfully hard in his sweatpants.

and acutely aware of the fact that you can tell. that the fabric of his sweats does nothing to hide the way he's hardened underneath you, that he's thick and heavy against your inner thigh where you're now practically straddling him. he tenses slightly underneath you; not able to control his reaction but hesitant to be the one to take the next step.

but then you groan into his mouth.

the sound goes straight to his core.

"christ, love. those really are fancy knickers."

he scoops you up in his arms without hesitation, carrying you through the cabin and kicking the bedroom door shut behind him.

you don't think you've ever seen an expression on simon's face quite like the one he wearing now, staring down at you sprawled out beneath him, clothes removed with enough care it made your heart ache.

reverent. that's the only word for it.

"yer really… jesus. yer fuckin' beautiful dove, you know that, right?"

your cheeks heat automatically at the compliment, "it's the underwear. it's doing a lot of the heavy lifting." you reply, mock serious - deflecting.

simon rolls his eyes. "shut up. daft bint. s'all you."

before you can retort he pulls his sweatshirt off over his head, and the only word you're left capable of is "fuck."

you reach out; trace your fingers over the scars that criss cross his torso like a roadmap of everything he's survived. the muscle of his chest and stomach is solid; but there's a soft layer of fat over his abdomen that he gets between deployments - the layer that makes him feel warm and soft and human; not just the soldier everyone else sees.

simon's breath hitches when your nails graze lower, but he catches your wrist, bringing your open palm to his lips to press a kiss against the centre of it.

"lay back for me, love." he murmurs, "i'm takin' care of you first."

you nod, heart slamming in your chest so hard you're sure he can hear it.

your bra comes off first; carefully unhooked and pulled away from your body, placed carefully on the side next to you.

your underwear comes next, the soft black lace you knew was perfect the moment you picked it out in the store. cool air hits your skin as he tugs them down your calves and you fight the instinct to close your legs.

simon looks down at you from below his lashes. "yeah. it's not the fancy knickers love. yer just fuckin' beautiful."

simon settles between your legs, lips pressing a trail down your stomach to where your thighs part; and for a moment he hovers above your bare cunt, nose flaring as the warm scent of you hits him.

he groans.

your ears go hot.

he looks up at you, "gonna go down on you now love, alright?"

you manage a short jerk of your head, pupils blown wide as you stare back down at him.

then his mouth is on you.

the last time he did this - that one night on the couch - is burned into simon’s memory. and he remembers, in beautiful high definition, what each little gasp and groan you made sounded like, and what he did to drag them out of you.

the first slow lick from your slit to your clit pulls a shaky sound from your throat, fingers tightening in the sheets next to you.

he doesn’t rush.

has no intention of skipping steps.

he’s treating this like the main event. like if he could just stay between your spread thighs for the rest of the weekend and the two of you didn’t go any further than that he’d be fine with it, happy about it even.

he explores every inch of you with his tongue; licking broad stripes across your entire cunt, before flicking the tip of his tongue against your clit - little patterns that make your thighs tremble.

“si…” you breathe, feeling yourself relax into the mattress with every touch.

simon pulls away to press a kiss against your inner thigh, “okay up there, sweetheart?”

you nod.

vigorously.

then reach to tangle your fingers in his short hair and tug his mouth back towards you with a desperation that surprises even yourself, like now he’s started you really, really don’t want him to stop.

his lips twitch in the corners, his shoulders relaxing a fraction, like you’ve just convinced him you really are okay.

he seals his lips around your clit and hums softly; the vibration shooting straight up your spine and sparking white behind your eyes. you hips jerk, hard; immediately one of his hands comes to rest on your lower belly, pressing down gently - reassuring rather than controlling - whilst he continues to work you with his mouth. he sucks softly, then harder, alternating rhythms until your fingers are twisted tightly in his hair and your breathing comes in short, ragged gasps.

it’s messy.

the wet sounds of his mouth fill the quiet of the room - slick, obscene noises that you think should mortify you but actually only turn you on more. he pulls back just to groan softly, eyes flicking up to yours. “yer fuckin’ perfect love. can i open you up proper?”

one finger circles your entrance, spreading slickness - but he waits until he sees your chin jerk in confirmation before pushing in achingly slow. it’s an unfamiliar stretch; his finger thicker than your own, but it’s not unwelcome, not unpleasant. he sinks that first finger to the knuckle before curling it upwards, searching for the soft, spongy part inside you that makes your back arch sharply off the mattress.

“there you are.” he murmurs, a soft kind of satisfaction threaded through his voice.

he doesn’t stop, just keeps working you in a steady rhythm while his mouth finds your clit again.

your eyes flutter shut. body slowly melting into something that feels like syrup and not flesh against the sheets as pleasure crawls through you.

after a few minutes he carefully adds a second finger - immediately slowing when he sees you wince at the slight burn low down in your pelvis, only continuing when he feels your body go soft again. “easy sweetheart.” he murmurs against your folds, the slight pain mixing with pleasure as as he works his fingers in and out, scissoring gently to open you up. your thighs tremble around his ears; you’re gripping his hair too tight, probably hurting him, but he doesn’t complain - if anything he groans against you at the sensation.

you’re right on the edge. stomach tensing, muscles tightening when he pulls back. his mouth and jaw are slick and shiny with you and his eyes are so, so soft when he gazes up at you.

