18+ | bunny hybrid!reader spending easter with 141:
price: this man is dressing you in the sweetest little gingham shorts to show off your fluffy tail, getting you to hop around his cottage yard to find the eggs he’s hidden for you. he’s too old to play games, so he’s content to watch from the porch as his cigar smoke curls in the spring sunshine
gaz: similar to price, he’ll be spending it with you outside. the bastard loves to show off, so he’ll pick a popular park to have a picnic with you, making sure everyone can see your bunny ears are real and not just a headband. might even enter you in a stupid hop competition just so you can beat them all and be his winner (which he will be sending to soap)
soap: he’s a family man, what can he say? he’ll have you in scotland, playing with all of his nieces and nephews — arts n crafts, egg hunts, and he even lets his niece trace your ears on a paper so she can cut them out and wear them like yours. any chance alone he’s murmuring in those fluffy white ears about how nice it would be to have wee bunny!hybrids bouncing around you all with his ridiculously blue eyes (“think about it, bun, hey?”)
ghost: sorry, it’s not gonna be cute it all. he relishes in the fact that a bunny’s tail isn’t actually a fluffy ball. he unfurls it before holding it up to thrust into your sloppy hole, squishing your ears together with his other hand like fuckin’ reins. “so tiny f’me, god—look at you—“ your back is practically bent it half towards him with his two holds on you, completely merciless to his filthy slams inside you
ㅤㅤ ㅤ⭑ about.
an unfortunate mistake left you with a room that had only one bed, shared with one of the finest men you had ever met. it was such a cliché, the kind of setup you’d roll your eyes at in a movie—surely nothing would happen. (wc: 4.430)
ㅤㅤ ㅤ.𖥔 ݁ ˖ day ten of the lists
Who got married in the dead of winter? Scots, apparently.
And because your sister, Phoebe, was marrying a Scottish woman, you’d been stuffed into a satin dress in the middle of the Highlands, in winter, during an outdoor ceremony. You genuinely thought you were going to lose a finger to frostbite.
Apparently, it was tradition to get married outside. But God, you were convinced you might actually die from the cold.
At least the old farmhouse they’d rented for the reception was warm—almost too warm with the sheer number of people packed inside. Still, it was a beautiful wedding, full of love and respect. You’d cried your eyes out when your sister exchanged vows with her now wife, wishing you’d find something that pure one day.
Right now, though, all you felt was pure, inconvenient lust. A feeling you always seemed to get around your sister-in-law’s brother. Johnny fucking Mactavish.
He’d been the only best man at the wedding—being the only boy among the Mactavish children—and of course he was strolling around in a damn kilt in the middle of winter. He didn’t look the slightest bit bothered by the cold creeping under it, standing there proud and steady behind his sister.
You’d watched him through your own blurry eyes as he wiped away a few tears of his own. It was surprisingly refreshing, seeing a man who wasn’t afraid to show how he felt. Didn’t help that said man was also obscenely hot, with those slutty thighs peeking from beneath his kilt.
You’d been seated at the same table, and for the past few hours he’d been flirting with you. Hard. You’d had your fun rolling your eyes, pretending you didn’t want him, but you knew he saw right through your act.
He noticed every little side–glance you stole at his thick thighs, the way your brain seemed to short-circuit whenever he flexed his arms—totally not on purpose—and how your gaze tracked his fingers as he tossed bits of food into his mouth. Your thighs had pressed together pretty tightly when he’d licked them clean.
But you didn’t let him think for a second that he had the upper hand. You weren’t oblivious, and neither was he. You caught the way his eyes always dipped toward your boobs whenever you pressed your arms together or leaned down to talk to one of the kids. You saw how he struggled to stop staring at the slit running up the side of your dress, his gaze practically glued to your thighs. How he would bite his lips every time your nipples peaked against the fabric of your dress from a cold draft of winter wind. And he definitely had a staring problem with your stomach, the way it pressed softly against the satin of your lavender dress.
And of course, just like him, you were doing it all on purpose.
Now he was happily dancing with his sisters on the dance floor, clearly a bit intoxicated. It was getting fairly late—the cake had been cut, and everyone had split off into either chatting or dancing. You were sitting with your own sister as Phoebe excitedly rambled about how happy she was, how she couldn’t wait to start her married life.
Honestly, you couldn’t understand a single word your sister was saying. All you could see was Johnny moving around with his sisters, twirling a little too provocatively as his kilt kept riding up just enough to make your stomach twist.
“He’s cute, right?” Your sister’s words yanked you out of your lust-soaked daydream.
“Hm?” You turned toward her with a confused look.
“Johnny,” she said with a knowing smirk. She knew you like the back of her hand. “He’s cute.”
You rolled your eyes and brushed her off. “He’s alright.”
“You’re sharing a bedroom tonight,” Phoebe teased, her grin widening.
“Excuse me?” you shot back, staring at her like she’d grown two heads.
