Thinking About Being A Little Too Good At Getting Johnny Off. The Way He Grits His Teeth As He Thrusts

not friends not lovers but a secret third thing

we are all sinners

it’s late when he gets in, the flat dimly lit, the smell of something warm still lingering in the air. ghost kicks off his boots, rolling his shoulders, aching from the weight of the day. but when he sees you waiting for him—curled up in one of his jumpers, blinking at him all soft and sleepy from the couch—his chest does that thing again, that tight little squeeze that reminds him he’s home.

“you waited up,” he murmurs, voice lower now, rougher from exhaustion as he steps toward you.

you shrug, stretching a little, letting his jumper slide off your shoulder just enough to make his hands twitch. “had to make sure you ate.”

his gaze flickers to the coffee table where a plate sits, covered, waiting for him. he huffs, shaking his head, but there’s no real bite to it. “yer too good to me, love.”

“well you deserve it.”

that gets him. it always does. because deep down, there’s still a part of him that don’t quite believe that. but you do, and fuck, if he won’t let himself have that—have you.

you tug him down onto the couch, settling onto his lap with practiced ease, pressing the plate into his hands. “c’mon, si. eat please.”

he grumbles, halfhearted, but doesn’t argue. not when you’re so warm against him, not when your fingers brush over his jaw as you lift a bite to his lips. he pulls his mask up just enough, lets you feed him, eyes fluttering shut as he hums at the taste.

you watch him with that sweet little smile that turns him to mush.

“perfect,” he mutters, voice thick, arms tightening around you. “just like you.”

the match on telly plays in the background, but he doesn’t really watch it, too busy savoring the way you feel against him, the way you fuss over him, the way your free hand smooths over his chest absentmindedly.

and by the time he’s done, you’re barely keeping your eyes open, soft and warm against him. he shifts himself slightly, pressing his face into your neck, inhaling slow.

“y’fallin’ asleep on me, sweetheart?”

you hum softly in response, burrowing closer, and his lips twitch at the feeling.

“go on then,” he mutters, pulling the blanket over both of you. “i gotcha.”

and he does. he always does.

I love that for ec!141 soap and gaz always try to be respectful with reader, but what do you think would break them?

Sleepy reader falling asleep between them on the couch

realizing you feel safe enough to curl up, head resting on Gaz’s shoulder and your feet tucked under Soap’s thighs (bonus points if you’re wearing one of the random tshirts the four of them share)

Gaz trying so hard not to move, but his blood feels like molten lava when your pretty eyes blink open, looking up at him, voice sleep laden as you try to get comfortable again

“don’t move… you’re comfy..” and you’re already nodding off again, tucked safely between two of your newest guard dogs

you book one of those fancy, exclusive cruises, and on day four, you confront the man in the cabin next door. he smokes day and night on his balcony, puffing some disgusting-smelling cigars. even with the door shut, the scent seeps in, clinging to the bedding and settling into your clothes.

when he opens the door, your head dips back to meet his gaze. he's weathered and intense, the kind of tired that seems permanently carved into his face. eyes that look like they've forgotten how to soften or blink at a normal interval. he leans a thick arm on the frame, shirt hanging open enough to reveal a dense patch of chest hair, and a faded heart tattoo with some woman's name scrawled on the ribbon curling around it. you can't help but notice a pale tan line on his ring finger where a wedding band ought to be.

and it's cute how you put your foot down. asking him to take his nasty habit to the deck. you're polite but obviously frustrated. annoyed. you're mid-sentence when he interrupts, lip curling in a sly smile that, until recently, has always worked.

"let me make it up to you. smuggled a decent bottle onboard. help me finish it?"

he must still have it because the offer catches you off guard, your irritation softening before you can stop it. not twenty minutes later, with the sun dipping low over the water, he's got you on the balcony, his cigar at your lips, teaching you how to take it.

Fuck, marry kill with: the concept of Willem Dafoe, the smell of a bandaid floating on a pool, and an oil painting of George Washington jorkin’ it to the movie “National Treasure”

every word had my jaw dropping further, anon

I guess I’d fuck the Washington painting since he’s already going at it(??? lmfao), I refuse to marry the smell of a pool bandaid so I’m killing it and I’m buckling up and saying my vows to the concept of Willem Dafoe

here's how i imagine married life with John: i cook dinner for him some nights (it tastes like shit cause im a terrible cook) he eats everything without complaint and asks for seconds.

once he's done, he says: "THANK YOU LOVE! 💕"

i suck him off after dinner as a thank you for putting up with me

f!reader

Johnny lost his dogtag, and sent you a message asking if you've seen it at home.

Only for you to send him a picture of yourself wearing it.

And now, his brain malfunctioned, and he froze, staring unblinking at his phone with his mouth open (and is he.. drooling?).

All of his focus was directed at how the piece of metal (which has his name on it) was resting nicely between your boobs (because of course you're wearing the sluttiest top with a very low neckline)

King Price assuring his pretty new bride that it’s tradition his most trusted men be there for the consummation of their marriage. It’s just part of the ceremony and to be expected. Nothing to be nervous or shy about. His inner circle are strictly professional and all about upholding the sanctity of marriage.

Now just lay back and let Johnny work your pretty little cunt open with his tongue. Your king would hurt you if you weren’t ready, and we can’t have that can we? We need you relaxed and pliant. It’s okay if it feels good, no need to fight it. Johnny is here to please you as much as he is there for John. You are the new queen after all.

Kyle can help you keep your cries down, just open your mouth nice and wide for him. Just like that. Let him stuff his cock down your throat to muffle you. We don’t want the maids in waiting to hear you scream. Scare the poor dears to death thinking you were in pain.

Then when you’re ready John will bully his way into your slick hole. He knows the stretch burns but he keeps going, assuring you it gets better. As he bends your knees up to your ears he whispers to you about how good you feel. How pretty you are with tears in your eyes and his name on your lips. That it’s okay to claw at him as he punches against your cervix as he pushes in hard and deep when he comes.

When John rolls off you, Simon’s fingers are there quickly replace him, making sure none of the kings spend goes to waste. He knows your overstimulated and sore but don’t try and crawl away. Unless you want a sharp smack to your abused clit. And as your body clenches around his fingers you can rock your hips to match his movements pushing into you, no need to be shy.

And as you lay there on display in the bed, hips up on a pillow to keep everything in that Simon pushed back inside, Johnny will clean you up. Wipe away the left over spit and come from your thighs with a deliciously warm cloth. He’ll use his tongue again for the especially tender parts if you whine prettily enough. Kyle does the same for his King as John lays next to you, grinning as he watches.

Meanwhile, Simon leaves to tell the Court it’s done; his fingers still glistening as the evidence.

KYLE ‘GAZ’ GARRICK call of duty: modern warfare ii — atomgrad raid 2