“not yet.” he murmurs, moving so his body covers yours, wiping his face with the back of his hand, leaning down to kiss you. “want t’ see if i can get you there with me inside ya.”

he shifts, stands, tugs his sweatpants and boxers off in one motion.

you swallow. hard. watching his cock spring free - thick, heavy. flushed dark at the tip and already leaking.

you have no idea how the fuck he’s meant to fit inside you.

he sees your pinched expression, the nervous flicker in your eyes, and he leans down, crawling back over you, resting his forehead against yours. “we go as slow as you need. you say stop, we stop. you say you need a break, we take a break.” he promises, voice thick with want but edged with control.

he reaches across into the bedside drawer, grabs a bottle of lube he’d clearly tucked away there earlier.

he really did do his research.

your pupils blow wide as he squeezes a generous dollop onto his cock. he wraps a calloused hand around his length and strokes it slowly, spreading the slick shine from base to tip, lower lip sucked between your teeth as he starts to guide himself to your entrance.

the blunt head nudges against you, slipping a little because everything is so wet.

he pushes forwards.

the first inch stings. sharply. you hiss through your teeth, nails digging into his shoulders.

simon freezes immediately. “too much?” he asks, voice strained.

“just… a lot.” you manage, trying to breathe through the burn. “give me a minute.”

he stays perfectly still, barely inside you, dropping soft kisses on your face - your eyelids, the tip of your nose, the corner of your mouth. he reaches between you, pad of his thumb finding your clit, rubbing slow, soothing circles until the edge of pain dulls into an aching fullness. you nod, shaky, but firm.

he sinks in another inch. the stretch is intense - you feel every ridge, every vein as he works himself in deeper; your walls slowly opening up and moulding around him.

then he slips. just a little.

simon is tall - broad and long limbed - and the angle he’s curved himself into is awkward. shoulders hunched, one arm braced at an odd angle so he doesn’t crush you.

his cock slips out completely on the next shallow rock of his hips.

“fuck.” he mutters - frustrated with himself. “sorry love. ‘ang on.”

he tucks a hand under your knee, lifting your leg higher and hooking it over his hip.

the new position makes it easier; opens you up more. so this time when he pushes back in, he slides a little deeper in one smooth glide.

you both groan.

the fullness is overwhelming, foreign, bordering on too much.

but it also feels right in a way that makes your chest ache.

simon’s breathing is ragged against your neck. sweat already coating his skin under your palms. “christ, you feel like fuckin’ heaven. you alright?”

you nod, nails digging into his skin. “move… please.”

he starts rocking into you - slow, shallow thrusts at first. the wet, obscene sound of him moving inside you fills the quiet cabin.

it’s messier than you expected. all of this is.

your bodies don’t slot together like puzzle pieces; there’s sweat, the awkward shift of limbs, your leg keeps slipping off his hip until he grabs it again.

every thrust drags against that perfect spot inside you, but there’s still a sharp little spark of pain when he finally bottoms out completely. you whimper. simon freezes again. “talk to me dove.”

“it hurts. a bit.” you admit, voice small. “but… don’t stop. please.”

he curses softly and adjusts again, reaching for a pillow and sliding it under the small of your back.

the new angle… changes things. the next thrust makes your toes curl for a reason that isn’t pain. pleasure starts overtaking discomfort -and on the next snap of his hips you rock up to meet him, chasing the sensation. his fingers press firmer against the sensitive little bundle of nerves just above where he's buried inside you.

you feel your cunt flutter around him.

he lets out a completely wrecked sound.

"that's it." simon hisses through his teeth. "yer doin' so fuckin' well love."

the praise goes straight to your head, to your core, setting alight nerves you didn't know could be affected by words.

both your movements grow less coordinated, more desperate. sweat gathers in the space between your bodies. his hips snap a little harder, still careful but less restrained; the slap of skin on skin louder now. his hand that's not still slowly stroking your clit between your bodies finds yours, lacing your fingers together beside your head.

the tenderness of the movement makes your eyes sting.

you come suddenly - a sharp, peak that makes you clamp down around him. it's an unfamiliar wave of pleasure, coming with him inside you like that, and you let out a long, low moan that he feels in his bones, that he feels burning its way into his brain as a new core memory.

simon groans, hips stuttering as he fucks you through it. the overstimulation makes you whine, but you can tell from the way he's tensing that he’s close too.

“gonna come inside you.” he bites out, voice wrecked. “that okay?”

you nod frantically, legs tightening around him. a few more deep, messy thrusts and he buries himself inside you with a broken groan, hips jerking as his own orgasm hits. thick pulses of heat flood you, his cock twitching, face dropped into the curve of your shoulder as he presses his mouth against where your pulse is hammering in your throat.

neither of you move. you just stay wrapped in a little bubble of oh fuck that just happened. simon's collapsed half on top of you, propped up on one elbow so he doesn't smother you completely with his body. his breath is warm on your neck, heart slamming in his chest against your arm.

“you okay love?”

simon's voice is gentler than you've ever heard it, cautious in a way that you know he only ever is with you.

“yeah.” you breathe back. “i’m good.” you shift slightly underneath him, wincing as you unhook your legs from his waist.

he notices. immediately shifts so you can untangle yourselves properly, sliding out of you with a soft, slick noise.

you wince again, glance down, see a faint smear on your thigh; cum, slick - both tinged faintly with pink - and stare down in fascination at the physical evidence of what you've both done lingering on your skin like a brand.

he follows your gaze, jaw tensing when he sees the faint pink mixed into your shared fluids. “you sure you're okay?”

you pull him down next to you, curl into his chest, tucking your face into the curve of his neck. “i'm good. i promise. i’m… i’m happy, si.” there's a brief pause and then you add, almost awkwardly, “...was that okay for you?”

simon leans down and kisses you slowly, before pulling back just far enough to rest his forehead on yours. “you were perfect.” he murmurs. “that was perfect.”

you laugh weakly. “that was not perfect. we were like… tangled giraffes at one point.”

he huffs a quiet laugh against your mouth. “yeah, well. still got there in th’ end. still perfect.” he drags his knuckles down your cheekbone, eyes soft in the low lamplight. “no regrets?”

you watch him pad naked across the room - huge, scarred, relaxed in a way you rarely ever see him - and feel a rush of affection so strong it almost hurts.

