Living His Best Life~

The answer to your problems is self-discipline

Johnny MacTavish is the kind of person who leaves you feeling filled up.

Not in like a sexual way, though that thought does happen from time to time. It's emotional, like you came to him with a chunk missing from your chest, and he slowly worked his stupid little jokes over it until it healed on its own.

A cup of tea here, a football match there, and this tangible kind of warmth never fails to spread up your lungs, relaxing everything in its wake and allowing you a rare chance to breathe freely. You're not afraid of yourself, when you're with Johnny.

You've memorized the way his voice sounds over the comm, that breathy trail-off he does, as if he's fighting back a laugh. It's not even that you love like Johnny, so much that you need him. It's all self preservation instinct that has you searching for him at the end of every mission, making sure your sun still exists in the universe. That you did good enough, that you covered him and made sure he never truly felt like his life was in danger. He was never alone out there, he always had you.

"Comin to mine after?" he'd laugh, smacking the back of your shoulder. And everyone else would laugh too, because you have that stone-cold expression down pat, narrowing your eyes like you're irritated he exists.

You do go back to his, because you've somehow misplaced your keys, and you're dead on your feet from exhaustion. Johnny just rolls his eyes and jerks his chin towards his car, acting like you're some lost cat he found on the side of the road.

Your duffel lands with a heavy thump next to his when you arrive. It feels like weeks since you last slept, and you collapse face down onto the sofa, not bothered to remove your boots.

When you wake up, it's to a sturdy hand grabbing onto your ankle, shaking it a little.

"Mgghmm?" you mumble, realizing that you shoved your mask up to your cheekbones in your sleep, and now you can't see.

"Bed's free, I'm goin' for a run."

Sounds bloody miserable, but you grunt in affirmation and haul yourself upright, stumbling to the bathroom first.

His bed smells like him. It instantly relaxes you, allows you to shove your mask in your pocket and drop immediately back into unconsciousness, with one of his pillows under your torso and another hugged to your face. It's like your hypervigilance can finally melt away, surrounded by his things and his smell. You can sleep knowing the only thing that matters, that Johnny will be there when you wake up.

telling simon you have a breeding kink so now he's looking up where he can get his vasectomy reversed by tomorrow

nothing done by halves here

Ghoul imagine Cowboy!Ghost going to the thrift/antique store in town because all his work pants are testing the limits of the Theseus’ Ship paradox with how much mending Duck has had to do on them.

There’s literally only one pair of jeans in the entire store that fit him (his legs are a mile long, thick as fucking tree trunks, with a bakery to match, that’s a tall order for a rural town) and so he buys them without a second thought. Doesn’t really pay mind to the way the owners great grand daughters eyes widen comically when she sees the brand patch on the back. He’s not very familiar with American brands anyway, and these’ll get demolished by the end of the week, why should he care who made it.

Of course it all comes together the next time him and Goose have sex. Her brain practically short circuits as he unzips his jeans, revealing a faded red patch that reads “☘️LUCKY YOU☘️” in a bold font.

Yes this mountain of a man bought Lucky brand jeans from the thrift, no he didn’t really realize what they were (not like he has to look at his zip every time mkay it’s fucking muscle memory), yes they fit him like skinny jeans, and yes Goose fucks his absolute brains out that night.

Maelstrom the wizard you are to make the worms squirm the way you do...

Your mom's a miracle worker for sure, but she's not God, and when Simon sets his ratty jeans on her kitchen table she just stares at him. You let your lovely, change averse, husband know that you will attempt to order him a new pair of the exact same brand but he needs something else in the meantime. Begrudgingly he agrees, and tugs on a pair of fatigues to go find a new pair of work pants in town. A tall feat when your few clothing stores mostly cater to women, and it's only very recently that your town has seen such an influx of... men his size.

You drop him at the church's little resale shop and tell him to find something denim that fits. You don't think about it more than that as you walk into the feed store. You don't even think about it when Simon climbs into the truck cab with a pair of jeans.

You do think about it the next day when he pulls his new jeans on. They're tight, and your eyes track the way he has to hop a little to get them up his thighs. You honestly could drop to your knees just watching him adjust himself in the denim. There's never a time you forget that Simon is a big man, but there are certainly moments you're reminded of it. You're drooling a little just eyeing the bulge of his cock against the fly of his jeans. He may as well be vacuum sealed into those suckers. You're not complaining, but...

