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Johnny Mactavish X Reader - Blog Posts
\(^ヮ^)/\(^ヮ^)/\(^ヮ^)/ stuck with me forever XD
Hi! I absolutely love your writing and I've been stalking your page for a while now and I'm really surprised no one requested that one old tik tok trends of S/Os grabbing thier partners feet from under the bed.
PLEASE I NEED TO KNOW THE COD MEN REACTION 😭😭😭😭😭
The way I cackled over this. I love a good prank, especially when there is nothing malicious or nasty behind it. Thank you so much for sending this in!! I had a freaking blast with this. Also, genuinely startled/surprised 141 is just a hilarious concept to me. Enjoy!!
For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE
Task Force 141 x Reader (can be read as gn!reader)
Content & Warnings (MDNI): swearing, hijinks & shenanigans, pranks, established relationship
Word Count: 800
ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist
John Price
It’s unfair to do this to John, but he makes it so easy. He falls for every one of your pranks. Speedwalks right into them.
And this one is no exception.
You’ve smushed yourself underneath the bed. It’s possible you won’t be able to get out. But that’s a problem for later. Right now, you’re about to scare John.
“I’m home,” he calls out.
You remain quiet. Distantly, you hear the front door shut, and John’s heavy footfalls.
“Dove. I’m home.”
Still, you remain silent.
John calls your name this time. You do not respond.
“Cabbage?”
This time, you almost snort. John doesn’t call you cabbage unless he’s being sincere.
John appears in the doorway, pausing just outside. He takes one step, and then another. He’s just out of reach, booted feet near but not close enough.
“Car’s out front.”
Another step.
You grin, and grab at his ankles.
“What in the bloody—”
John stumbles back, nearly trips, and then rights himself. You cackle, and John sighs. Wiggling closer to the edge of the bed, you bring your face into the light.
“Welcome home,” you grin.
John shakes his head. “I’m not helping you get out from under there.”
John "Soap" MacTavish
You silently chuckle to yourself, rubbing your hands together like some comic book villain. Johnny is just off the game with Simon, walking around the house looking for you.
“Darling,” he calls out, that Scottish lilt making the pet name even sweeter.
You stay hidden, watching him pass the bedroom not once but twice.
Even from your hiding spot, you can hear him muttering to himself as he searches room to room.
His feet and ankles appear, pausing just inside the doorway before heading straight to the bathroom. He checks there, and then the closet.
As Johnny passes by the bed to leave, you take a swipe at his feet.
“Oi!” he shouts, spinning around.
You wait a beat. He takes a step. Pauses. When he attempts to leave again, you make another pass.
This time Johnny yells, rushing for the door, returning seconds later. Moving to his hands and knees, Johnny looks under the bed—but only at a safe distance.
“You,” he says, smirking. He starts crawling toward you.
“Johnny,” you warn, but it’s too late. He’s reaching under the bed, wrestling you out from under it, peppering you with sloppy kisses that leave smears of salvia behind.
Simon "Ghost" Riley
Simon is fresh up from a nap. He has no idea you’re currently hiding under the bed. But you’ve taken his phone, placed it on the bed as bait, making calls on it to herd him toward your hiding spot.
Simon appears, stopping directly beside the side of the bed. Slowly, you reach out, and then manically flail about, grabbing at his sock-covered feet.
You expect that your actions might surprise him. He might even make a sound, or even swear. What you didn’t expect is to hear your unshakably dreary husband let out a shriek like that of a startled old woman. Pulling your hand back, you cover your mouth, stifling a snort.
“Bloody hell!” he shouts, taking a few steps back.
He pauses a moment, and then gets down onto his knees before flattening himself across the floor.
“Come here,” says Simon, voice eerily calm.
Oh. Oh no.
“I’d rather not,” you reply, knowing that Simon is already brewing up a punishment.
“Come out, love.”
You scoot further away. “Your tone is too neutral, Simon.”