She glanced to her right at your other sister, Naomi—who clearly knew something. Had they been plotting behind your back? Before you could question her, Naomi’s husband pulled her onto the dance floor, and she winked at you over her shoulder.
“It’s two twin beds, don’t worry,” your sister said, though her lingering smirk didn’t help. “He was supposed to share with our cousin Liam, but Liam brought a plus one, so they're getting their own room. You’re stuck with Johnny.”
“You gave my king-size bedroom to Liam and his fucking booty call? What the fuck?” you retorted, already pissed off.
You had dreamed about that room, you’d picked it yourself when Phoebe made the reservation. And now it was being snatched away because your slutty cousin decided to bring someone he’d known for barely a month to a wedding? What sort of bad karma was that?
“What other choice did I have? You wanted Johnny to spend the night with Liam and his girl?” Phoebe deadpanned, taking a sip of her cocktail while very obviously eye-fucking her wife across the room.
“I heard he’s quite the manwhore himself,” you shot back. “Maybe he would’ve joined them.”
“Well, you’re no better yourself,” your sister replied, bursting into laughter at your words.
Taking a sip of champagne yourself, you laughed along with her. Maybe there was a reason you were the only single sister out of the three of you. You were the youngest, and you liked to think you were far too young to settle down anyway. You imagined Johnny was the same—especially considering he’d been in the army.
It wasn’t entirely clear what he used to do, your sister never explained it well, mostly because she didn’t really know herself. She’d only told you he’d had a major accident—something that had nearly sent him to an early grave. It left him with a nasty scar—obvious to anyone's eyes—on the side of his skull, a temperamental knee, and damaged hearing. Yet somehow, he still looked so full of life.
It had been a couple of years ago, but you doubted experiences like that ever truly left you—not when you’d come so close to death.
“Come on,” Phoebe said eventually, setting her glass down and grabbing your hand, tugging you toward the dance floor.
For the next few hours, you danced, laughed, and drank some more. It was a perfect night, your family, your friends, everyone glowing with happiness.
So you weren’t entirely sure how you ended up back pressed against Johnny's chest, your hips moving with his as you danced together, his hands softly lingering on your hips. All the tension that had been simmering during dinner finally tipped over, helped along by the champagne and sheer joy of the night. His body was warm and solid behind you, his stomach firm—and yet soft—against your back as his movements synced with yours.
Johnny was exactly how you’d imagined he’d be. Over dinner he’d been funny and charming, and now, with his body pressed close to yours, he was everything you expected and more: perfect. Strong thighs dusted with freckles, just like his arms and probably his torso. A trail of coarse hair ran along his arms and legs, and a hint of it peeked from the open collar of his shirt. His hair had grown into a soft, fluffy mullet that suited him far better than the severe cut he’d had when you first met him—back in his military days.
His fingers were long and steady, a light sprinkle of hair across the back of his hands making you bite your lip. It was unusual for someone to hit you this hard—sure, you’d admired people before, but the way Johnny made your mind go warm and your body react was almost overwhelming. You’d never felt anything quite like it.
Blaming the alcohol clouding your thoughts, you shook off the spiral—trying to focus on the moment instead. And just then, the music shifted, and Johnny gently turned you in his arms, pulling you in against his warm chest.
A slow, intimate song filled the dimly lit room, casting a softer atmosphere over the crowd—probably the venue’s subtle hint that the night was winding down. It was nearly 4 a.m., after all.
With your cheek resting on his shoulder and his arms draped securely around your waist, you felt like an old couple swaying through memories neither of you shared yet—moving together as though you’d always fit this way.
Suddenly, you felt him lean down—just a little—to reach your ear, the one not pressed against him. “Heard we’re bunk buddies tonight.”
You scoffed. Of course he knew. And from the sound of it, he was enjoying the idea far too much. Honestly, so were you. It wouldn’t exactly hurt to see what he looked like in something as simple and intimate as a bedtime routine—hair mussed, face relaxed.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself, pretty boy. Twin beds,” you shot back, teasing the very obvious thrill in his voice.
“Ye think I’m pretty?” he returned immediately, eyes finding yours with laser precision. “And dinnae worry, I’m behavin'. If I weren’t, trust me, ye’d ken.”
He grinned, leaning in just a touch closer. “Ye dae realize we dinnae wear much under these kilts… right?”
His tone was low, amused, and far too pleased with himself—just enough to make your stomach flip without saying anything he shouldn’t. He wore a smug grin on his lips, one of his hands gently rubbing along your back.
“Don’t think there’s much to feel,” you replied with a soft smile, stepping away from him before things got too charged.
You returned to your table, finished the last of your champagne, then switched to water. After a final bite of leftover cake, you decided to call it a night. When you glanced back toward the dance floor, Johnny was still standing there, watching you leave with a warm, lopsided smile.
