a/n: I’M BACK. and pls exercise patience w me i’ve got 40+ requests so im aiming for abt 3-5 a day cause im on a month school holidays now and i miss writing so i will be prioritising requests (unlike some ppl who don’t wanna prioritise me? [she’ll know who she is]). but i am js a girl so don’t hate if it takes a while to get to your particular request xx
masterlist !
ᯓ★ he’s confident as hell. he’s been with older girls, he’s not shy, and he loves to show you a good time. he’s got that cocky grin and raspy voice in your ear, whispering filthy things no matter where you are.
ᯓ★ neck kisses are his signature move. biting, sucking, leaving bruises right where your shirt won’t hide them. he wants people to know who you belong to.
ᯓ★ he’s so into control. not in a scary way—but in a “hands gripping your hips so you move how he wants” way. he’s the type to murmur, “good girl, just like that,” when you listen.
ᯓ★ dirty talk king. thick dub accent, voice dropping lower when he’s worked up. he’s constantly praising you and swearing under his breath about how gorgeous you look coming undone for him.
ᯓ★ spontaneous as fuck (anyone disagreeing be fr). he’d fuck you anywhere depending on his mood: car, alley, stairwell at Biddies, rugby showers if he can get away with it. the thrill does it for him. but if you aren’t as experienced i’m picturing him being gentle with the location— bedrooms (yours and his) and is very private locations.
ᯓ★ a bit possessive. if someone looks at you too long, he’ll have his arm around you, pressing a kiss to your temple, or flat-out dragging you away so he can remind you who you belong to.
ᯓ★ loves you on top. not because he’s lazy—because he likes watching you move. his hands grip your thighs, eyes fixed on the way you take him, and he’s so vocal about how fucking stunning you look riding him.
ᯓ★ big into aftercare, secretly. wipes you down, pulls you into his chest, strokes your hair. might chirp a teasing “reckon i wore you out, yeah?” but he’s gentle, checking if you’re okay.
ᯓ★ loves seeing your tears. not in a cruel way—he just loves the sight of you overwhelmed. he’ll kiss them away and tell you how beautiful you look crying on his cock.
ᯓ★ likes a bit of hair-pulling. especially if you’re fighting him for control. he’ll wrap your hair around his fist and tilt your head up so you’re forced to look him in the eyes.
ᯓ★ can get rough, but he’s never cruel. you say the word, he stops. no questions. he wants you to love every second of it.
ᯓ★ insanely horny after rugby matches. adrenaline running high, sweaty, keyed up and wanting to bury himself inside you the minute he’s alone with you.
ᯓ★ his hands never stay still. gripping your waist, sneaking under your shirt, trailing over your thighs. even outside the bedroom, he’s always touching you.
ᯓ★ bit of a show-off. loves making you cum loudly, especially if he knows someone might hear. your moans are a badge of honour for him.
ᯓ★ he’s obsessed with your taste. he’ll go down on you for ages, rough tongue, strong hands pinning your hips. and he loves finishing in his mouth.
ᯓ★ low growls when he’s close. not quite words—just that deep, guttural sound in his chest when he’s losing control.
I hate it when like someone on tt or ig finds out they're a face claim for a character then proceed to make it their entire personality like SHUT THE FUCK UP!!!!!!!!!! and its usually the guys too like bro everyone knows you havent touched a book since library time in year 2 like seriously and its always men who get fcd for dark romances and even girls sometimes too fr like name one person who's found out they're a fc for a book and hasn't made it their whole personality its impossible
so most of the boys of tommen fandom just found out lizzie is bipolar. I mean to me, that was pretty obvious by the way she acts. Is it an excuse for her behavior? In a way... yes. But it is an explanation towards a lot of things. Me personally, I never hated her even before she saved joey. Yeah she can be a B but I cant hate this girl for some reason.
Her BP was something that had been speculated by the fandom for a while and I find how chloe displayed it to be so realistic and on par with how having the disorder feels like. It ruins your relationships with those around you and can send you spiraling which is exactly what we see with Lizzie throughout the series.