“none.” you whisper fiercely - and you mean it. you ache in the best and worst ways, but the warmth in your chest is brighter than any discomfort. “thank you. for not rushing me. for… that.”

simon kisses you again, slower this time, then carefully climbs off the bed. “stay there, dove. i’ll get a cloth and run th’ bath. i reckon that fuckin’ clawfoot thing outside looked big enough for both of us.”

you get that same pang when he wipes down your thighs with a warm, damp cloth and again when he deposits you in the bathtub on the deck, climbing in behind you without a second thought.

simon settles you both into the warm water, your back to his chest, his arms wrapped around you, the night breeze ghosting over both of your skin. one of his hands strokes lazily up and down your arm without thought.

“next time we’ll try you on top,” he says quietly, pressing a kiss behind your ear. “see if we can avoid the giraffe shite.”

you laugh, loud and free in the quiet night, and tilt your head back to kiss him again properly.

yeah, you're already looking forward to the next time.

[x-strwbrry]

sweetly pinned 🪽🪽

Johnny "Soap" MacTavish x Fem!Reader

Warnings: 18+ smut, explicit but disgustingly tender, somnophilia, praise/possessive talk, desperate sex, PTSD nightmare comfort, unprotected sex, creampie, no use of condoms. [no physical descriptors for reader]

You wake to a heavy, stretching fullness. There is no gentle transition; you are suddenly awake, pinned to the mattress by a solid weight. Between your thighs, a slow, thick friction drags against your flesh, sparking sharp heat straight to your core.

A broken moan escapes your lips, muffled by the pillow.

Above you, Johnny’s frame presses down harder, flattening his chest against your back. A rough, sleep-thickened voice murmurs against your ear.

"Mornin', my sweet lass," Johnny rumbles. His Scottish burr is raw, trembling with a quiet desperation. His breath burns your neck as his lips brush your skin. "Didnae mean to wake ye. I just... the dark was too loud, darlin'. I couldnae breathe without ye."

You shift, sleepily arching your back to meet his weight, a soft sigh catching in your throat. "S'okay, my love," you murmur, tilting your head to give him your neck. "Mmm… Johnny…"

Your body is instantly, sharply awake. You register the scarred planes of his chest and the crushing weight of his arms caging you in. His hand splays possessively across your lower belly, fingers digging in. He is already buried to the hilt, his thick cock stretching you to your limit. He moves in slow, grinding rolls of his hips, fucking you, desperately trying to sink so deep that he can’t tell where he ends and you begin.

"Shh, my bonnie girl," he hushes. His fingers grip your hip bone, pulling you back to bottom out deeper. "S'okay. Just a wicked dream, aye? Thought... thought I was back there. Thought I was gone, and I couldnae find my way back to ye. I woke up and needed to be inside you. Needed to feel your heartbeat. Needed to know you're real."

Your hand reaches back blindly, fingers brushing his stubbled jaw. "I am real," you whisper, leaning into his touch. "And I'm not going anywhere, baby."

His movements are unhurried but heavy, laden with a terrifying hunger. It is the desperation of a man who knows any day could be his last, clinging to his only sanctuary. Each time he pulls back, you feel the empty ache of his absence; when he pushes back in, the powerful stroke fills you so completely it steals your breath.

"Steamin' Jesus, you feel so good," he groans, burying his face in your neck, inhaling you as if you are the only clean air he has left. "Always so warm. So soft. My girl. You save me, darlin'."

Your hands are trapped beneath you, useless against the mattress. You can't touch him now. You can only lie there and take this heavy, possessive worship, a man desperately begging for his life through your body. The thought that you are his peace, his only shield against the demons of the field, makes you tremble.

His hand slides down, rough fingers trailing through the slick heat between your thighs before finding your clit. He simply presses down with constant pressure, anchoring you as his cock ruthlessly claims your depth.

"Johnny," you whine, your hips twitching back against him. "Oh fuck, Johnny…"

"Shh, now, darlin'," he soothes, his voice a low, coaxing purr, though his breath is ragged. "Easy. Just feel me. Feel how deep I am, how I'm fillin' you up. I love hearin' my name on your lips when I'm buried in ye. Makes me feel like I actually made it home."

The pace remains relentless. His cock drags heavily against your inner walls, the head of it kissing that sweet, sensitive spot with every deliberate, bruising thrust. You are a slick, hot mess, creating wet, squelching noises that echo in the quiet room, dirty sounds of friction that make your pulse race with a dizzying heat because you are so desperately grateful for his weight.

"You're shakin', hen," Johnny murmurs, his lips brushing your temple, his grip tightening until his knuckles are white. "Am I hurtin' you?"

You shake your head, choking on a sob. It isn't pain; it is the sheer, terrifying volume of him.

Everything narrows down to this exact, suffocating space. You are intensely aware of the rough calluses on his palm anchoring your clit, the heavy, sweat-slicked drag of his chest hair against your bare back, and the faint scent of the field still clinging to his skin. You are being completely consumed by a man who lives on the edge of a blade.