After giving the newlyweds one last hug, you made your way toward the old farmhouse where all the rooms were, your overnight bag in your hand. Your sister had pressed your room key into your hand earlier, winking far too cheekily as she mentioned there was only one key and that you’d need to wait for Johnny. But you didn't care about that, it's not like you were going to sleep straight.
Stepping outside, even for a few seconds, was awful. Your dress was thin, and your coat barely helped against the brutal Highland wind. You hurried toward the entrance, too focused on surviving the cold to notice the fast, heavy footsteps catching up behind you.
“Leaving without me? I thought we were having fun,” Johnny called out, making you gasp from the sudden sound and the mild heart attack he gave you.
Rolling your eyes, you gave him only a teasing smile before stepping inside the building. It was huge, and apparently built like a maze, because you and Johnny got lost almost immediately in the winding hallways. You’d slipped off your heels, and he’d snatched them right out of your hands to carry them himself, holding them like you’d handed him a fragile, priceless artefact. You rolled your eyes again but your thighs definitely betrayed you, squeezing to release some pressure.
Traitors, the both of them.
Still, it was fun. The two of you stumbled around, bumping into the occasional piece of antique furniture, trying random doors that were very obviously not yours. It felt like being teenagers sneaking back home after slipping out past curfew.
Finally, you found your room, and were met with a very big surprise.
Inside, instead of the two twin beds your sister had promised, sat the bedroom you’d chosen originally. And right in the middle of it was a large king-size bed. If you were honest with yourself, the pictures hadn’t done the room justice. The bed looked even more comfortable in person, and you couldn’t wait to collapse into it.
The only issue was… it was the only bed.
When you turned back toward Johnny, he turned at the same moment and your eyes met. You’d never noticed just how blue his eyes were, but with the exhaustion, the leftover champagne, and the soft lighting, they looked like an endless stretch of sky.
Snapping yourself out of the little trance they’d put you in, you spoke—just as he did.
“It’s okay, we’re adults, right?” “I’m not sleeping on the floor.”
You both stared at each other in surprise. Why would he think you’d make him sleep on the floor? That was ridiculous. You were both grown adults, well over twenty-five. It was no big deal. Right?
“Why would you sleep on the floor?” you asked, cringing and looking at him like he was the irrational one.
“Well, there’s only one bed?” Johnny replied like you were the irrational one.
“What are we, twelve?” you shot back, heading straight toward the bathroom with your bag.
For the next twenty minutes, you let the hot shower melt the day off your skin. Then you sat at the fancy vanity, taking in just how luxurious everything was. The brides clearly hadn’t held back on spoiling their close family and friends—this was easily the nicest place you’d ever stayed.
After your skincare and a quick pass with the hairdryer, you looked down at your “pyjamas.” An oversized T-shirt. Panties.
In your defence, this was your year-round sleep uniform. Not even when you were dating someone did you bother with matching silky pyjama sets. Buying them always felt pointless, the T-shirt worked just fine.
Now, though, it felt a tiny bit more complicated. You didn’t have bottoms, and you weren’t about to sleep in the jeans you’d set aside for tomorrow.
Shaking your head, you put on what you had. You were adults. It was fine. You both had self-control.
“Your turn,” you said, not looking at him.
You went straight to the bed—the side farthest from the door—and dropped your things on the floor. You couldn’t care less where they landed. All you wanted was sleep, your body felt wrung out from the excitement, dancing, and hours spent in heels.
Faintly, you heard the shower turn on. Johnny hadn’t fully closed the bathroom door, and from where you lay, you could see the blurred silhouette of his shadow on the opposite wall. The steam and shifting shadows almost looked artistic, the outline moving like something from a painting.
You shook your head, shut your eyes, and let out a long sigh as you sank into the mattress. Every ache in your feet slowly melted away. You’d been standing far too long tonight.
The door slid open, and you peeked one eye open. He’d been much quicker than you.
The sight was… unfair. Steam trailed after him as he stepped inside, his chest still damp while he ran a towel through his hair. Baggy sweatpants hung low on his hips, and it was clear he had no intention of putting a shirt on.
When he finished, he tossed the towel onto the floor—right beside his shoes, which were already abandoned in the middle of the room. The place looked like a mess, and you’d only been here less than an hour. Normally that might have bothered you, but exhaustion had stripped away your usual need for order. You simply didn’t care.
Once he switched off the lights and you felt the mattress dip behind you, you shifted onto your side, facing away from him. The bed was big enough that you wouldn’t touch, but his warmth still spread across the space like a quiet presence settling in.
You tried to turn on the heater earlier, but it hadn’t worked. The room wasn’t warming up anytime soon.
It was nearly impossible to fall asleep with how cold it was. The sheets were icy, the air bit at your skin, and the wind rattling against the window only made it worse. What made it infuriating was hearing Johnny’s breathing slowly even out, apparently he wasn’t struggling at all.
Of course not. Men ran warm like it was some kind of built-in cheat code. Creatures of Satan, the lot of them.
