#johnny cod

A pixie cut.

You had talked about one, but he never expected you to actually go through with it. It looked…fucking stunning.

“Dovie?” he called out.

You lifted your head as his voice broke the silence. That smile, those eyes, the haircut—you looked like you were practically begging to be filled with his kids.

“Love! Welcome home, I've missed you!” You jumped off the couch and skipped over to him.

Your arms wrapped around his neck, lips pressed to his cheek, his beard tickling your soft brown skin. He just stood there, frozen, staring at you with admiration.

“John, what's wrong?” you asked, backing up and tilting your head up at the mesmerized man.

“When’d you get that, the haircut?” he asked, barely able to speak. Damn, you looked gorgeous, just perfect.

“Like a few days ago, why?”

“I mean,” he huffed, running his hand over his face, “you look fuckin’ good, bird. Gorgeous, stunning, magnificent—god fucking damn, ya’ tryin’ to kill me, lassie?” you giggled, cheeks warming from his compliments.

“Why, thank you.” That damn smile, your voice—normally he could keep himself in check, but with how hard he was–that was impossible.

You were talking excitedly about the experience, while his foot tapped, hand hanging over his mouth, eyebrows furrowed, cheeks heated, feeling more confined in his pants with every minute—he couldn't take it, he really tried.

He roughly clasped your face in his hands, pressing his lips to yours in a heated, passionate kiss. You moaned into his mouth as his hands trailed down your back, grabbing your ass with his beefy hands.

His tongue pushed into your mouth, and his hard-on pressed against your thigh.

“I'm gonna fill you up tonight, love,” he mumbled against your lips, dragging you back to the couch.

“I think not!” you pulled back, raising an eyebrow.

“Love-”

“No John, I just got this done and it wasn't cheap! Gimme another week AT LEAST before you try to impregnate me!”

“You're gonna make ya’ old man wait that long?” he flashed his pretty smile, blue eyes gleaming.

“Well…yes!” you said, the obvious answer, then turned away to the bathroom to make sure he hadn’t messed up your hair.

He sighed and threw his head back, grabbing his phone to see if there was anything to distract him. He scrolled through his apps and checked his bank—$300 spent at the salon.

Oh, yeah, he was most definitely going to fuck you stupid.

Simon “Ghost” Riley

CW- thigh kisses, mention of erection, he need that so badly he's submissive.

Only God knew how much he despised being away from you for so long. Months on end, he couldn't stand it. You were his home, the only peace he had (yes, he had the boys, but they're annoying), he just needed to be wrapped in your arms and smell your scent.

He wasted no time smashing into the house, not sneaking in quietly—not him. He busted down the door like he was chasing a criminal, then hurried toward the living room.

The musky smell of his cheap cologne and sweat followed him, his dirty boots leaving marks on the freshly cleaned floor—he didn’t care, he just wanted to get to you.

He entered the living room and saw you. Of course, because of his loud entrance, you heard him and were already sneaking peeks through your eyelashes at him with your book in your lap.

“Love?” He dropped his duffel bag and moved slowly and deliberately toward you, looking like he’d seen a ghost.

Just as you were about to speak, he dropped to his knees in front of you. You paused, tilted your head to the right, and narrowed your eyes at the large, muscular man in front of you.

His hot, calloused hands wrapped around your ankles and pulled you closer.

“Si!” you squealed, your book falling out of your lap, and your head resting on the couch cushion. He pushed your legs apart, inhaling your sweet scent while kissing up your inner thigh.

“I like it,” he grumbled into your thigh, the vibrations sending sparks up your spine.

“Like what? My hair?” You looked down at him as his tongue slid along your inner thigh and his nose took in your scent every few seconds.

“Yes. It's different from your usual braids, lovely choice.”

“Thank you, so don't mess it up.” You pulled your legs back together.

“Lovie, you can't get a man hard, all dolled up, and then not give him what he needs.”

“I actually can. You can hold yourself for a week and take a shower,” you replied.

He huffed and rolled his eyes but obeyed (he's submissive sometimes, okay?), standing up and walking to the bathroom, muttering about what he planned to do to you once he got his hands on you.