You have to remind yourself that these were probably the only jeans he could find in his size. It's the only way you're able to keep your mind off your husbands tree trunk thighs while you're corralling cows.

You're eating lunch when Simon crouches down to pat the dog and you very nearly spit out your coke at the way the denim stretches over his ass. Soap stops his walk to the chicken coop and you have to throw your can at him to stop him from wolf whistling at your husband. Jesus Christ, ok, new problem has just arisen. You survey the jeans as Simon stands, the hug of denim around his thick thighs, the curve of fabric over his ass that cups it something sinful. You narrow your eyes at the offending garment. There's no way those fit comfortably, but Simon isn't complaining so you can't say for sure. He shifts his wait, settles a hand on his hip to watch the dog run in circles, and you have to physically hold yourself back from smacking his ass.

"My love," You try, earning a hum from Simon. You both know you only call him that when you're really trying not to call him something else. "Do those fit you?"

"Fit enough," Simon grumbles, bending to grab the tennis ball Mav brings him. You wince at the way the seams seem to be holding on for dear life. You try to remember if you knew Simon was toting around a whole bakery back there as he straightens and throws the dog's ball.

"Are they-" you hesitate, eyes stuck on him, "-comfortable?"

"They're fine," He bends again for the ball, and you keep yourself sinfully silent against the heat rising on your cheek, "shopped at enough charity shops." He throws the ball, and you- you sort of hope the jeans you ordered get lost in the mail.

You barely make it to dinner before he splits a seam. There's a little pop and you look over your shoulder to see Simon poking at a new little hole on the inside of his knee. You feel a little like you're seeing a victorian lady's ankle the way your heart pounds at that little inch of skin. Simon grimaces and pinches at the seam with a sigh. You flick the burner off and wipe your hands on a nearby towel.

"Lemme get a look, see if I can patch it." You offer, you're not as good as your mom or Soap, but you're a decent stitch. Simon stops his fussing and straightens his leg so you can crouch down and inspect the damage. Not too bad, you can fix it. You sigh, so much for hoping the ordered pants go missing, you'll be lucky if these things make it through the week. You glance up at Simon, catch his apologetic smile and shake your head. "Let's get 'em off and I'll throw a stitch on 'em while the pasta boils."

You don't bother standing, waiting for Simon on your knees is habit enough you don't even think about it. You watch him unhook his belt(as if the denim painted on him is going anywhere) and tug his zipper down. Your eyes nearly bug out of your head at the red "Lucky you" that greats you. It's entirely possible your brain might have fully leaked out of your ears after a full day of your man walking around with practically nothing on. You don't think this denim even counts as pants at this point. Not when you can trace the outline of his cock, and see it twitch as you lean forward to press your lips to the embroidered zipper.

Simon's hand finds your head immediately, his fingers scratching down to your scalp to hold on. "All that starin' finally got to ya, huh?" He rumbles, his voice lowered to that lovely register he only finds when he wants to fuck you. Your eyes dart up to meet his, your tongue darting out to lick at his boxers. His other hand pushes his jeans down, the fabric bunching around his muscular thighs and holding tight. You don't think about what a pain these things are going to be to get off, you just wiggle your head closer, drag your lips over the soft cotton and inhale the smell of a hard day's work.

Shit it must be nice just having his cock not clamped against his hip. You don't usually get that relieved sigh unless you've been teasing him. You drag your tongue over the soft warm length of him, wetting the cotton of his boxers with your spit until you can feel his cock harden under your ministrations. Your hands slip up Simon's thighs to tug at the denim, it barely moves and somehow that turns you on more than the hand fishing his thick cock from his boxers.

"Bad as Johnny with all your pantin'," He hums, "think I can't see you starin' sweet'eart?" You tip your head back, your mouth open and your tongue out, just so he can smack his cock against it.

Of course he'd catch you, but you weren't exactly stealthy about it. You're allowed to check out the man you love, that's not a crime. Especially if he looks as good as he does. If it were you, you wouldn't have even made it out of the house this morning. You take too long thinking, too long waiting and sinking into that lovely soft space Simon pulls you into, because you gag on his cock as it pushes down your throat in one quick stroke. He pulls it out, spit stringing between your tongue and his length and rubs the head over your lips.