Lizzie is a B. But at the same time she’s caring, kind and hurting- her whole world being shaken again and again. Whilst I disagree w it being an excuse- it is definitely an explanation and realistic look into what its like having a BP friend. I always knew there wS more to Lizzie’s story therefore it was hard to hate her knowing she was going through something terrible. Whilst I dont bother defending her anymore bcs in certain situations she did go too far, I still wish her the best & will always like her character. She needs therapy and a brand new start which hopefully Chloe is planning on giving her.
Okay, but Johnny and reader with the same height difference than Johnny and Shannon, and reader is super shy because Johnny is her first boyfriend and she's so embarrassed when they first kiss and he picks her up while kissing
Love your writing girl, keep it going you slay
looking up, falling in
pairing: johnny kavanagh x fem!reader
tw: idk
a/n: lowkey on a roll here
masterlist !
it’s barely after ten on a saturday night, and you’re standing outside biddies with your back pressed to the cool brick wall, trying to hide how much your hands are shaking.
johnny’s in front of you, leaning in close, all bright eyes and crooked grin. he’s taller than you by a good bit, broad shoulders blocking out half the streetlights, and it makes your chest squeeze painfully tight.
“why’re ya lookin’ at me like i’m after growin’ two heads?” he teases, voice soft and laced with that easy laugh that makes your stomach flutter.
you drop your gaze, cheeks burning. “i’m not,” you mumble, picking at the hem of your cardigan. “just… ya know. you’re… close.”
“’course i’m close,” he says, nudging his nose against yours. “been tryin’ to get this close all fuckin’ week.”
he says it so casually, like it’s the simplest thing in the world, but your pulse roars in your ears.
because johnny kavanagh is your first boyfriend. first everything, really. and even though he’s been sweet and patient and hasn’t pushed you for anything you’re not ready for — he’s still him. loud, confident, big rugby fella who somehow decided he wanted you.
you try to step back, but the wall’s right there, and he just smirks.
“where d’ya think you’re goin’, love?”
“i dunno,” you squeak. “i just… i’ve never… with anyone before—”
“never what?” he interrupts, leaning even closer.
you can’t say it. can’t form the words “kissed anyone,” because it sounds so childish and embarrassing.
but johnny’s eyes soften as he studies you, and one of his big hands comes up to gently cradle your cheek.
“ya think i don’t know that?” he murmurs. “it’s grand, love. we’ll take it slow.”
you swallow hard. “but… what if i’m shite at it?”
he huffs a laugh, brushing his thumb over your cheekbone. “you won’t be. reckon i’ll like it no matter what.”
your eyes flutter shut when he leans in. you feel his breath first — warm and sweet from the mints he’d been chewing — and then the soft press of his lips against yours. it’s gentle, barely more than a brush, but it sends a shiver racing down your spine.
he pulls back an inch, eyes dark and glittering under the glow of the streetlights. “see? easy.”
but you’re so flustered you bury your face in his chest.
“aw, look at ya,” he teases, voice going low. “can’t handle one little kiss?”
you open your mouth to protest, but he suddenly scoops you up, arms sliding under your thighs, lifting you off your feet like you weigh nothing at all.
“johnny—!” you squeal, gripping his shoulders in shock.
“hold onto me,” he laughs, kissing you again, deeper this time.
your legs instinctively wrap around his waist, and his mouth moves against yours with a confidence that makes your head spin. one of his hands presses firmly against your back, the other gripping your thigh, holding you steady like it’s the easiest thing in the world.
he pulls back just enough to whisper, “ya doin’ alright?”
you nod, breathless, cheeks blazing. “yeah… just… jesus christ.”
“atta girl,” he says, pressing another lingering kiss to your lips. “ya’ve nothin’ to be embarrassed about. reckon i’m the luckiest bastard in cork.”
he’s still got you in his arms, back pressed to the wall and legs wrapped around his waist like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
your face is burning. your whole body’s buzzing. and johnny’s looking at you like you hung the bloody stars.
“didn’t think you were so shy,” he murmurs, brushing his nose along your jaw. “all quiet and cute… makes me wanna ruin ya a bit.”
“johnny,” you whisper, scandalised.
he just grins, all teeth and mischief. “what? i didn’t say i would. just that i want to.”
you bury your face in his neck, whining softly, but he doesn’t let you hide for long. he tilts his head, lips brushing against your temple.
“you’re not shite at it, by the way,” he says, and it takes you a second to realise he’s talking about the kiss. “you’re actually really fuckin’ good.”