You couldn’t take it anymore. You sat up slightly, lifting the blankets from your upper body. Johnny was lying on his side with his back to you, but you saw his head tilt just a fraction, like he was trying to figure out what you were doing.
“You have another pair of joggers?” you whispered into the quiet.
“No,” he answered simply.
“Fuck,” you whispered back, thinking hard.
Maybe you could sneak into the common room and hunt for extra blankets, or a heavy throw—anything to get warmer. Before you could commit to that plan, Johnny shifted, rolling onto his other side until he faced you. His eyelids were heavy, like he was fighting sleep just to pay attention.
“We’re adults, right?” he murmured, throwing your own words gently back at you.
Frowning, you hummed at his question, too sleepy to try deciphering whatever he meant. You weren’t in the mood for a long conversation, you just wanted warmth and sleep. Who in their right mind got married in the Highlands in winter, right before Christmas?
“Lay down then,” Johnny said. He didn’t ask, he commanded.
Something in his tone flipped a switch in your brain, and you found yourself lying back down without a second thought.
Within seconds, his strong hand guided your shoulder, easing you onto your side before pulling you gently but firmly toward him. And you’d been right: he was unbelievably warm. His body heat spread across your back and shoulders, sinking through your cold skin like relief itself.
During the dance earlier, you’d felt hints of the firmness in his arms and the soft warmth and fat of his stomach—but now, with him pressed close behind you, every bit of that warmth doubled. One of his legs slid naturally between yours, sharing heat, and you instinctively tucked your icy toes against the edge of his lower leg where his sweatpants had ridden up.
Johnny hissed softly at the cold.
“Bloody fuck, ye’re freezing,” he murmured into your shoulder, pulling you even closer, wrapping you in his warmth like a blanket, his hand settling on the fat of your stomach, not caring one bit.
It worked almost immediately. Your eyelids grew heavier with each passing second, your body finally relaxing as the cold faded away. You placed your chilly hand against his bicep, giving it a small squeeze in silent thanks before sleep began tugging you under.
Soft groans and quiet whines were the first things you woke up to. Still foggy with sleep, your whole body reminded you just how little rest you’d gotten. From the heaviness in your limbs alone, you’d guess you’d slept maybe two or three hours. Which would make it… what? Seven? Eight in the morning? Far too early to be conscious.
The brides had planned a late brunch at 1 p.m. for all the guests staying in the house. You should have had plenty of time to sleep in.
You closed your eyes again, ready to sink back down, when the sound came again—behind you this time. The warm body pressed to your back was still whining softly, but now it was also moving. Slight, controlled, almost tentative rolls of his hips. Like he was trying not to wake himself.
Except you did feel it, the firm, unmistakable press of something hard against your ass.
“Johnny,” you murmured, hoping to calm him.
“Sorry,” he mumbled right into your neck, breath hot against your skin.
So he was awake. It wasn’t himself he was trying not to wake, it was you.
“Ye’re just so soft and warm,” the old military man whispered, a low, needy sound trailing after his words. “And ye smell so damn good.”
He actually whined, and it shouldn’t have made you throb the way it did. But the idea of a big, disciplined, battle-hardened man rubbing against you because he couldn’t help himself—because you were undoing him—was intensely erotic. Your brain went hazy with it. You’d dreamt of him being in your bed more times than you’d ever admit. Waking up like this felt like a small miracle.
“Put it in,” you breathed, voice thick with need. At this point, you weren’t falling back asleep until this ache was dealt with.
“What? Really?” Johnny whispered, barely audible, like speaking any louder might break the spell or change your mind.
“You scared, soldier?” you teased, pushing your hips back so your ass slid firmly against his hardened length.
You didn’t need to tell him twice, apparently. With messy, sleep-heavy movements, he shoved his joggers down—and you discovered he’d worn nothing beneath them—while his skilled but gentle fingers slid your panties aside. You expected him to push into you immediately, but he surprised you.
His fingers lingered first, brushing your entrance, already soaked, and he let out a soft, helpless whine at how wet you were for him. Then he circled your clit, slow and tender, drawing shivers from your still-waking body.
When you let out a needy whine of your own, you felt the curve of his smirk against your shoulder, right where your neck met skin he’d been kissing lazily for minutes now. He withdrew his fingers, shifted his leg between yours the same way you’d fallen asleep together, and eased forward.
The thick, warm head of his cock pressed into your wet heat.
Even with only the tip, you could feel how thick he was—girthier than anyone you’d ever had. But you wanted him. God, you wanted him so badly it bordered on irrational. Once he was fully inside you, his thick thighs pressed against the backs of yours, and both of you let out soft, breathy moans. Nothing loud, sleep still clung to your minds, but it felt good.
“I was dreaming about ye,” he murmured into your neck, his hips beginning a slow, lazy rhythm. “Had ye exactly like this in my dream.”
“Is it just as good?” you asked, voice catching on a little moan. The thought of him dreaming about you like that sent another warm pulse through you.