“Everything’s fine.”
“Is it?”
“I’m calm.”
You’re nearly out the other end.
“I’ll chase you,” he smirks.
You make a run for it.
Kyle "Gaz" Garrick
“I’m in here, Kyle,” you call out as you slide yourself beneath the bed.
You wiggle around until you’re hidden, waiting for him to follow your voice. You hear his footfalls before he appears.
“I thought we—” He comes to a stop just inside the door. “Babe?” A pause, and then he says your name. Then, softly, “where are you hiding?”
As he steps into the room, and heads for the bathroom, his feet pass by your hiding spot. This is your only opportunity before he figures out that you’re beneath the bed.
You reach out, just brushing your fingertips against him, then retreat.
“Fucking hell!” he shouts, stumbling backward.
You do it again, and this time he growls your name. Taking a step back, Kyle drops onto his stomach, gaze narrowed as it focuses on you.
“Really?” he asks, deadpan.
“I found it hilarious,” you reply.
Kyle sighs and shakes his head. “Move over.”
“What?”
Shoving himself underneath, Kyle drags himself across the floor until you’re shoulder to shoulder under the bed.
“Bloody filthy down here,” observes Kyle. “Needs a good dusting.” He winks. “Got a spider in your hair, love.”
“I regret this so much,” you whisper.
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I be they wife in heartbeat if they cause who gonna fat them up when they come home (✿ ♥‿♥)(✿ ♥‿♥)( ´ ▽ ` ).｡ｏ♡( ´ ▽ ` ).｡ｏ♡\(^ヮ^)/\(^ヮ^)/
(more of poly 141 x roommate reader bc i got enabled: surprising them when they return home)
The aroma of roasted garlic and thyme filled the apartment, and along with it your voice as you fluttered about the kitchen while music played from your phone. You placed plates of perfectly golden roast chicken, mashed potatoes and roasted vegetables on the dining table beside bowls of creamy mushroom soup and a fresh salad and freshly baked bread.
You would never regret that cooking course you picked up. Everything just looked so… perfect. And that was without mentioning the apple pie and chocolate cake you’d also made, set aside on cute little cake pedestals you’d recently bought.
You smoothed the fabric of your skirt, picking up your phone to check on the time; they’d arrive home any moment now and you couldn’t wait to see their reactions. You’d been planning this dinner since yesterday, when Kate Laswell had called to let you know your roommates would be home today after months of being away on a mission so you could prepare this surprise for them.
You’d promised to send her and her lovely wife a big, big portion just for helping you like that. You always get worried when they take this long, but Kate tried her best to keep you up to date about them whenever they had to be no-contact with you.
The sound of the front door unlocking made your pulse quicken, and you hurried to the entryway, a bright smile on your face. You’d made sure even the candles you and Gaz like to collect were lit up, bathing the apartment in a soft golden light.
“Surprise!” you called, spreading your arms as they stepped inside, grin wide and proud.
For a moment, they stood frozen, tired eyes sweeping over the sight of you and the glowing apartment and the lovely smell of a big, warm dinner. Price was the first to move, dropping his bag and crossing the room in several long strides. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you into a firm embrace, and you melted against him right away, breathing in the familiar scent of him- smoke, leather, and something uniquely John.
“Hi!” You chirped again, patting his back.
“You’ve outdone yourself, love.” he murmured instead of a proper greeting, voice thick with gratitude.
Soap was next, scooping you into a hug so enthusiastic it lifted you off your feet right after John let you go. “Missed ya, lass,” he said, his grin bright despite the weariness in his eyes. “Look at ya, a sight fo’ sore eyes!”
“Put me down, MacTavish!”
Gaz kissed your cheek the second Johnny obeyed, his hand lingering on your shoulder. “You didn’t have to do all this, darling.” he said softly, though the way he looked at you made it clear he appreciated every bit of it.