“you don’t have to say that just to make me feel better,” you mumble.
his grip tightens slightly, keeping you close. “i’m not,” he says, and there’s no teasing this time — just sincerity, quiet and firm. “i wouldn’t lie to ya.”
you glance up at him, heart thudding. “you really mean that?”
“swear on me ma’s life.”
you let out a shaky little breath and press your forehead to his.
he kisses you again — slower this time. deeper. like he’s giving you time to sink into it. and you do.
you kiss him back properly now, arms wrapping around his neck, chest pressed to his. your lips move with his like you’re finally catching the rhythm, letting yourself stop overthinking.
“there she is,” he whispers, smiling against your mouth. “fuck, that’s nice.”
you hum in response, head going a bit foggy from the way he smells — like cologne and wind and something warm and familiar.
his hand slides under the hem of your jumper, not pushing anything, just resting warm on your lower back, fingers splayed.
“d’you wanna come back to mine for a bit?” he asks, voice soft and low. “just to hang out. nothin’ mad.”
“your parents—”
“won’t even know we’re there,” he grins, leaning in to kiss your jaw. “you can wear one of my jerseys if ya want. i know girls love that shite.”
you giggle before you can stop yourself. “you’re full of yourself.”
“only cause i’ve got you wrapped around me,” he mutters, giving your thighs a playful squeeze. “literally.”
you bite back a smile, nodding shyly. “alright then.”
“yeah?”
“yeah.”
he presses one last, lingering kiss to your lips before finally letting you down — and your knees almost buckle from how warm and wobbly you feel.
“jesus,” you whisper. “you should come with a fuckin’ warning sign.”
he throws his head back laughing, then slings an arm over your shoulder, pulling you close as you both start walking.
“too late for that now, love. you’re already in it.”
what about gf!reader who lives with Johnny like how shannon does in the books and one night she has a nightmare so she sneaks into his room to cuddle
thank you so much🫶 you’re honestly one of my fav writers on this app
safe in your arms
pairing: johnny kavanagh x fem!reader
tw: none
a/n: sorry if it’s short
masterlist !
the night’s too quiet.
like dead quiet — no rain on the windows, no creak of the floorboards, not even the usual muffled music from down the hall. just you and the dark and your heart beating a little too fast in your chest.
the dream hadn’t even made sense. just flashes. screaming, water, the sound of something crashing. and even though you’re awake now, it’s like your body doesn’t believe it. like it’s still stuck in that place.
you kick the blankets off. sit up. wait. but nothing about your room feels right. not the familiar glow of the lamppost outside, not the jumper you left on the chair, not even the photo of you and johnny taped to the wall.
your fingers twitch.
quietly, barefoot and wrapped in your own arms, you step out into the hall. his door’s already cracked open a bit — like he always leaves it, “in case you need me,” he says, even if he never really thinks you will.
but you do.
“johnny?”
he doesn’t move at first. then a rustle, the soft sound of the duvet shifting. “hm?”
your voice catches, even though it’s barely above a whisper. “can i— can i come in?”
he sits up a little, blinking at you through sleep. “course,” he says, already sliding over to make room. “you alright?”
you nod, even though you’re not. even though you’re already walking over, climbing under the covers beside him like it’s second nature. like you’ve done it a thousand times. he’s warm, the kind of warm that melts into your skin the second you touch him.
“bad dream?” he asks, hand finding the small of your back.
you nod again, pressing your face into the crook of his neck.
“what happened?”
you shrug. “don’t really know.”
he doesn’t push. just curls his arm tighter around you and exhales against your forehead.
“you’re alright now,” he murmurs. “s’just a dream.”
you hum.
he smells like sleep and whatever soap he uses and the faintest bit of smoke from earlier, when he stood on the balcony talking to gibs about nothing. his heartbeat’s steady under your palm. slow. grounding.
you whisper, “can i stay here?”
he gives a little scoff. “you think i’d kick you out?”
you smile. just barely. your hand bunches in the hem of his t-shirt.
“didn’t wanna wake you.”
“wake me anytime,” he says, softer this time. like it’s not a throwaway comment. like he means it. “you live here too, don’t you?”
you nod again. this time, into his chest.
“so stop actin’ like you need permission to crawl into bed with me.”
you stay quiet, let his thumb draw slow circles on your hip.