“My dream dinnae even compare,” he breathed, and the little Scottish rasp made you melt. “Ye’re so warm and wet, God.” He whined the words into your neck and pressed a firm, needy kiss against your skin.
His hips never sped up. The pace stayed steady, unhurried, each slow stroke angling perfectly against your G-spot. It wasn’t wild or overwhelming—it was soft, deep, intimate. Far too intimate for two people who barely knew each other. But you didn’t care. It felt right, like a warm, lazy build of pleasure that wrapped around both of you.
Little breathy moans and faint whines slipped out as your bodies rocked together under the blankets. The gentle motion, the pleasure, his lips brushing your neck, and his hand laced with yours… all of it began to lull you back toward sleep. And from how sloppy and slow his thrusts were getting, you could tell he was fighting the same pull.
“’M sleepy…” you whispered, sinking your head further into the pillow.
“Me too, bonnie,” Johnny murmured, still pushing his hips forward even as fatigue tugged at him. “Could fall asleep just like this.” His breath warmed the side of your neck, his voice thick with exhaustion and bliss.
The only answer you managed was a soft hum as you finally lost the fight against your heavy eyelids, letting them fall shut. His hips had slowed to a near-stop, but the warm weight of him inside you brought a comfort you hadn’t realized you’d been craving.
You tightened your grip on his hand, pulling your intertwined fingers closer to your chest. He squeezed back weakly. The soft kiss he pressed to your neck was the last thing you felt before sleep pulled you under.
You pushed the salmon toast into your mouth—way more than you could reasonably handle—but you were starving.
Waking up with Johnny still inside you, already getting hard again, had led to… interesting events. Ones you were still feeling between your legs. Now he was sitting across from you at the long table, looking annoyingly handsome, his foot brushing yours under the table every so often like he couldn’t help himself.
Your sister, Phoebe, sat right beside you, and you could feel her eyes flicking toward you again and again. It was getting on your nerves. As soon as you swallowed the last of your toast, you turned toward her.
“What?” you said, still chewing a bit.
“Slept well?” she asked, wearing that knowing smirk you’d hated since childhood.
You narrowed your eyes. She knew something. She definitely knew something. That look of hers—like she saw straight through you—was unmistakable.
“Sure. Bed was comfortable,” you said, waving the question off and turning back to your plate.
“Oh, I bet it was,” she laughed, lightly mocking. “Liam was pissed this morning.”
“Really, why? Didn’t get his dick wet?” you muttered, rolling your eyes, not connecting anything at all.
If you and Johnny got the original bed, then your cousin Liam had ended up with the room with the twin beds. That made sense. You were just tired—and maybe still a little cock-drunk—to catch the implication behind Phoebe’s tone.
“Well, I know someone who did,” she teased, the smirk growing by the second.
You frowned, turning to her. “Phoebe, I don’t need to know what you did with—”
You stopped mid-sentence when you noticed her gaze wasn’t on your face. It was fixed on your neck. Specifically, the side Johnny had been sucking on for hours.
“Oh.”
Heat rushed up your cheeks. You yanked your sweater higher over your shoulder—where it should’ve been the whole time. It must’ve slipped down.
Across the table, you heard Johnny’s quiet chuckle. Phoebe let out a full, delighted laugh. You shot her a murderous look before scanning the table to make sure your parents hadn’t noticed. Thankfully, they were wrapped up in a conversation at the far end.
Just as you were about to tell your sister to shut up, she leaned in and placed a hand over yours.
“You’re welcome,” she said, giving your hand a little pat.
Soap x Fem! Reader – He is used to your lunches made with love. What happens when he makes you mad?
Oneshot Fluff ♡ I tried my best ><
520 words.
Soap pushed his chair back from the small kitchen table at the base. The morning sun spilled through the window, warm and pale, touching the floor in soft stripes. He thought about her as he did most mornings, the way she always made his lunches. They were never simple. Sandwiches stacked carefully with layers of meat, cheese, and vegetables, fruits sliced and arranged like tiny works of art, small notes tucked into corners with jokes or a heart. She had a way of making even something ordinary feel like a gift. He could still picture last week’s lunch, the orange slices shaped like little suns, the way the notes made him smile without her even knowing it.
This morning had been different. They had argued before he left. Not about lunches, not about anything important, really. Just a misunderstanding, words said too sharply, tension lingering in the air long after they both had wanted it to end. He had left the apartment with his shoulders tight, chest heavy, and a small part of him worrying she was still upset.
Now he sat at his work table, lifting the lid of his lunchbox, expecting the usual careful spread. Instead, he froze. A single slice of bread lay neatly on a plate, unadorned and flat. Beside it sat a cucumber, whole, unpeeled, staring up at him like it had a purpose he could not understand. In the corner of the container was a juice box, perfectly upright, a sticky note folded over it that read, “Enjoy.” The handwriting was precise and neat, familiar and mocking at the same time.
