#pup!soap

He's always had a bit of a reputation for being a mutt, known for his teasing words and frequent smirks for anyone he found easy on the eyes. It was the sort of thing that hung over your head incessantly whenever this had first started happening; the sort of looming feeling that he might simply wander off after the next shiny thing that caught his attention.

Now though? The idea seemed completely ridiculous.

Johnny groaned, low and breathy against the shell of your ear, before his head dropped lower, and he gently nosed at the nape of your neck, pressing a few, slow kisses there. Everywhere you were pressed together was warm, like Johnny had just wandered out of the smouldering ash of a campfire, and decided the first thing he had to do was find his way into your room to press your body down into your rack, trying his best to mould himself to the dip of your back. Your skin was already slick with sweat, dampening the blankets beneath you— not that Johnny seemed to mind, with the way his tongue would occasionally slip past his lips to lave at you, always followed by a praising murmur said so softly against the line of your shoulders that you can't quite make out his words, or a pleased huff that’d send a little shiver through you.

Both of his scarred, calloused hands were holding your hips firmly, as if he thought you might slip right through the mattress if he stopped touching you for even a second. He was squeezing you gently under his hands in time with each shallow rock of his hips, pulling out just enough that he could grind back into you.

Most of his weight was resting on his knees, nestled snuggly between your legs— they were spread just enough for him to rest comfortably between them and bent to lock behind Johnny's. Though the ‘locking’ really just surmounted to you using your heels and the tops of your feet to urge him closer, even though he was already pressed flush to you, with his cock buried as far as it could go.

It felt like everything and not enough all at once.

“Needed this,” Johnny confesses to the side of your neck, nudging you with the tip of his nose to get you to tilt your head to the side, baring more of your neck for him to mouth at with quiet reverence, “needed ye s’bad luvvy. Missed ye.” Both of his hands drag inwards, fingers splaying so that his thumbs press into the small of your back, just feeling you.

John MacTavish may be a shameless mutt, but he was a damn loyal one.

Even as something softens in your chest — the very same thing that’s been steadily expanding for weeks now, the one that you’ve been ignoring even as your breath catches against it in your throat, or as it grows warmer in these quiet moments you manage to steal from the rest of the world — you can’t help but to laugh at him, it’s a stifled thing, layered in thinly veiled fondness. “We were only away from each other for the better part of a week, Johnny,” hardly the longest time you’ve been separated.

He lets out a sort of choked, frustrated noise as he buries himself as deep as he can manage, grinding against something inside you that causes sparks behind your eyes, leaving your brain fuzzy and has you feeling short of breath. “Still tae fuckin’ long," the words are barely audible, you would've missed if he weren't so close, "hate bein' away from ye." Using his legs he gently nudges your hips higher as his little grinds pick up into unsteady little humps— after how slow he had been going, the sudden quick little pushes are almost overwhelming; they’re just strong enough to force you to use your arm to brace against the mattress, if only so he doesn't smush you face-first into your pillow. "Should be'a fuckin' crime."

With your free hand you manage to reach up and behind yourself, tangling in the base of his mohawk near his nape and pulling his head back, scruffing him. The way his movements falter sends the familiar heady sensation of control through you. "You're being awfully greedy for a bloke who hasn't gotten me to come yet."

As soon as the words leave your mouth you can feel his hand trace along your hips, it would seem purely affectionate, if it weren't for the way it slips between you and your mattress, finding a comfortable home between your legs. His fingers gliding over you is fairly distracting, enough that your hold on him loosens just enough for Johnny to turn his head, grazing his lips against your inner wrist. His stubble is rough against your skin, not that you find yourself minding all that much. "M'sorry, luv," he murmurs, even though he sounds like a breathless, kicked puppy, a little pleased smirk twitches at the corners of his mouth where it's pressed against your skin, "Ye feel s'good ah cannae help meself, missed ye s'much— m'tryin' ma best. "

Gone for a week and he gets a bloody complex. Unbelievable.

You pull him closer, letting your hand wander from his hair to his jaw to tilt his head as you turn your own. The first brush of your lips is soft, almost ghosting. Johnny presses even closer to kiss you — his body warm and solid against your own — it's messy undoubtably, the angle makes it awkward, your noses bump together, and his over-eagerness makes him miss at first, kissing the edge of your top lip, but it gets him to melt all the same, focusing on the press of your lips so much that he rests more of his weight down on you.

When he starts getting too eager, trying to lick into your mouth, you pull him back again, forcing a broken whine from his throat— then you nip at his bottom lip, just to get him to do it again. He trails after you, trying to lure you into kissing him more, deeper, but you keep your hold firm enough that he can't. “Thought I had trained you better than this,” you murmur.

His gaze drifts over your face, lingering on your mouth, until you tug on him again, forcing his eyes to meet yours. A crooked little smile pulls at his lips, he knows what he's doing, knows what you'll do if he keeps it up, or at least he seems to think so anyway. There's that glint in his eyes that he gets right before he makes a smart-ass comment, so before he can even form the first syllable you move— shifting your hips forwards so that his cock slips out of you in one long drag. As he whimpers at the loss, you shift, nudging him onto his back as you settle between his legs.

Both of Johnny's arms settle above his head, crossing over each other at his forearms, with his hands limp where they're pressed up against the headboard, and his cock is hard and heavy against his thigh, the tip drooling pre-come into the seam where his leg meets his hip. You slide your hands underneath his thighs guiding them up over your shoulders as you lay on your stomach once more. "Suppose I ought to give you a refresher on keeping your patience then, until it sticks properly."

"Aye, suppose ye can try."

More Soap smut? What a shocking turn of events. Truly unprecedented behaviour from that-one-guy-who’s-only-posted-smut-for-Soap, lmao.

Still don’t find it as easy as writing angst or fluff, but I think I’m getting better at it. So y'know, baby steps or whatever. Lmk what y'all think. :>

Have a lovely day/evening/night, folks!

listen listen.

dog trainer!ghost.

you're so exhausted and frustrated bc you dont know what to do, soap is being so naughty:( ripping clothes and furniture, getting into his treats and peeing all over the house!!

so you call your friend ghost, knowing hes a dog trainer:3 without soap knowing ghost comes to visit a few days later, a big bag with him. of course soap loves meeting new people so hes so happy, wagging his tail when you open the door for si!!

however ghost is not as happy, immediately grabbing him by his scruff and crouching down. "so you're the naughty little pup I'm here to discipline huh?" he mutters, soap whimpering while his tail tugs between his legs, ears folding down.