“you’re safe, alright?” he adds. “i won’t let anything happen to you.”
your throat tightens.
he feels it.
“c’mere,” he says, voice low. “just sleep, baby.”
and for once — with him warm around you, voice soft and heartbeat steady — you think maybe you actually can.
—
the morning sneaks in slow, soft gold spilling through the curtains and washing over the room in quiet warmth. your eyes flutter open first, blinking against the gentle light, but you don’t move—because johnny’s still wrapped around you, the weight of him a comforting anchor.
his breath is uneven, a little shaky, as if he’s just as fragile waking up as you are. his head rests on your shoulder, curls tousled in that wild, effortless way, and the faintest crease of worry still lingers between his brows, softening every time your hand moves to stroke through his hair.
“didn’t think you’d come find me last night,” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep and something softer, more vulnerable. “thought you’d stay in your own bed.”
you hum against the hollow of his throat, feeling his pulse under your lips. “i couldn’t. i needed you.”
he shifts just enough to press a kiss to your jaw, slow and featherlight like he’s memorizing every inch of you. “you don’t have to be scared. not when i’m here.”
your fingers trace gentle circles on the nape of his neck. “but what if the nightmares come back?”
his laugh is low, shaky but real, a tiny breath that feels like a release. “then i’ll be here to fight ‘em off. you’re not alone.”
he pulls you closer, the muscles in his arms relaxing as if your presence is all the peace he needs. his voice dips lower, trembling with something like hope. “you know… i’m not good at all this soft stuff. but with you — i want to be.”
your heart flutters, and he catches the look in your eyes, his own darkening with a tenderness that makes your breath catch.
“i don’t wanna just be the guy who messes up or gets hurt,” he whispers, voice thick. “i wanna be the one who holds you when it’s hard, who makes you feel safe.”
you squeeze his hand, your lips curving into a small smile. “you already do.”
he smiles back, shy and slow, and presses one last kiss to your temple before sighing contentedly.
“stay like this a while longer?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.
you nod without hesitation, because wrapped in his arms, the world feels a little less scary.
and maybe, just maybe, the nightmares won’t come back at all.
hello queen, i hope you aren’t sick of my requests yet😁🙏🫶
but i NEED some johnny angst
like where gf!reader and him are arguing because he’s overworking himself with his injury and reader is worried about him and trying to get him to stop
and both are feeling not listened to and unheard and so it gets blown way out of proportion and ends in a big argument, only for them to finally talk a few days later and make up 🙏🙏 thank you queen you have been feeding my BOT obsession beautifully
where it hurts
pairing: johnny kavanagh x fem!reader
tw: none !
a/n: this one’s been sitting in my drafts for a long time actually i js now have an excuse to post it but idk how i felt abt it but ur lowkey one of my favourite followers for the fact that ur feeding my writing obsession? so don’t even apologise for that shi
you knew it before he even opened the door.
the stiffness in his voice when he texted. the delay in his replies. the fact that you hadn’t seen him in days — not properly, not the way you used to.
and now he’s standing there in his training gear, shoulders tense, jaw working like he’s chewing on a fight he hasn’t let out yet.
“what?” he says flatly, like you’re already accusing him of something.
you don’t rise to it. you just step in, dropping your bag on his floor like you’ve done a hundred times before, voice quiet.
“you’re pushing too hard again, johnny.”
he exhales through his nose and rubs at his thigh — that thigh. the one that got torn up in the last game. the one the physio told him to rest for four weeks. it’s barely been two.
“i’m fine.”
“you’re not.”
“you’re not me,” he snaps, tone sharper than usual. “you don’t know.”
that hits. not because it’s true, but because you do know — you know what he’s like when he’s chasing pain instead of listening to it. when he’s trying to outrun whatever fear is building in his chest about not being good enough, not coming back strong enough.
“i’m not trying to fight,” you say, stepping closer. “i just… i’m worried, johnny. you’re hurt and you won’t even let yourself slow down.”
he shakes his head, stepping back, like the space between you will help him breathe easier. “i can’t slow down. i don’t have time to. there’s scouts watching. contracts on the line.”
“and what good is any of that if you break yourself?”
your voice cracks without meaning to. “you think they’ll care if you’re limping for the rest of your life?”