Soap stared for a long moment and then let out a low, incredulous laugh. He held the slice of bread in his fingers and examined it as if it were a rare artifact. The cucumber felt cold and stiff, entirely inappropriate for lunch. The juice box seemed absurdly cheerful in the corner. And yet, he could almost picture her in the kitchen, biting back a laugh, eyes sparkling with that familiar mischief, enjoying the moment she knew would make him react like this.
He shook his head, a grin spreading slowly across his face. Even angry she had thought about him. Even upset she had still made lunch. It was ridiculous and infuriating and completely her. He tucked the sticky note into his pocket and leaned back in his chair, trying not to laugh too loudly and draw the attention of the others around him.
Soap imagined how she would react when he got home. He would tease her relentlessly, but he knew it would be met with her rolling her eyes and a smirk, that subtle pride in what she had done. The argument from that morning already seemed lighter, almost trivial, washed away by her humor and the careful thought she always put into the little things she did for him.
He took a small bite of the bread, sipped the juice, and smiled to himself. She had made him laugh even when she was angry. She had reminded him, as she always did, why he loved her so much.
Soap’s flat smells like gun oil, neach (because he insists it’s “medicinal”), and the faint sour tang of a fever that’s been creeping up on him for two days. He’s sprawled across the couch in nothing but low-slung joggers, one arm flung over his eyes, the other lazily scratching at the dark hair arrowing down his abs. The thermostat reads 22 °C, but he’s shivering like it’s Helmand in January.
You push the door shut with your hip, takeaway soup in one hand, paracetamol in the other. “Thought the big bad sergeant could fight off a wee cold, eh?” He cracks one eye open, glassy and unfairly blue even when bloodshot. “Ach, I’m no’ sick,” he croaks, voice like gravel dragged over sandpaper. “Just… strategically under the weather.” Then he grins, crooked and filthy. “Besides, nurse, I’ve been waitin’ all day for you to come take my temperature. Preferably with your mouth.” You roll your eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t fall out.
“Drink your soup, MacTavish.”
He pushes up on an elbow, joggers slipping another dangerous inch, and the movement makes the muscles in his stomach flex. Fever’s turned his cheeks red, damp hair sticking to his forehead, and he looks like sin that’s been dragged through a rainstorm. “Only if ye feed me,” he says, low and teasing. “I’m too weak, bonnie. Might spill it all down my chest… terrible waste. Unless you’re offerin’ to lick it up.” Christ. Even half-dead he’s lethal. You sit on the edge of the couch. He immediately drops his head into your lap like a dog claiming territory, nuzzling into your thigh with a content rumble that turns into a coughing fit. When it passes he’s panting, but the bastard still finds the energy to drag his stubble along the inside of your knee.
“Johnny, you’re delirious.”
“Aye,” he sighs, lips brushing bare skin, “delirious for you.” His hand slides up your calf, calloused thumb tracing idle circles. “Been thinkin’ about you all day. These joggers? Fuckin’ torture. Can feel every heartbeat in my—”
“Soup,” you say firmly, because if you let him keep going you’re going to climb him like a tree and he’ll end up in hospital with pneumonia.
He pouts—actually pouts—but opens his mouth obediently when you lift the spoon. Three mouthfuls in, his eyes start drifting shut. The flirty smirk softens into something stupidly sweet.
“Yer awful pretty when yer tryin’ to mother me,” he mumbles, words slurring together. His hand, still on your leg, goes slack, fingers curled loosely around the back of your knee like he’s anchoring himself to you even in sleep.
You set the bowl aside. “Thought you were dying for me to take advantage of you.”
“Still am,” he whispers, already half-gone. “Jus’… five minutes. Wake me up with your tongue and I’ll make it worth your while, swear on my—fuckin’—“
His head gets heavier in your lap, breath evening out into soft, congested snores. The hand that was promising filth five seconds ago is now just… holding you, gentle and trusting.
You card your fingers through his sweaty mohawk and sigh. Typical Johnny MacTavish—talks a big game, flirts like it’s a contact sport, then passes out before you can even get his joggers off.
You pull the blanket over him, steal one last look at the ridiculous, beautiful man currently drooling on your jeans, and mutter, “Next time you get sick, I’m sedating you first.”
He snuffles in his sleep, mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like “promise?” and you know fine well he’ll hold you to it when he wakes up.
Bastard.
A/N: if you cant tell, i’m on a writers kick right now! I’m honestly not quite sure if what im writing is making sense but im trying to write something for all the Tf141 and maybe some Kortac/ghosts. I’d like to see who i prefer to write for :)
Fat!reader that hates gyms (not exercising), hates the judging face staring back at her from the floor to ceiling mirror.
Fat!reader that pushes out of her comfort zone to fulfill the needs of her body, and her New Year's resolutions (even if the first trimester of the year is already over).
Fat!reader who finds the perfect female instructor, a personal trainer that knows what it feels like to be inside a big body and understands her goals.
