The first time you see the scar on Johnny’s chest, it isn’t dramatic.
There’s no grand reveal. No speech.
It’s just you and him in his flat, rain tapping softly against the windows, the world reduced to warm lamplight and the quiet hum of the kettle in the kitchen.
He’s tugging his shirt over his head like he always does—careless, comfortable—until he freezes for half a second. Just a flicker. A hesitation so small most people wouldn’t notice it.
But you do.
You’ve learned the language of him. The way his shoulders tighten when he’s bracing for something. The way his jaw sets when he expects rejection.
The shirt comes off anyway.
Your eyes take in the clean lines across his chest—surgical scars, pale and healed, mapping a history he fought hard for. They don’t shock you. They don’t scare you.
They just make sense.
Johnny rubs the back of his neck, suddenly sheepish. “Still get in my head about it sometimes,” he admits, accent softer than usual. “Daft, yeah?”
You step closer.
“Why would that be daft?”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “’Cause I wanted this. Fought for it. Waited years. An’ sometimes I still look in the mirror and think—” He stops himself, searching for the right words. “Just takes time for your brain to catch up, I guess.”
You reach out slowly, giving him time to pull away if he wants to.
He doesn’t.
Your fingers brush over the scar gently, reverent, like it’s something precious. Because it is. It’s proof of survival. Of stubborn, relentless hope.
“This,” you say softly, tracing the faint line with your thumb, “is you choosing yourself.”
His breath catches.
Soap MacTavish—loud, fearless, explosive in a firefight—goes very still under your touch.
“You think it looks… okay?” he asks, and there’s vulnerability there he rarely shows anyone.
You lean up and press a kiss just beneath the scar, not dramatic, not performative. Just steady.
“I think it looks like you.”
For a second he doesn’t speak. Then his hands slide to your waist, grounding himself in the solid warmth of you.
“I was scared,” he admits quietly. “Before. That whoever I ended up with would see me as… complicated.”
You smile against his skin. “You are complicated.”
He snorts.
“But not in the way you mean. You’re layered. Brave. Stubborn as hell. You rebuilt yourself from the inside out. That’s not complicated. That’s impressive.”
His grip tightens just a little, like he’s anchoring himself to the words.
“Does it bother you?” he asks, softer now. Honest.
You shake your head. “Nothing about you bothers me.”
He searches your face like he’s looking for cracks, for doubt. He doesn’t find any.
The tension drains from his shoulders slowly, like a held breath finally released.
“Good,” he murmurs, pressing his forehead to yours. “’Cause I’m not planning on going anywhere.”
“Good,” you echo.
Outside, the rain keeps falling. Inside, his hands are warm, steady at your hips. His chest rises and falls under your palm—real, solid, chosen.
And when he kisses you, it isn’t uncertain anymore.
It’s confident.
Like a man who fought for his body, his name, his life—and finally feels at home in all of it.
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Warnings: +18 NSFW, established relationship, gn!reader, switch!soap, switch!reader, brat!reader, soap is hairy, oral fixation, detailed kissing and making out, detailed tdick sucking and messy pussy eating (r to s), fingering (r to s), biting (both), manhandling (both), he gets wet af, he cums hard, various words used for johnnys genitalia (author is trans masc uses words like cunt, hole, tdick, dick), purely self indulgent
You knew that HRT had hit Johnny hard, I mean it was obvious. He was tall and thick, dense with muscle and hair. He passed in the military for gods sake! Countless transphobes not only looked up to him, they respected him, they followed his every command. But you had never gotten to see how all that testosterone affected his dick. You had seen bottom growth before, so you had an idea in your mind of what he looked like. Months into your relationship with him you still hadn’t actually seen it, however.
See, sex with Johnny for the first few months is a whirlwind of pleasure. You learn quickly that he loves nothing more than to give, the furthest he had let you go with him was sucking aching bruises onto his lower stomach. Other than that, his mouth and hands never seemed to leave your body.
The first time you saw him naked was a complete surprise.
☆*:.｡.
His tongue slides slowly over yours, licking deep into your mouth and you groan. You’re in his lap on the couch, his shirt is off, and he’s kissing you like he’s never wanted anyone else. His hand gropes slowly down your side, cupping your ass and pulling you to grind down against him.
“There you go, love, just like that,” he pulls away from your mouth with a slight wet noise to speak and you whine, dipping down to suck on his neck. He groans as your hand comes up to dig your nails into his chest and your lips work against his throat.
You pull away from his neck, wanting another kiss, but a large hand on the back of your head pulls you back down.
Then down further.
You let him guide you down his chest, past the scratches you left with your nails and further still to the dense patch of hair on his lower stomach. You lick and suck as you go, slipping to the floor as you descend further down. You get comfortable between his thick, splayed thighs, and start to nip and lick at his hip bones. When you finally sit back, you realize that he had unbuttoned his jeans and was working on his zipper.
You look up at him, suprised, and he only grins wolfishly.
“Go on. You’ve been wanting this haven’t you?”
You nod, not trusting your voice, and hook your fingers in the waistband of his jeans, helping him slide them down and off his body.