“better than them forgetting my name completely,” he mutters, and that’s when it clicks.
this isn’t just about recovery.
it’s about fear.
the silence stretches.
you walk over slowly, placing your hand on his arm. “i’m not trying to stop you from doing what you love. i’m trying to keep you in it. for longer. without tearing yourself apart.”
his eyes flick up to meet yours, and for a second — just a second — you think he’s going to soften.
but then his mouth twists.
“you think i don’t already know that? i’ve got everyone telling me what to do. physios. coaches. my da. now you too?”
your hand drops.
“that’s not fair.”
“maybe not,” he shrugs, turning away. “but neither is you acting like i’m some fucking idiot who doesn’t know his limits.”
“johnny—”
“i need this.”
“and i need you,” you fire back, louder now. “not some version of you that’s constantly in pain, constantly pissed off, constantly shutting me out because you’re so afraid of not being perfect—”
he rounds on you, eyes flashing. “i’m not trying to be perfect. i’m trying to survive.”
that stings. it lands hard, like a door slammed shut between your ribs.
“so what?” you whisper. “i don’t count as part of that?”
he doesn’t answer.
he just stares at you. jaw clenched, chest rising and falling.
and then, like it’s too much, too messy — he mutters, “maybe you should go.”
you flinch.
he sees it, you know he does.
but he doesn’t take it back.
so you nod. you grab your bag, walk past him, keep your voice even even though your throat’s closing.
“don’t call me until you’re ready to actually talk.”
and then you leave.
and he lets you.
⸻
the thing about not living together is there’s no accidental bumping into each other.
no brushing shoulders in the hallway.
no passing comment while grabbing coffee, or catching each other in the kitchen.
it’s just silence.
cold and clean.
you don’t text him. not after what he said. not after the way he looked at you like you were just another name on a long list of people trying to tear him down.
he doesn’t text you either.
but you see him.
at school.
in the corridor, outside the locker rooms, walking stiffly between classes with his bag slung over one shoulder like it weighs double what it should.
his limp’s more noticeable now. not awful, but you can tell he’s hiding it. tightening his face every time his right foot hits the ground. still training. still pretending everything’s fine.
you don’t look at him.
you can’t.
but he looks at you. always. quick glances from under his lashes, or watching you when you’re turned away. it’s like he’s stuck in this loop — too proud to say anything, too torn up to pretend he doesn’t care.
even his friends seem off. hugh nudges him less. gibs just frowns at him during lunch. whatever’s going on behind closed doors, it’s clear everyone knows he’s not okay.
you hear someone say he skipped physio yesterday.
you’re not surprised.
he never did like slowing down.
⸻
on the third night, your phone lights up.
johnny
it’s not a text. just his name on the screen, calling.
you stare at it. heart hammering. thumb frozen.
you don’t pick up.
not because you don’t want to.
because you do.
but the last thing you said to him was don’t call me until you’re ready to actually talk.
and if he’s calling just to throw up more walls, you don’t think you can take it.
he doesn’t leave a voicemail.
just hangs up.
two minutes later, he tries again.
you let it ring once… twice… and then answer.
“hello?”
his voice is quiet. hoarse. like he hasn’t said much in a few days.
“…hey.”
you sit on the edge of your bed. “you good?”
a pause.
“no.”
you swallow. wait.
“i miss you,” he says, broken and fast like it hurts to say it out loud. “i shouldn’t’ve said what i said. i didn’t mean it. i just—i get scared. when i think about not making it. and when you started talking about slowing down, it felt like giving up.”
your heart aches. it always does with him.
“i wasn’t asking you to give up,” you whisper. “i was asking you not to destroy yourself.”
“i know.”
another silence.
“i miss you too.”
you don’t say anything for a moment. just listen to him breathe.
“can i see you?” he says, voice soft. “not now. just… tomorrow. maybe.”
“…okay.”
“yeah?”
“yeah, johnny. tomorrow.”
he exhales like he’s been holding it for days.
⸻
you meet at the pitch after school.
not because either of you said it aloud, but because that’s always been the place.
it’s where you watched him train, sat in the cold grass with your arms wrapped around your knees.
where he kissed you the first time — sweaty, cocky, buzzing off a try like he couldn’t believe someone like you was actually looking at him like that.
you’re already sitting on the sideline bench when he arrives, boots in his hand, hoodie tugged over his head.
he limps. worse than he did a few days ago. you bite the inside of your cheek so you don’t say anything right away.
he lowers himself onto the bench beside you with a small hiss of pain, then leans forward, forearms braced on his knees.