Fat!reader that after a few weeks forces herself to get used to the 10am crowd, and to not feel as self-conscious about wearing tight sportswear out in public.
Fat!reader who's so skilled in avoiding people's eyes on her, accustomed to expecting the worst, that doesn't notice the lustful gaze of a gymrat.
Fat!reader who's had the help of a handsome Scottish man spotting her when her coach was called to the front desk. Felt his groin subtly brush against her ass, but dismissed it as an accident because she takes up more space than most people are used to.
Fat!reader that's completely oblivious to the fact the buff highlander with the ridiculous Mohawk, and icy blue eyes has synced his routine to match hers strategically.
Like when she does her cardio (jogging on the treadmill or climbing the stairmaster), he is always by the weights, dead-lifting her exact body weight while looking at her jiggling and bouncing, making him salivate.
Or when she's stretching at the end of a session, doing all kinds of poses that make her groan and moan because of the ache in her muscles. He's close by the benches, hip thrusting several heavy disks, sweating and cursing under his breath.
Fat!reader who is unaware of the warnings the staff have issued to him, for public indecency. Making him switch from using his usual gray sweatpants to black loose workout shorts.
Fat!reader that didn't think a guy as jacked as Johnny could be so friendly, and sweet to a girl like her. After speaking a few times, they became spotting buddies, and they do cardio together. Just not the one that he wants… yet.
She has no clue that he's now obsessed with the sound of her labored breathing, along with the rhythmic thud of her feet hitting the mat of the treadmill, and the choked groans she sometimes lets out while lifting. He can't stay away.
Fat!reader who hits the 8-week mark of consistent attendance, and is frustrated to see the scale stay practically the same, her measurements are not different either. Even with the help of the dieting shakes Johnny recommended.
The silver lining is her new-found stamina, she feels stronger and with more confidence all while looking the same, she's content with the routine. But that doesn't last.
Her trainer is no longer available to work with her, and the gym assigns her someone else while they find a substitute. And he is not friendly at all.
I just love pervert-with-a-plan johnny, who wants to fuck an unsuspecting bae. And then you have someone showing up and pissing all over his plans...
Hi spring! I really love your 141 baby fics, especially the soap ones. for your autumn challnege can you write reader telling soap that she is pregnant ? pretty please🥺
𝐀 𝐒𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐒𝐮𝐫𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐞 ♡
John "Soap" MacTavish x reader || Main Masterlist || Spotify
summary: After a month apart, you can finally tell Johnny the secret you've waited to reveal.
word count: 1.3k
𝐎𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐞: 𝐃𝐚𝐲 𝟏𝟖) 𝐅𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐲 𝐄𝐱𝐩𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧
You lie curled up in the soft warmth of your blankets, the gentle autumn sunlight streaming through the curtains. You dwell in the faint sound of breathing beside you—steady and deep. It’s calm and comforting, a sound you have missed so much. Johnny had returned home last night after a month-long deployment, and you still can’t quite believe he’s finally back, in your cosy little bedroom, right here next to you.
As the dim light dances across his face, you take a moment to admire him. The shadow of his stubbles outlines his strong jaw, and you can’t help but trace the line with your fingers, careful not to wake him. His features have softened in slumber, though even in sleep, there’s a distinct aura of strength about him. A sense of joy swells in your heart, and you lean closer, resting your head on his shoulder, inhaling the familiar scent of him—warmth mixed with a hint of clean soap and something uniquely Johnny.
But despite the content, happiness blooming within you, your mind is racing with thoughts you can hardly contain. A life altering revelation you’ve kept for weeks, a hidden truth that has grown heavier with each passing day. You can almost feel it pulsing beneath the surface, begging for release.
You have spent countless nights these past weeks imagining what it would be like to share the news with him, but now that the moment is finally here, your heart races. You can hardly believe that just two weeks ago, you had taken that little white stick from the chemist, waited under anxious breaths for it to change, and when those two lines appeared—joy flooded through you like a tidal wave. You are pregnant.
As you listen to Johnny’s rhythmic breathing, you bite your lip, torn between letting him sleep peacefully and the burning desire to spill your secret, to share this monumental news that will forever change both of your lives. You know how much he wants this, and the thought of his reaction fills you with excitement and nerves in equal measure. In this moment you regret not having told him last night, but you didn’t want to overwhelm him right after he’d come back home, to give him a chance to reacclimate and enjoy the sweetness of being back home, yet the weight of the truth feels unbearable under the tenderness of this moment.
You carefully push yourself up onto one elbow, leaning in closer to him. You brush a strand of hair from his forehead and plant a gentle kiss there, hoping to rouse him from his dreams. His eyes flutter open, their deep blue locking onto yours. There’s a short moment of groggy confusion, followed by blissful clarity, a slow smile breaking across his face as he takes in your tender gaze. He pulls you closer in his embrace, almost instinctive, as if anchoring both of you in this fleeting moment.