Every heavy slide of his cock feels like a countdown, a desperate imprint of his existence into your very bones. You are memorizing him, the exact thickness stretching you, the dry heat of his throat against your collarbone, the ragged catch in his chest. If he doesn't make it back next time, this is the weight you will have to carry. The thought is sharp, dirty, and devastatingly beautiful. It coils in your lower belly, pulling so tight it aches.

"Good," he rumbles, his hand pressing firmer, driving you ruthlessly over that cliff. "I want you sensitive for me. Let me make you come, darlin'. Just let go."

And you do. Your body arches back against him as the orgasm finally breaks, a violent, sobbing wave of ecstasy that clamps your pussy desperately around his length, trying to lock him inside you forever. You gasp his name, your head thrashing against the mattress. Johnny groans, his hips stuttering, his cock twitching violently as your tight, pulsing heat milks him, holding him captive until you are a whimpering mess beneath him.

"Tha's my girl," he whispers, his voice thick with raw possessiveness. "Always so perfect."

The sleepy haze is entirely gone, replaced by a desperate, aching need to hold him. "Johnny," you gasp, trying to turn. "Please, I need to see you."

With a low grunt, he helps you roll over, keeping his thick length buried deep within your wet heat. Now you are face to face, legs tangled, your hands finally free. You scramble to grab his broad shoulders, your fingers sinking into the hard muscle of his back, before tangling desperately in his mohawk, the proof that he is here, alive, and yours.

His eyes are dark, intense, and shining with tears in the dim morning light. "Fuck, I love it when ye look at me like that," he groans, his hips resuming that deep, rolling grind. "Like I'm your whole world."

"You are," you whisper, pulling his head down.

The kiss is wet, messy. Your tongues slide together in a panting, frantic rhythm. The new angle shifts everything, his cock pressing ruthlessly against a devastatingly sensitive spot deep inside you. Your moans are no longer muffled; they are loud, uninhibited cries of pleasure.

"Johnny, oh my god, Johnny... don't stop, please don't stop."

"Never stoppin', my heart," he rasps, resting his forehead against yours, his gaze locked onto yours with a fierce, burning love. "I want to fill you up so completely. Tell me you want me. Tell me you're mine."

"Yes," you sob, the word torn from your throat as you cling to his neck. "I'm yours. Fill me up, Johnny. Please."

"My beautiful girl," he chokes out, his thrusts turning harder, more purposeful, the bed creaking loudly in time with your bodies. "Gonna leave my love so deep inside you that you'll feel me with every breath you take today. You'll never forget who you belong to."

The dirty, intensely romantic promise throws you over the edge. Another orgasm crashes through you, a blinding wave. You cry out his name as your pussy tightly milks his thick length, your hands scrabbling for purchase on his sweat-slicked back, desperately memorizing the feel of his skin.

"Fuck, that's it, that's it," Johnny growls, his rhythm faltering as your body convulsively clamps down on him. "Come on my cock, sweetheart. Take it all."

He buries his face in your neck, his own groans vibrating against your skin as he lets go. You feel the hot, thick pulses of his release deep inside you, an intimate, searing heat that seems to go on forever. He fills you completely, his body tensing and shuddering with each powerful spurt.

Johnny doesn't pull out. He collapses on top of you, his weight a welcome, grounding pressure. The air is thick with the scent of sex. You can feel his cum, a warm, sticky pool inside you, and the sheer, fleeting safety of this moment brings tears to your eyes. You hold him tighter, your arms locked around him as if you could physically keep him from ever leaving.

You run your fingers through the short, soft hair at the sides of his mohawk, tracing lazy circles on his back. He is still inside you, softening but lingering, a constant, comforting presence.

"Bad dream, huh?" you murmur after a long silence, your voice trembling slightly.

He lifts his head to look at you, the tough sergeant completely stripped away, leaving only a vulnerable, raw affection in his eyes.

"Aye, well. Woke up in a cold sweat, thought I'd lost you," he admits quietly, brushing a stray tear from your cheek with a rough thumb. "Had to make sure you were real. That I was still allowed to love you like this."

You pull him down for another slow, sweet kiss, tasting the salt of your own tears. "I'm real, Johnny," you whisper against his lips. "And I'm yours. Always."

He sighs, a sound of pure, melting relief, and settles back down with his head on your chest, listening to your heartbeat. "Best fuckin' dream I ever had, then," he mumbles, his eyes already drifting shut.

You smile, stroking his hair, feeling his warmth leak slowly inside you.

He is alive. He is here. Johnny Mactavish. Your Johnny. The love of your life.

[cod-indulgences]

Babes do you have any thoughts on johnny and chubby readers😫 because no one can tell me that man doesnt love himself a pudgy tummy and fat thighs. Would genuinely be offended if you tried to lose weight, being insecure around him would just mean hes gonna fuck the idea out of your head

Johnny Mactavish x fem!reader, fat!reader, body image issues, internalized fatphobia, body shaming, aggressive confidence boosting, dirty talk, body image healing, brief mention of anal fantasy, brief oral

Anon so patient waiting since July I'm sorry

It comes up while you're just lounging on the couch, Johnny having coaxed you back against his chest, arms around you while you both half-watch a reality show. There's a woman on the screen throwing a massive fit about one of the men apparently cheating on her- the camera angles jump around as she screeches and goes off on anyone within arms reach.

You snort softly when she gets to the meat of her upset- that she's too beautiful and sexy to be cheated on. How could someone want to fuck anyone except her when she's physically perfect?

"Thank God you're not like that," you say, and Johnny makes a questioning sound. "With me for my body, I mean. I feel kind of bad for her, she thinks she's only worth anything if she's sexy."