“cheers for comin’,” he says, not looking at you.
you shrug, but your voice is softer than it’s been. “kinda missed this shitehole.”
he lets out a laugh, short and sharp. “still smells like piss.”
you both sit with it for a second. the weight of what’s gone unsaid pressing down hard.
then he shifts, turning toward you.
“i’ve been a dickhead.”
you blink. that wasn’t what you expected to hear first.
“i’m serious,” he says quickly. “i’ve been tryin’ to prove something — to everyone, yeah, but mostly to myself. that i’m not weak. that i’m not falling behind. and it’s like—if i stop even for a second, it all slips away.”
you look down at your hands. “you’re not weak for needing to rest, johnny.”
“i know that now,” he mutters. “or at least… i’m tryin’ to.”
his knee bounces. nerves. guilt.
“i shouldn’t’ve said all that shite. tellin’ you to leave. like you’re just… in the way or somethin’. you’re not. you never were.”
your throat tightens.
“i just—” he cuts himself off, shakes his head. “this sport, it’s been everything to me since i was a kid. it’s the only thing i’ve ever been good at. and lately, it’s like the more i try to hold onto it, the more i’m pushing you away.”
finally, finally, he meets your eyes.
“and i don’t want that. i don’t want to lose you.”
your heart clenches. it’s the first time he’s said it. really said it. no half-laughed affection, no sidelong glances. just words that land heavy and real.
“then don’t,” you whisper.
he reaches for your hand, hesitates, then takes it — fingers lacing with yours like it’s muscle memory.
“i’d choose you, you know,” he says quietly. “if it came down to it.”
your brows lift. “even over rugby?”
he huffs a laugh. “fuck rugby. rugby’s not the one showin’ up for me even when i’m a stubborn gobshite.”
you laugh, just a little. and when you squeeze his hand, it’s like something in both of you settles.
you lean into him, shoulder brushing his. “you don’t have to choose, johnny. you just… have to stop pretending you’re alone in it.”
he nods, forehead pressing against the side of your head, quiet for once.
“okay,” he breathes. “i’m sorry.”
“me too.”
⸻
it’s strange how something can hurt so bad and still leave room for softness.
he walks you home after the pitch. limping, but slower now — not from pain, but because he’s not rushing anymore. like he knows the second he gets there, the moment will pass. and he doesn’t want that.
“you still listen to that cd i burned you?” he asks suddenly.
you glance at him, smiling a little. “the one with the pen ink all over the case?”
he grins. “yeah.”
“it barely plays anymore. skips halfway through oasis.”
“still good taste though.”
you nudge his shoulder with yours. “you’ll never beat my playlists, kav.”
he huffs a laugh. “i don’t try anymore.”
it’s comfortable. not perfect, not fixed, but better. honest.
when you reach your gate, he pauses, biting his lip.
“can i… come in?”
you nod. “mam’s out. you can stay for a bit.”
up in your room, he sits on your bed like he used to. slowly, carefully, letting out a quiet groan as he stretches his leg out.
you sit next to him, watching the way his hands fidget with the hem of his hoodie.
“you can rest now, you know,” you say gently. “you don’t have to prove anything right this second.”
he swallows. “feels weird. like i don’t know what to do when i stop moving.”
“then just… stay here. with me.”
you lie back on the pillows, and after a second, he does too — hesitantly, like the idea of being still is foreign. but then your arm slides around his waist, and his breath hitches.
you don’t say anything when you feel him bury his face in your shoulder.
don’t say anything when his fingers curl into your sleeve like he needs something to hold.
you just let him.
after a long while, he speaks again — voice small, muffled. “i’ve never had anything like this before.”
you glance at him. “like what?”
“someone givin’ a fuck. not ‘cause of what i can do. not ‘cause of how i play. just… because it’s me.”
your heart cracks open again.
you shift, pressing your forehead to his. “you’ll always have this. even when you’re limping around the pitch like a grumpy old man.”
he laughs — breathless and soft. “you’ll still fancy me then?”