His revealed boxers are sticky against his thighs and cunt as he spreads his legs, and for a second you can make out the full outline of his swollen hole. And, more notably, a tdick big enough to easily fill your mouth. You groan and rub your finger along the slick fabric, gathering up his wetness before bring it to your mouth. You suck on your finger, moaning as your tongue licks up his arousal.
He lets out a shuddering breath at the sight.
“Oh fuck, you like that?” He lifts his hips, sliding his underwear off too, before returning to his original position with his legs spread.
His cunt was gorgeous. Swollen and flushed, his hole pulsing subtly as slick dripped from it slowly. You knew his dick was big, but now you could see that it was heavy too. Johnny reached causally down to stroke it between his thumb and forefingers. His hole clenched and his dick throbbed in response, even more wetness leaking down to the couch.
You stare between his legs as your mouth waters, “Go on,” He rasps, “Get a real taste.”
You immediately dive in to slurp at his winking hole, gathering the slightly tangy cream up into your mouth before letting it drip onto his tdick. You watch for a moment, letting the slick accumulate into a delicious drop at his tip before taking the whole thing in your mouth. He tenses for a moment, trembling, before slowly relaxing. You smile as you feel him go lax under you and begin sucking at his dick in long, slow movements, letting the weight of him sit perfectly in the sliding curve of your tongue. His head falls back and his breath hitches as his hips start rolling slighting with the rhythm of your mouth. You work at him, letting the taste of his cunt overwhelm your senses. Just as his staggering breaths grow more stable, you switch to sucking his whole dick deep into your mouth. His hand shoots to grab at your head, and in response you start to lap at the underside of his dick in quick, firm movements. His head snaps up to meet your eyes.
“I don’t want to cum yet, slow down.” he growls.
You keep eye contact and suck ever so slightly harder. You watch something dark flash across his eyes before her spits out, “Oh you fucking-”
His leg hooks over your shoulder, calf pressing into your back, “If you wanna play that game, then go ahead” he grunts, hand reaching down to massage the base of your skull almost painfully, “Show me how good you can make me cum.”
Your thumb comes up to prod gently against his slick hole and he groans at the sensation of you teasing his entrance. You dip in slowly, gently, easing up on your sucking to relax his muscles a little. Your thumb slips in slowly with a wet shlick and he gasps, hips trying to jolt away from the stimulation. You sit there, prodding just barely in and out of his desperate hole. Once you feel his opening relax and leak profusely against your probing thumb, you pull it out and let your tongue start taking broader, heavy strokes from his throbbing hole up along the underside of his dick.
He decides to stop protesting, melting into the couch as the burning pleasure builds hot in his gut. The noises he’s making are incredible, deep and desperate and thick with lust and scottish mumbling. His eyes are hazy and still fixed on you but his eyebrows twitch and his mouth is left slack and open.
You watch closely as you slide your pointer finger down to the knuckle in his wet heat. Johnny curses, back arching as he fights to maintain eye contact and not let his eyes roll. You take his dick back into your mouth and go back to sucking on it rhythmically, curling your finger up slightly and pressing as you slide it slowly out of him. You immediately sink your middle finger in instead, reaching deeper than before.
“Holy shit. Holy shit,” He gasps. His eyes are getting more and more pathetic by the second, his pupils blown and lips chewed and swollen.
His leg twitched next to your head, thighs trying in vain to close. The soldier inside of him was fighting hard to maintain self control, but he could only do so much when after only a few pumps of your middle finger in his fluttering cunt, you slipped your ring finger in along with it. The sounds were obscene, the wet shlickshlick of your fingers embarrassingly loud.
He whined, legs now trembling. His hole was more than ready for it, in fact, it had been begging for it. It was like your middle fingers (which were now stroking along the roof of his cunt, searching for sensitive spots) were scratching an itch he’d had since you sat down on the couch together. Just about two digits in, your finger tips found that sweet spongey area inside him and began to stroke it in firm, pressing movements.
“Oh! Yes!”
He gasped, eyes finally fluttering closed and head tilting back as his thoughts leaked out around your fingers. The couch was ruined at this point, but you didn’t care as you hooked his other leg over your shoulder and pressed his legs to his chest. He lets out a noise somewhere between a cry and a groan as you suck him hard down to the base and begin to once again lap at the underside of his aching dick.
“Oh my God. God. Please! Please I need-” His chest is heaving, and your fingers start to reach deeper inside of him again, slowly creeping further and further. You groan against his dick, feeling his molten walls open for you.
His legs lock around your head and you know he’s about to cum. It just would take a little more, just a slight adjustment, maybe if you crooked your fingers just there-
He clenches down hard as his back curves and pleasure pours through his body. He stays here quaking for one, two, three, four. his mouth opens in a silent “oh” as his orgasm melts down to spasming shocks. You continued to milk him as he clenches down on you, body protesting your persistent fingers. Cum slips between your fingers and out his hole with a squelch and aids in the growing mess between his thighs.
You pull away for just a moment, finding your voice, “There you go, let it all out for me baby,” then you return once more to suck and lap firmly at his dick.