"Gonna put it away if you can't pay attention." Simon scolds, and you can't have that. Your tongue laps at his head, lips stretched wide as he feeds you his heavy cock. You swallow around him this time, blinking the tears from your eyes when he hits the back of your throat. It's uncomfortable, but a quick jerk of his hips forces him down past your gag reflex, where you can feel him bulging out your throat. He holds you there, letting your throat work to try and push him out, before he pulls you off.

You gulp down a breath and slide your hands around his hips to grab that lovely ass you'd been oogling all day. Simon chuckles, watching you open your mouth wide, slurping at his cock with each bob of your head. He holds still, lets you pull off to lick long stripes up his length, watching the way his cock rests against your lips, against your nose when you make your way back to lick at the base. Seeing how big he is compared to you, knowing you'll let him fuck your throat despite the way it makes you hoarse in the morning... what a perfect partner you are.

(If Ghost's honest with himself there's something intoxicating about having the woman he loves be so openly attracted to him that she'd spend all day staring. It's the same heady rush that hits him when you look up at him with his cock down your throat, the same rush that he gets seeing your nose run and your eyes water as you fight down the urge to gag. He's never met someone that makes him feel so completely wanted the way you do.)

Your tongue swirls around the head of his cock, laps at the the vein running along the bottom, you hold it out of your mouth to lick along his heavy length with each bob of your head. You pull back only to spit on his cock, the foamy drool that drips off of it is quickly pulled back into your lips as they slide over him. Your nose buries itself in the wiry blond curls at the base of his cock, and you shake your head to get his deeper. You suck on the way up, cheeks hollowed to slurp at the soft skin in a way that makes Simon groan.

It's absolutely filthy the way you blow him. You're such a mess, slobbering on his cock like it's the best thing you've ever had in your mouth, drooling and slurping. Your pretty lips puffy and your eyes shining. It's cute, you look like you're on the verge of tears just taking him down to the base. Simon taps your cheek with his fingers and you hold still, let him fuck your mouth the way he wants. His hips thrust shallowly into your mouth, easing you into the feeling before they snap and your gag is stopped by the thick cock stretching out your throat. You know what he wants. Know that by the time he's done the breaths you suck in so greedily with each pull out won't be enough to keep your nose from running, or the tears from spilling over your lashes.

You know that by the time he pulls you to the base and holds you there, his come spilling down your throat as he spits a low swear of your name, you'll look a wreck. And you know that he'll tap your nose when he pulls out, and crouch down to tell you what a good job you did. Except when he does drop to your level you're met with a smirk, and a:

"Lucky you, eh princess?"

warming up

cw: post sex drabble, naked bodies

— Well, you done fucked up.

Look at you, waking up in bed right next to that hot neighbor, what was his name again? Simon? Yeah. He had been staring at you the past few weeks since moving in, and you thought he was cute, so of course you thought to yourself, "What's the harm in one good fuck?"

Everything. God he had such a good dick, and he knew how to use it, the benefit of an older man you supposed. By the third time you came you were face down into his soft pillow, whimpering and mewling like a cat in heat. And of course he had the audacity to give your ass a little slap, slowly easing out of you. A hand rubbing your aching tummy, maybe a few wet kisses pressed to your back as he laid on top of you.

A soft coo to follow, "Ah love, you took me so well, look at you, sweet thing."

All you could do was sigh into his big broad muscles, sniffling softly in exhaustion. And of course you fell asleep to his warm, comforting words, and gentle hands caressing you.

And when you woke up, he had you in an absolute death grip, one that signified that this would not be a one night stand. Of course, you could struggle and try to tug out of his big, burly arms. But the moment you heard a slow inhale and feel his grip tighten, you knew you were locked in.

A warm kiss pressed to your back, his rumbly voice crooning in your ear, "Where do you think yer going, love?"

And just maybe, you would let your eyes fall shut, a few more hours of sleep would surely loosen his grip, right??

old drawings of ghost

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what the point of mmf threesomes if the dudes don’t fag out a lil