“bit of a stretch,” you tease, but your smile gives you away.
he kisses you, slow and quiet. like he’s not afraid anymore. like he finally believes he doesn’t have to choose.
and when he pulls back, still close enough to feel your breath, he murmurs:
anyways yk how in (i think) K13 Johnny tells Hughie he wants a little girl
yeah well I need girl dad! Johnny as a fic
immediately (jk no rush take your time 🫶)
Maybe it can be in like readers POV and her thoughts as she watches Johnny interact with their daughter and how it maybe heals her inner child in some way
(i hope that makes sense queen im so sorry if it doesn’t it’s almost 1 am where i live and im lowkey sleep deprived)
ok that’s all i’ll leave you alone…for now
all the softness he saved for her
pairing: johnny kavanagh x fem!reader
tw: none
a/n: if my releasing 10 copy doesn’t get shipped to my house soon i’m actually gonna end it because at this point i might as well manufacture it myself.
masterlist !
you remember the moment you found out you were pregnant—not because it was dramatic, but because everything felt slower, heavier, and somehow sharper all at once. the stick sat on the bathroom counter, nearly forgotten, and yet you kept glancing at it like it was some sort of secret code you couldn’t quite crack.
when you told johnny, he was halfway through a text, the rugby match paused on the telly behind him. you weren’t sure how he’d take it. you’d imagined a dozen reactions—shock, joy, panic—but none of those quite matched what you saw.
his eyes went wide. he dropped his phone. for a moment, he just stared at you like you were the only thing in the room. then he laughed—a little shaky, a little unsure. “you’re serious?”
you nodded, heart thudding, and that was the first time you saw the mix of everything in him—the fear, the hope, the overwhelming love.
he stood up and pulled you into a hug that felt like trying to hold onto something fragile. “our girl,” he whispered. “we’re gonna have a daughter.”
you didn’t say anything then. just let the quiet settle between you both. it was real now.
over the next weeks, you watched him change in small ways. the way he talked about ‘our baby’ like he could already feel her in his arms, even though she wasn’t born yet. how he read books he barely understood, fingers tracing the words slowly, like trying to memorize them so he wouldn’t mess up.
there was the night he came home late, tired from training, but still sat with you on the couch, wrapping an arm around your belly like he was introducing himself to someone new.
“she’s gonna have your eyes,” he said quietly. “and your stubbornness too, probably.”
you smiled, resting your head against his shoulder. “and your temper.”
he laughed, squeezing you gently. “yeah, well, maybe she’ll learn from the best.”
you thought about the childhood you never really had—the parts you missed, the people who weren’t there—and how johnny’s presence was already patching up old wounds you hadn’t known were still open.
sometimes, you caught him just staring at your stomach, a softness in his gaze that made your chest ache. he’d run a hand lightly over your bump and say things like, “can’t wait to meet you, princess.”
but underneath the excitement, there was a quiet fear too. you saw it in the way he sometimes fell silent when you talked about the future, in the tension in his jaw, the way he rubbed his hands together when no one was looking.
one night, you asked him what he was thinking.
“what if i mess it up?” he said honestly, voice low.
you reached for his hand. “you won’t. just be you. that’s enough.”
he looked at you like he’d never heard anything so reassuring.
the birth was long and harder than you’d imagined. johnny was by your side the whole time, never leaving, his hand never letting go of yours. he whispered your name like it was a prayer, rubbing your back and kissing your forehead when the pain got too much.
when she finally came, tiny and wailing, the world shifted.
johnny’s eyes filled with tears as they placed her in your arms. he was silent, overwhelmed, as if he was afraid to breathe too loud and break the moment.
he leaned down, kissing her soft cheek, then looked up at you, voice cracking. “she’s perfect.”
and in that moment, you knew you’d never be the same.
watching him hold her—the way he gently rocked her, whispered nonsense, and kissed her sleepy head—was like seeing a new part of him come alive. the fierce rugby player was now a fierce protector of this tiny girl, and somehow that healed pieces of you you didn’t know were still hurting.
you saw yourself in their little family, a whole new story beginning.
and for once, the future didn’t seem so scary.
⸻
it’s a tuesday morning. the sun’s just coming up, soft and golden through the window, and you hear johnny’s voice from the nursery—low, warm, patient.