You watched him leave the room and wondered what he’d do when he found out you used his debt.

Oh well, he’d find out eventually—hopefully after you got everything out of your hairstyle.

Johnny “Soap” Mctavish

CW- SS, meaning–Sassy Soap, humor, neck kissing, mention of nudes, clothes grapping, breast groping(through shirt), the most dialogue.

He couldn't take any more. He felt like he was going to die if he spent another minute away from you. Yes, he did somehow blow up your phone throughout the deployment and ask for nudes every night, but just one more second and he’d have a heart attack.

“Bonnie!!!” The loud Scottish man practically kicked the door down, yelling for you. He sprinted through the house looking for you.

He could smell your vanilla perfume from the entrance. He kicked off his boots at the door, showing no concern for anything else. He didn't even care that he left the door cracked open.

You placed your book on the coffee table and sighed, ready for the dramatic entrance he always put on when he came home.

“GODDAMN LASSIE!” he yelled as soon as he saw you.

His jaw dropped; his wife, who usually wore afro puffs and twist-outs, now had a pixie cut. You laughed, that beautiful smile lighting up your face. He just stared, as if he were looking at Aphrodite herself.

“Welcome home, Johnny.” You looked at him with amusement.

“Who do you think you are?! Sitting here looking like a RAVISHING SNACK!” He moved toward you, grabbing your hips and burying his face in your neck.

“It's just a pixie cut,” you replied through small giggles as he smothered kisses all over your neck.

“Well, it's tea.”

“Excuse me, McTavish!”

“You say it, Bonnie. Your hair is tea, clock it!” He pulled back, tapping his fingers together with a big grin.

“Seriously?!” you retorted, rolling your eyes at his odd tendencies. His hands moved up your shirt, grabbing your breasts before diving back into your neck.

“‘m gonna fuck you so good tonight, Bonnie,” he hummed, his tongue dragging across your collarbone.

“Not happening, clock that.”

“Why not?!” he whined with puppy eyes.

“Cause I just got this done. It should last a week or two before a touch-up. I'm getting my money's worth.”

He groaned dramatically and plopped down on the couch, clearly a hot mess.

At least he’d be busy whining so he wouldn't notice that it was, in fact, not your money.

Kyle “Gaz” Garrick

CW- probably the fluffiest out of all, neck kisses, I may or may not be biased with him, my baby just needs a hug.

Home, comfort, and calmness—that was all he was searching for. Sick and tired of the loud, stressful fields and the chaos, he was done with it. He kept his composure, as he normally did, but he desperately needed you. Kyle was a calm man; he maintained peace with small smiles, jokes, and hope, but even the happiest person needed someone by their side.

He crept open the door, took off his boots, and placed them in one of the shoe slots. As soon as the door shut, he let out a sigh of relief, closed his eyes for just a moment, then headed toward the sound of rustling pages.

The house was warm, just how he liked it. The scent of Indian sandalwood filled the air, bringing him a strange relaxation. A small smile crossed his lips as he strode into the living room.

Oh, you were just perfect. You sat in the middle of the carpet, flipping through your book, legs kicking, and your hair… you were trying to kill him more than his enemies.

“Damn, dearest.” Your head shot up at his voice; he was leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, with a smirk of amusement.

“You look amazing.” He strolled over to you, kneeling in front, his smirk shifting to a smile on his handsome face.

“Thank you, darling. I'm glad you like it.” You leaned in and kissed his jaw.

“Never thought I'd see the day when you had hair as short as mine. I guess today is that day.” He chuckled, gently running his hands through your hair.

You smiled, closing your eyes under the soothing sensation of his gentle touch. His hand left your hair and moved down to your chin, grasping it between his fingers and tilting your head back.

He pressed soft, deliberate kisses along your neck. His hands slowly wrapped around your waist, pulling your body closer to him. You hummed in satisfaction, and he gently laid back on the floor, pulling you on top of him.

“Baby… you're gonna mess my hair up!”

“Hmm, no I won't.” He whispered, his warm breath grazing your neck.

You almost argued but ultimately gave in.

I mean, you did use his money… and he probably wouldn't mind paying for a touch-up.

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.