Johnny's hands still where they've been idly rubbing up and down your belly. He does that a lot, squeezing or smoothing the curve of your stomach where it hangs down, the extra folds around your sides, under your arms. You'd not really paid attention unless it tickled- he was a bit twitchy at times, and you have a lot of real estate to fill his hands when he couldn't find a pen to click or fiddle with.

"What do you mean?" He asks.

You crane your neck back to look up at his chin. "You know. At least I know you like me enough to tolerate all this," you wave a hand across your soft stomach, the rippled fat of your thighs. You mean it, sincerely- you're incredibly lucky that Johnny can put up with your physical shape being less than ideal.

Abruptly, you're lifted up, and you yelp in surprise as Johnny drops you onto the seat, nearly crawling on top of you. He's got a weird, frozen look on his face.

"Do you," he starts, and stops for a second, shaking his head. "D'you think I don't think you're gorgeous? Sexy?"

You gape at him, mouth opening and closing a few times. "I mean, it's not....you know. I'm not like, hideous. But you didn't exactly picture yourself ending up with Miss XXXL here, y'know?"

Johnny remains kneeling, his whole face tight, and you curl in a little. You said something wrong, and he's upset. Why? What for? It's a compliment, that he could look past your body, liked you enough to stick around.

Your boyfriend sits back, hands coming to his face. "This is my fault," he mumbles, "I didn't pay enough attention. Didn't say it right. Fuck!" You startle at the outburst, watching him with wide eyes. "You! You think I just- what, lie back and think of Scotland when we're in bed?"

Your mouth is opening and closing like a fish. "Not...really?" You squeak, and wince. "I know you enjoy it, I'm not forcing you to be there, it's just- I don't know!" You really don't, Johnny initiates sex more than you do, but there's a difference between sex with your hot girlfriend, and sex with your fat girlfriend, and only rarely do the two cross together.

Johnny just stares at you, something like anger in his face, and something also incredibly sad. It makes you nervous, tension building up along your neck, and you actually yelp when he stands abruptly, hauling you up with him; he's strong, he can move even your ass easily, and it's something you've always appreciated- that you're less likely to hurt him on accident.

He storms through the flat like he's on fire, all but snorting smoke, and when you reach the bedroom you're actually a little frightened. "Johnny, what the hell?" You snap, and he whirls you around to face the big mirror hanging on the closet door.

He's got your chin in his hand, forcing you to look at yourself in the mirror. His bulk is mostly hidden behind you, but he's got his face pressed against your head, holding your gaze.

"Starting at the top," he snaps, and his hand comes up to tug a lock of your hair, gentle despite his harsh tone. "Love this, perfect to get my hands in and tug when I want to fuck you harder. Know you love it too, the way you moan for me." You gasp, startled by the sudden vulgarity, and Johnny just drops the lock to instead get a fistful at the back of your head, pulling the way he likes. You're weak, and your neck arches with a moan.

"Now here," he continues, and bites your earlobe, "are these pretty little ears for me to say all sorts of fucking filth into. Like how hot you look creaming around my cock and begging for more." His teeth shift to your cheek. "Fucking love these fat cheeks. Yes, fat-" he'd felt you stiffen "-I'm not fucking blind. Perfect to get my teeth into." He nips at your skin, and in the mirror, you see the red mark blooming on the curve of your cheek, only slightly darker than the blush already taking over your face.

One of Johnny's fingers hooks into your mouth, tugging so your lips part. He grips your jaw with his other hand. In the mirror, he looks half wild, turning your face to look at him straight on. "This mouth, I'd fuckin' write sonnets. Taste good, feel good, so pretty when you smile and when you get that tight little throat around my cock. The way your lips look when you're being kissed." He kisses you then, hands cradling your cheeks, deep and full and overwhelming. Your knees are wobbly, and you pant as he sucks your bottom lip, rolls his tongue across yours, swallows the half-baked protests and confusion from you. He stops only when you actually get lightheaded, dizzy, spinning you to look at the mirror again.

"Next stop, shoulders. Arms, these soft things that hold me so fucking good- I come home and the first thing I want is your arms around me." Johnny rubs his hands down your arms, gripping your wrists. "You're ticklish too, in the elbows, which I've never heard of until you, and then I can get these sweet little hands on my body- fuck, feel that?" He grinds against your ass. "Think about your hands all the time. Soft and pretty and so nice on my cock, tugging my hair." He lifts one hand to his mouth, and sucks at two of your fingers, releasing them just to nip and tongue at the sensitive underside of your wrist.

You're breathing hard, still several steps behind, your skin flushed and hot from the sudden jump into this wild sort of, what, confidence boosting? Dirty talk-cum-motivation? Brain aneurysm?

Johnny bites harder at the soft curve of your forearm, yanking you from your thoughts. "Now," he says, growls, and your breath catches at the dark force of his eyes, "get this fucking shirt off, or I'll tear it off."

Oh fuck, he means it, and each word goes right to your pussy.

You yank at your T-shirt, and before it's even out of your hands, Johnny is pressed up tight to your back. His cock is hard against your ass, his chin tucked down over your shoulder, and all his attention is on the big, soft curves of your breasts as he lifts them up, squeezing them together.

He moans, eyes closing for a moment to nuzzle at your throat. Thumbing your nipples makes you shiver, and he does it again, flicking the soft, sensitive flesh until they perk up. "Oh, these, I could write a fucking book about your tits, love. Soft and warm and so big, just perfect in my hands. Look so nice when you aren't hiding them under all that shit." His grip shifts abruptly, and you moan when he pinches your nipples between thumbs and forefingers. It's maddening, firm pressure spreading heat through your breasts and down into your belly, between your legs, pussy heating up as your brain scrambles.