“come on now, princess, it’s time to wake up.”
you peek in to see him rocking her gently, his big hands carefully holding her like she’s made of glass. she’s half-asleep, eyes fluttering open, tiny fingers curling around his thumb.
johnny grins, tired but happy. “look at you, ready to take on the day, are ya?”
she lets out a little coo, and he laughs quietly, kissing her temple. “yeah, that’s my girl.”
later, he’s teaching her how to crawl on the living room floor. his knees scrape the hardwood, and he makes silly noises to get her attention.
“c’mon, come to daddy,” he says, voice soft but encouraging. she wiggles forward, eyes wide with wonder, and johnny’s face lights up like the world’s been made just for her.
“that’s it! good girl, keep goin’.”
you watch from the doorway, heart swelling. this isn’t just a dad and daughter moment—it’s healing, a kind of magic that stitches up the cracks from your own childhood.
one evening, johnny’s holding her after bath time, wrapped in a fluffy towel. she’s gripping his hair with her little fists, babbling nonsense words. he’s so focused on her, you can see the exhaustion fading, replaced by pure adoration.
“you talkin’ to me, princess? what’re you sayin’, eh?” he smiles, voice playful but soft.
she squeals, and he laughs, the sound warm and steady, a promise in the dark.
then there’s the bedtime routine—johnny’s reading her favourite story, his voice gentle and steady. when she starts to drift off, he hums a lullaby, his arms holding her close, rocking slowly.
you catch his eye from the doorway, and there’s that look again—deep love, fierce protectiveness, and something like wonder that maybe, just maybe, this little girl is the best thing that’s ever happened to him.
You’re running late, sprinting across campus with rain pouring down, soaking through your coat and making everything colder and harder. The last place you want to be is anywhere near Johnny Kavanagh, but, as fate would have it, he’s standing under the awning of the gym, watching you approach with that all-too-familiar smirk.
“Looks like someone forgot their umbrella,” he calls out, holding his own umbrella up as if to taunt you.
“Bite me, Kavanagh,” you snap, though you’re mostly muttering to yourself as you brush past him to duck under the awning.
You shake off the rain, trying to avoid his gaze, but he’s standing way too close. “You know, all you had to do was ask nicely,” he says, offering his umbrella with a teasing grin.
You look up, narrowing your eyes. “And why would I want your help?”
“Because you’re soaked, shivering, and obviously miserable,” he points out, leaning in with a cocky smile. “And you’d rather let your pride freeze you than admit you could use a hand.”
You roll your eyes, but he’s right—despite your stubbornness, the cold is biting through your clothes. Reluctantly, you sigh. “Fine. But don’t think this means we’re friends.”
He just chuckles, extending his arm as you step under the umbrella with him. His arm around your shoulder feels annoyingly comforting, and even though you try not to, you can’t help but notice the warmth radiating off him.
“Better?” he asks, sounding genuinely curious.
“Marginally,” you reply, trying to sound indifferent, though your cheeks flush with warmth. “Don’t get too comfortable.”
“Oh, don’t worry. I know how much you love hating me,” he teases, giving you a sideways glance. “It’s practically your favorite hobby.”
“Only because you make it so easy,” you counter, but there’s no malice behind your words this time. Instead, there’s something else—a softness you hadn’t expected.
As you walk, he surprises you by not saying anything else. You’d assumed he’d start bragging or go on about some rugby story, but instead, there’s just quiet, the sound of rain tapping on the umbrella above, the two of you walking closer than you ever have.
“You know,” he says finally, his voice quieter than usual. “I don’t hate you, actually.”
You blink, surprised by his tone. “Really? Could’ve fooled me.”
He looks over at you, his gaze intense in a way that makes your heart beat a little faster. “I just… I like that you don’t back down. That you’re not afraid to call me out.”
The confession leaves you speechless, and for a second, all you can do is look at him, seeing him in a new light. He’s close, his face inches from yours, and before you know it, he leans down, his lips brushing yours in a soft, tentative kiss.
For a moment, you forget the rain, the cold, everything. When he pulls back, he looks at you with a mixture of vulnerability and hope.
“So,” he murmurs, a faint smile tugging at his lips, “think we could call a rain check on the hating thing?”
You laugh, shaking your head. “We’ll see, Kavanagh. We’ll see.”
But as you walk together under the umbrella, you’re pretty sure you don’t hate him anymore.