He whimpers as the full body twitches gave way to a fluttering heat that burned nearly painful where your fingers toyed inside him. You keep going until these flutters reduce to occasional twitches, then pull away and admire your work.
Johnny’s hole is somehow more swollen than it was before, flushed a deep red and decorated with webs of thick fluids that made a mess in his thick hair and left his ass shiny and slippery with slick. His dick twitches with sensitivity in the cool air. He looks beautiful, and you smile.
Hands on your face tug you to face him. A few tears had escaped from his shining eyes and rolled down his temples. Other than that, his lips were spit slicked and his skin shone red with need.
He yanks you into a kiss, groaning deep into your mouth as he tastes his own arousal on your tongue. He licks along your teeth, then baits you to do the same by pulling away before sucking your tongue harshly. You moan and pull away, feeling his lips desperately trying to pull you back in. He stares at you with dark eyes and you grin. Your head cocks.
“Was that ok?” You ask with a smile.
He sucks his teeth then smiles slowly, “C’mere.”
You climb on top of him again, reaching to wrap an arm around his head to kiss him one more. Before you can, he flips you so you’re flat on your back on the couch and you feel the mess he left behind under your right hip. A big hand cups your chin and tilts your head to the side, exposing the column of your throat. He sinks his weight down, and his hot mouth starts lapping at your pulse point. His leg slots between yours and he forces your hips down.
He licks up to the sweet spot behind your ear and sucks a hickey there, biting harshly for a second before he retreating with an audible pop. Then, in the deep rough accented voice of his he purrs, “You were fuckin fantastic.”
projects my period cramps onto price simon johnny and kyle cuz they should SUFFER MORE 😤 - 🐑
Johnny's periods are the heaviest, lasting a good seven to nine days, having him bleeding through the thickest pads that the BX sells within two hours or so. It's on the second day that his lips go white and his vision blurs around the edges if he stands up too fast. By the third day, he shakes just reaching for his iron supplements. He's lucky, and his cramps are manageable, almost forgettable. Just a tightening in his abdomen and briefly gritted teeth. Ghost has to put him to bed, with a towel under him just in case, and they definitely try out the period steak theory. Johnny gets force-fed iron-rich foods throughout the week, until he's begging for something other than beef, sardines, and spinach. Once the misery is over, Ghost still forces him to take it easy for another few days. Thankfully, though, his cycles are unusually long, sometimes 30-35 days, so that still gives him plenty of normal days.
Gaz's periods are the most painful. He's taken bullets that cause less pain. He'd honestly prefer the bullet sometimes. His periods are short, only three to five days, and not particularly heavy, but the cramps have him curled up in the fetal position in Price's bed, shaking and gasping through waves of pain as he clutches a heating pad to his stomach. Price makes him mugs of ginger tea and helps him to put the patches of a TENS unit onto his lower back, the gentle electrical pulses helping to block the pain signals. Price keeps his boy on a regular dose of paracetamol and makes sure that he drinks plenty of water infused with electrolytes, letting Gaz sleep through most of the worst of the cramps.
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He knows what it is the second it happens. He’s known it could still happen. He’d prepared for it in theory, told himself he was fine with it, that it didn’t change anything.
But knowing and feeling are two very different things.
He’s quiet all evening. Short answers. Too controlled. When you finally ask what’s going on, he hesitates, then exhales through his nose like he’s bracing himself.
“It’s back,” he says. “You know. That.”
There’s frustration there, not shock. Not fear. Just exhaustion.
You nod. “Okay.”
That simple response makes him frown slightly. “That’s it?”
“What do you need?” you ask instead.
He rubs a hand over his face, jaw tight. “I don’t know. That’s the problem. I did everything right. I transitioned. I’m me now. And I still have to, deal with this.”
The words come out sharper than he means them to. He doesn’t look at you when he adds, quieter, “Feels like I’m carryin’ around somethin’ that doesn’t belong to me anymore.”
You sit beside him, close but not crowding.
“I get that,” you say. “It doesn’t feel fair.”
That cracks something. He finally looks at you, eyes dark with conflict. “I don’t want it to mean anything. But it does. Every time.”
You tell him it doesn’t have to define him, but you don’t dismiss how much it messes with his head. You talk about practicality, not identity. About adapting. About finding ways to make it less of a thing. Something managed, not endured.
“Your body’s doing a function,” you say gently. “It’s not making a statement about who you are.”
He’s quiet for a long moment.
“…Still hate it,” he mutters.
You smile softly. “Yeah. Me too.”
That shared honesty helps more than reassurance ever could.
Later, you help him set things up in a way that feels right for him, choices, control, privacy. You don’t assume. You ask. You let him decide. That matters more than anything.
When he finally sits back, tension eased just a little, he admits, “I didn’t want to deal with this alone.”
“You’re not,” you say, like it’s obvious.
He leans into you without thinking, forehead resting briefly against your shoulder. It’s not dramatic. It’s not a breakdown.
It’s trust.
And for the first time since it started, he feels like this is something he can live with, not because it doesn’t bother him, but because he doesn’t have to fight it by himself.