He tugs, harder, like he's milking you, and you squeeze your thighs together. Fuck, that's good- and Johnny sees it, grinning when you bite your lip. "Love watching them bounce when you're on my cock. Could smother myself in these tits, want to leave marks on them all fucking day. Want to see how big your nipples can get, if I spent enough time on them." He tugs again. "Would you like that love? Suck on these girls until you're crying?" He pinches sharply then releases your nipples, groping the soft flesh of your breasts as they sag back down. You flinch a little, seeing it, but Johnny moans and sucks a mark under your ear.

He keeps playing with your breasts, lifting and caressing them, teasing your nipples as you squirm against him. He keeps lifting and dropping them, and his face is intent, hot, watching as each breast bounces and jiggles in his hands.

He smacks one, down across the top, and you moan instead of yelp- the hit does something new, sends heat deeper into you, and he does it again, smacking across each tit, until your skin is flushed. You cling to the arm across your waist, Johnny taking your weight, as steady at your back as ever even as he groans and sucks a mark into your throat.

"Fucking amazing," he pants, licking a stripe to your ear. "Been dying to fuck these tits of yours, did you know that?"

You shake your head, gasping as his hand cups your breast gently again, thumbing the nipple, playing with it.

"I want to do it all the fucking time, because you're so fucking sexy I can't stand it. You drive me insane just standing around, soft and fat and gorgeous," and he catches your chin again when you whine and try to look away from the mirror. "No, don't you dare. Look at yourself. Look how beautiful you are, just as you are," and everything goes very blurry.

Johnny's arms come together around your waist, cleaving you to him. His cock grinds against your ass, but it's secondary to how he cradles you, presses his face against your cheek. "Oh, love, don't cry. I just wish I'd known to say it before. I thought you knew, I really did," and your whole body flares, hot and wanting, when Johnny twines your fingers into his and drags your hands together down your belly, across the full round fat pad over your mons and to your clit.

"Fat here too, and I love it," he groans, and you blink away the tears as he gropes your belly, one hand squeezing and stroking the flesh, down your hips and where your thighs curve out, the other working with yours to rub swift and light over your clit.

You get a smack to your thigh that makes you spread them, and Johnny moans and kisses your cheek again. "Watch, love, see that?" He smacks you again, thigh rippling. "So fucking soft. Big curvy legs between mine in bed, thighs I keep asking you to smother me with- oh, there you go," because your cheeks are flaring with new heat as you recall how often Johnny grips your thighs as he eats you out, tugging on them to try and bring you closer in around his head. You'd always resisted, anxious about suffocating him, about the way your stretch marks feel under his hands.

He's still teasing your clit, using your own fingers to circle around it, making you whine and roll your hips. He laughs, sweet and low, and abruptly dips a finger inside you; you're so wet he goes right in easily, and brings it back up to his lips shining with slick. He licks it off, moaning around the digit, as your fingers slow awkwardly, unsure again. His hands go back to your belly, and he moans into your ear and sucks at your throat, rubbing over your stomach, the rolls on your sides, finding each dip and crease of flesh, and just- the way he touches you, his fingers delving into and under your belly, stroking with the same focus he gives your pussy, like it turns him on just having his hands on the literal biggest insecurity you have. "Love this too. I see you try to hide it, I don't want you to, I want you to show off all this big soft body. I want you in fucking nothing this summer, one of those little things, so small I can't even tell if you're naked under this- fuck, baby, I'll lose my mind."

He nudges a leg between yours, pushing your feet further apart. "Even love these little things, the way your toes curl when I get my cock right where you want it," and you wobble and fall forward, palms slapping the mirror, when Johnny kneels, lifts your ass, and licks a wet stripe from clit to hole.

You shake and cry out, off balance, still trying to catch up mentally to everything he's saying. Johnny doesn't lie to you, but you'd always just...brushed off his compliments. Said thank you with a smile but never took it more than skin deep. Why would you, when every partner before Johnny had made it so clear your fat was either a deal breaker, or something to be ashamed of? When every magazine page comes with "curvy" models that barely hit double digit pant sizes, when ordering meals gets you side eye and smirks for asking for an extra serving, when clothes are hard to find and harder to look good in?

When going out with Johnny and seeing the looks, the derision, the clear question on everyone's faces, why is someone like him, with someone like her?

Johnny bites hard into your ass cheek, and you yelp, the lust faded. When he stands, tucking his chin over your shoulder, his lips are wet; he twines his fingers back with yours again to keep them pinned. His eyes are so dark, so heated, and you barely breathe when he locks his gaze to yours and presses his lips to your ear.

"I love that fat fucking ass, the way it moves, the way it feels. I love that even your pussy is round and soft and I can play with it when you let a dog like me get into you." He nips at you, growling, a half-hysterical giggle bursting forth before he makes you gasp with his fingers on your clit again. "I'll spent half my life just on this gorgeous fucking ass, the way I want to come on it and bite it and fuck it- oh yes, love, I'm getting my cock into this ass someday, and you're going to bounce on it until you come." You whine, imagining it as he strokes you firmly, watching the way your lashes flutter and cheeks burn. Your pussy aches for something in it, and his cock is stiff and hard at your back, rubbing a damp trail over your ass. His other hand leaves yours still against the mirror to come down and grope at it, lifting and bouncing the way he did your breasts, smacks and pinches that make your hips squirm.