“Hey,” he murmurs, his deep voice thick with sleep. There’s an undeniable warmth in his gaze, the way the blue of his eyes brightens as they sweep over your face.
“Hey,” you reply, your heart racing as you lean in to plant a gentle kiss on his lips. “Welcome home,” you whisper into his mouth before pulling back.
“God, I missed you,” Johnny breathes, his voice still husky with sleep. He pulls away just enough to look into your eyes. You can see him trying to read the emotions swirling in your gaze, and it makes the weight of your secret even heavier.
“I missed you too,” you say softly, brushing your fingers along his jawline again, wanting to memorise every minute detail of his face after being apart.
“Did I really sleep through the night with you next to me?”
You chuckle softly, nodding. “Yeah, you did. I think you were pretty tired.”
Johnny stretches, his muscles taut under your fingertips. He sighs contentedly and shifts his weight, propping himself up on one elbow to look at you more closely. You can see in his eyes that he has noticed the tension beneath your calm demeanour. The way he studies you makes your heartbeat quicken; his gaze is unwavering, filled with a mix of love and curiosity. “What’s going on in that bonnie head of yours?” he asks, his brow slightly furrowing with a mix of curiosity and concern as he studies your expression.
You chew your lip, the moment of truth dawning on you like the sunlight spilling into the room. “I have something important to tell you,” you say, your voice steady despite the thud of your heart.
He tilts his head, eyes glinting with curiosity and apprehension. “You’re scaring me a little now,” he admits, a playful smile curling at the corners of his mouth. “You know I’d take on the world to protect you, right?”
The sincerity in his tone makes your resolve strengthen, and you smile softly back at him. “I know, and that’s why I’m so excited to tell you.” You take a deep breath, steeling yourself, and let your hand cradle the side of his face for assurance. “I’m pregnant.”
The words hang in the air, swirling around you like a gentle breeze, and for a moment, silence envelops you both. You watch as his expression shifts from surprise to a grin that splits his face wide open, his eyes sparkling with an emotion you can barely decipher.
“Are you serious?” he breathes, almost as though he’s afraid to believe it.
You nod, biting your lip to suppress your own excitement. “I took a test two weeks ago… and then a few more after that to be sure. I wanted to wait to tell you in person.”
He sits up fully now, something electric weaving through his features. “Really?”
“Really,” you confirm, your voice steady and filled with warmth as you find your grounding in the gravity of the moment.
In an instant, the surprise morphs into pure elation. Johnny’s smile widens, his eyes shimmering with light, and he lets out a breathy laugh that resonates through the space between you, bright and rich, a sound filled with joy and disbelief all at once. “Love, you’re really serious?!” His hands find your waist, pulling you closer as he inspects your face for any sign of jest. The sincerity in your eyes reassures him that this is no joke. “I cannae believe it! This is—this is pure brilliant! He wraps his strong arms around you, lifting you off the bed, making you squeal with a mix of surprise and joy, and spins you around in a joyous whirl, as you laugh along with him, both of you lost in the sheer magic of the moment.
When he finally sets you back down, he holds you tightly, his face buried in your neck, and you can feel the tremor of his excitement in the way he hugs you.
“We’re having a wean,” he breathes, and there’s an awe in his voice that sends shivers down your spine. You can hear how much this means to him, to you both, and it ignites a fire of hope and dreams that you carefully begin to weave together with him.
“We are,” you reply softly, a smile breaking across your face as his words wash over you like a soothing balm. You can feel the warmth radiating off him, and everything beyond your embrace fades into oblivion. “I know we have talked about it, but I never imagined it would happen so soon,” you admit.
Johnny pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, his eyes alight with wonder. “Do you know how far along you are?” he asks, a mix of concern and excitement lacing his tone.
“About seven or eight weeks,” you reply, the reality of the timeline settling in, although it feels strangely surreal. “I was going to schedule an appointment for that first ultrasound, but I wanted to wait till you got home.”
A blend of awe and protectiveness washes over Johnny’s face as he absorbs the news. “Aye, we’ll make the appointments together, figure everything out. You, me, and our wee one.”
Ghost was born a demon, thousands of years old an in the upper ranks, only answering to one other, John Price. Then there's Johnny, who died way too young, turned a demon for all the atrocities he'd committed in life. And our dear reader, Johnny's partner who died of a broken heart shortly after him, alone and despairing, who became an angel instead - fully unaware of what had become of her beloved.
Simon who immediately claims Johnny upon his arrival in hell, scenting out the young demon like a shark on blood, the latter of whom begs and begs the older demon to see his bonnie angel just one more time. And Simon knows Johnny'll never stop whinging about it so instead he goes up to heaven and nabs reader, breaking their halo and chaining their wings so they can't fly back up to true home. Just thinking about MC both being thrilled to see their Johnny again, "alive" and healthy, and being devastated over being relegated to a pretty bird in a glorified cage :))