"Do you want my cock in you?" He breathes, and you nod helplessly. "Good girl," and you're spun around, hair pulled tight to force your head back as Johnny kisses you like a dying man, tongue and heat, swallowing the moan you give him, and then before you have a chance at your normal protests- Johnny groans and lifts you, back to the mirror, thighs spread open over his arms as he drops you down hard onto his cock.

You shout at the sudden stretch, and he grins, muscles bulging in his arms and shoulders. Your own slip against the mirror, damp with sweat. Fuck he feels so good, the thick full stretch of him, the way your pussy flutters and clenches down before accepting him in, taking his cock deeper.

"Johnny- no, I'm too big-"

"Impossible," he spits, and draws his hips back only to slam them forward again, making your head swim at the double impact, his cock in your pussy and his groin to your clit. "Get fatter, actually!" He does it again before you can speak, cutting you off with a moan, and the mirror is clattering behind you, as you clutch around his shoulders and take the pounding he's giving you. "Give me more of you to love," and you wail as he bends somehow closer over you and presses a kiss to your open mouth.

"I do, you know," he says, not slowing down at all, just ruthlessly fucking you against the door. Your whole body clenches tight, winding up, pussy so wet and throbbing you can hear the wet slap of hips together. "I love you. I love you for your kindness and your smile, for your gorgeous fucking body and the way you make me feel like I'm home." His eyes are very bright, and yours swim with tears again. He physically can't bend you any further, breasts and belly all squeezed up between your bodies, but he manages to get his forehead to yours, locking your eyes together. Your heart aches in your chest, your pussy clenching and fluttering, as his cock rolls across your throbbing g-spot, your clit slaps against his groin.

"I love you," he repeats, "and I'd love you if you were thin, but I wouldn't love you more," and you burst into tears and come for Johnny with his name on your lips, shaking, all the soft fat parts of you bouncing as he moans and clings to you.

You're holding him tight, hands in his hair and over his shoulders, and you moan into his mouth with a kiss as he keeps fucking you through your orgasm, hips bouncing off your fat ass and thighs, each smack a reminder of your weight and shape and- and how much Johnny loves it, loves you, the mountains and rolls of your body not tolerated but- enjoyed, wanted, craved.

Johnny groans and staggers backwards to the bed, falling into it with you still in his arms. As his back hits the mattress, you whine, the angle of his cock shifting inside you, and with your legs still caught up in his arms you can't brace yourself. You fall fully onto him, weight dropping down over his lap, no hovering or fretting, and you see Johnny come like an explosion. His eyes roll and his hips buck up under you, not enough leverage to lift fully, caught in the hot wet clutch of your pussy, and you bite your lip and bear down, letting him feel the full rippling pulse around his cock.

Johnny wails, and you swear you feel a fresh burst of come inside you, as he groans and pants and limply releases your legs. You can't let go of him yet, still too fragile, something old and broken in you melting down between your bodies and gently being set back into place.

You curl over him like a snails shell, dropping little kisses onto his cheeks, blinking back the tears still dragging at your lashes. He grins, red faced and sweating, and tilts his chin up for a kiss he turns slow, soothing, indulging in your lips as much as your body, the sweet tenderness of his mouth on yours and his hands gently cradling your hips making your heart ache again.

"I love you too," you finally manage, gasping, and burst into more giggles. "God, I love you so much." I'm sorry. I'm trying to believe you. I think I might be able to now.

"I love you too," he says, and rolls you both to your sides. Your leg slots between his as his cock slips free, pressing wet and sticky against your belly, still warm and cradled securely against your body. You're sexy. I want you to see it. You deserve to know you're beautiful.

You hold him like that for a while, time slipping away, just feeling his heart against your chest, whispering back and forth the harder secrets of what you think about yourself, Johnny catching them and sending them away like butterflies, like smoke, until you fall asleep together with his arms around you, for once not worried about being too big to hold.

[callsign-arson]

part 2 to pussy drunk soap

Johnny just came back from a long mission, and by now we all know he has a specific food craving.

So he sneaks into the bedroom, clothes already coming off and kneels beside the bed where his pretty little dove is sleeping. Youre already so obedient, moaning when his rough hands slide over your thighs, tugging restlessly at your panties.

"On your back, luv." Soap murmurs both impatiently and with full excitement. He's been about getting his hands on you for a month. Think about all those times hes made inappropriate gestures to Ghost using his tongue and hands to get his point across.

"I've got a pretty bonnie back home. Cunt tastes like focking heaven." He'd say, eyes rolling just at the memory of your wetness lathered all over his chin and fingers.

Immediately, Soap folds you onto your back, knees up to your chest, pussy already pulsing inside your cute little panties. He practically snaps them off with a rough tear and just as quickly shoves two fingers inside you.

"Oh fuck- shit.. Johnny.. baby, please.." Youd beg, even with your eyes half closed from sleep. Your hands would tug at his wrists, hips rolling up lazily. "Johnny, I need your tongue.. please.."

He groans, getting on his knees and shoving his face into your pussy, nose pressed against your pubes, tongue lapping happily at your tongue. A thick rumble leaves his chest as he begins pumping his fingers in and out, expertly locating your g-spot and tormenting it until your squirming and squealing.

"God, cum on my face, dove." He'd grunt, dragging his tongue from your back hole to your pretty clit. It pulses in his mouth when he sucks it inside, curling his fingers at the same time.

An embarrassingly loud sound escapes your mouth, you want to drag it back inside but its too late, youre already cumming. You hear a groan leave Soap, his tongue increasing rhythm.

Only after do you realize you squirted. All over his fucking face.

"Shit, I'm sorry, baby-" Youd rush out to say, but he'd immediately shush you, sucking his fingers into his mouth and wiping away his face.

"That was the hottest thing I've seen all month, luv. And were doing it again."

Anyway, we all love pussy drunk soap

[lesserthan-3]

reader who isn’t the fastest, the strongest, or the best with a gun, but who’s known for being the smartest of the group.

and john soap mactavish who has reader of their back, deliberately thrusting into that spongy spot that had you cumming and squirting repeatedly throughout the night till a numbing haze completely takes over your head.

“goin’ dumb fa me, bon?”

he smiles when you don’t even have it in you to disagree. normally, you’d always had a witty remark ready for him but perhaps your jaw was too sore or your brain was just pure mush (or maybe both).

he taps your cheek twice, then three time more, urging you to open your eyes. “your eyes, I need them on me.”

you mewl as you can barely make out the fuzzy outline of his body standing tall over you. but perhaps you’re doing something right since he seems to chuckle with amusement.

he leans over you, pressing your legs towards your shoulders as his forearms find home on either side of your head. you groan deeply as you feel him slot himself even deeper inside you. who knew it was even possible?

his voice comes out low and gruff as he caresses your head. “that’s it, babygirl. don need that pretty brain of yours.”

[twolegsandbleeds]

"what the fuck do you think you're doing?"

your voice comes out positively horrified as you stare down at your boyfriend.

your six foot four, built like a refrigerator, scares grannies in the street with just his face boyfriend - who is currently sprawled out in your bright pink paddling pool in the garden, wearing a pair of black swim trunks that should, frankly, be illegal considering how little they leave to the imagination.

simon just looks at you over the top of his sunglasses.

"it's hot. i'm stayin' cool. relaxin', even." he shoots back, "or i was until you got back an' started squawkin' at me."

you contemplate throwing the cold glass of water you're holding over him at the squawking comment. don't. but only because you know he'd probably enjoy it considering how bloody hot it is.

"but it's mine." your voice comes out almost pitiful. "you laughed when i bought it."

"yeah, i did." he agrees with a shrug. "but mission parameters change. now it's… tactical."

you open your mouth to retort, but he cuts you off with a smirk. "you look good, by the way love. new bikini? yer tits sit real nice in it."

your jaw snaps shut.

heat rushes to your cheeks in a way that has nothing to do with the sun.

"i'm getting in." you say stubbornly, "move your oversized arse."

he doesn't move a single inch - instead, as you step into the paddling pool he tugs you down, so you land straddling his hips; collapsing onto his broad chest with a soft "ooft."

one of his arms wraps around your waist to hold you there, the other reaches down to scoop cool water from the pool in the palm of his hand and lets it run down your spine. you shiver at the cold initially, goosebumps peppering your skin - but then you relax, sinking against him, eyes fluttering shut as you finally feel somewhere close to cool for the first time in days.

"better?" he murmurs against the side of your head, almost smug.

"fuck off." you grumble back, but you wriggle against him in contentment anyway. simon laughs - that low, rough sound that's so rare it feels like a gift every time you hear it, one hand coming up to rest at the nape of your neck. "'orrible woman." he mutters, but you can hear the smile in his voice, the fondness creeping through despite the insult.

you wriggle against him again - but it's more purposeful this time, more of a deliberate roll of your hips against his as you raise your eyebrows. "horrible? that's what you call the love of your life? the one woman who'll put up with your arse?"

his eyes go wide as you roll your hips, a groan dying in his throat as he feels himself immediately harden in his swim shorts. "love…" he warns quietly, "we're in the fuckin' garden."

you just grin, rolling your hips down against his again so the thin fabric of your new bikini bottoms drags over the line of his cock. "then you should probably keep quiet, shouldn't you baby?" you murmur back.

simon's grip shifts, reaching down to grab your ass and rock you against him like he can't help himself. "'orrible woman." he repeats, but now? it sounds more like he's trying to convince himself.

you lift yourself just enough to reach between you, tugging down the front of his swim trunks so his cock springs free - thick, heavy, already leaking. you push your bikini bottoms to the side, line him up - but not before teasing his swollen head against your clit a few times.

he groans at the sight.

then groans louder when you actually sink down onto him, before he slaps a hand over his own mouth to muffle it, fully aware of the fact the neighbours windows are open.

"christ yer fuckin' tight." he hisses, head tipping back against the inflated edge of the pool, dark eyes fluttering shut beneath his sunglasses. you brace your hands on his chest for purchase, adjusting so you're on the balls of your feet in the pool; then you start riding him. slow at first, gentle rolls of your hips as simon's hands start to wander - squeezing your tits through your bikini top, pinching your nipples until you moan gently. his lips find your jaw, trail up to your ear, "careful, love. neighbours are goin' to 'ear if you keep ridin' me like that."

you don't stop. don't slow down. just clench down around him and ride him harder. the water in the pool laps at your bodies; cool splashes hitting your skin as you chase the pressure coiling through your gut. simon snakes a hand between your bodies, pads of his fingers finding your clit and rubbing tight, mean little circles there.

"fuck." you gasp, leaning forward, angling yourself so every bounce means he drags over the most sensitive spots inside you.

he hisses through his teeth, pressure building in his own stomach. "fuckin' go on then. make yerself come in this stupid fuckin' little pool you got so het up about." he mutters, before biting down on the curve of your neck - hard.

the pressure builds, peaks, snaps; you come with a cry that you muffle by sinking your teeth into his shoulder. he follows right after, gripping your ass to hold you flush against him as he floods you; hot pulses that contrast with the cool water surrounding you.

for a long moment you both just lie there, breathing heavily, hearts racing against each others.

simon presses a kiss against your temple. "told you it was tactical, love."