Ghost, towering behind them, stood silently for a moment. His eyes roamed over you, taking in the nervous smile tugging at your lips. Without a word, he stepped forward and pulled you into his chest, one large hand cradling the back of your head.
“Perfect girl, thank you.” he muttered, so low you barely heard it. But you did feel it rumble through his body.
You laughed, stepping back and gesturing toward the table. You had to know what they thought of it. “Go wash up. Dinner’s ready.”.
Johnny piled his plate high, moaning exaggeratedly at every bite and making you laugh until your sides hurt. Gaz teased him about his lack of table manners while sneaking extra bread rolls for himself. Price, ever the gentleman, made sure your plate was full before his own, and Simon quietly made his way through two full helpings even, the corner of his mouth twitching into the faintest smile when you nudged him to try the mushroom sauce.
Oh yes, you cooked. In more ways than one. You were so very proud of yourself, felt like you’d blow up like a balloon if they complimented you any more.
“This is the best meal I’ve had in months,” Johnny declared at last, leaning back in his chair with a satisfied sigh and patting his stomach. He turned to you, gently caressing his knuckles across your full cheeks. “Thank ya, lass. Truly an angel.”
“You’ve ruined me for army food forever,” Kyle added, humming as he bit into another spoonful, smiling at your giggles. “Whatever next mission we’ll have is so going to suck, by the way. I mean it.”
Price reached over, covering your hand with his. “You didn’t have to do all this, love, but I’m damn glad you did,” he said, his thumb brushing against your knuckles. His mustache twitched, and he smiled at you. “Kyle’s right, though.”
Simon didn’t speak much, but the way his gaze lingered on you, warm and heavy, spoke volumes. You’d already learned how to decipher his little looks, anyways.
As the evening wound down and they cleaned the kicthen, then went to rest in the living room, you brought out the second surprises: the chocolate cake and apple pie, earning a round of groans and cheers. They insisted on helping with the second round of dishes, but you waved them off, laughing.
“Go relax,” you said, shooing them toward the living room. “This is my treat for you. You were supposed to be relaxing today!”
Though you didn’t notice the way they watched you as you moved about the kitchen.
When you finally joined them, changing into something more comfortable, you curl up on the couch tucked against Simon’s warm side and his arm drape around your shoulders almost instinctively. Soap stretched out across the floor, his head resting on a pillow near your feet, while Kyle sat on the other side of you, casually brushing his hand against yours.
It didn’t take much before you were dozing off, their quiet congestion washing over you as a soothing ambiance. You relaxed even further when you were shifted to lay fully against Simon while Kyle put your feet on his lap and began massaging your calves.
John stood by the balcony, his cigar glowing faintly in the dim light. He looked at you, surrounded by them, and something in his chest loosened.
You were too good for them, truly. Such a lovely, perfect sweetheart. But he also just- couldn’t stand the idea of you being with anyone else. Never.
So he wouldn’t entertain that thought. You were perfect as you were now; just a bit more time, and they’d tell you right out how much they want you in every possible way.
Though he didn’t imagine it’d be that hard, anyways. You already acted like their perfect little wife.
They can do more than that if they want (≧◡≦)
i gotta go and think about golfer! john price and his buddies who frequent the country club you work at and they tip extra nice, and sometimes they like to slip it in the waistband of your skirt!!
AMERICA (￣^￣)ゞ(￣^￣)ゞ🦅🦅🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸 but this is so funny XD like Kyle crashing out is so funny XD
you lock the 141 outside your house (I know my rights tiktok)
pairing: task force 141 (ghost, gaz, price, soap) x american!female reader
synopsis: you lock them out of your (their?) house, claiming you "know your rights." based on a tiktok trend with soldiers.
warnings: none just fluff and humor :)))
a/n: I wrote this in like an hour and I think it's the funniest thing EVER thanks
Masterlist | Taglist | Prompt List
requests open for tf141!
SEE TIKTOK HERE
—
Ghost:
You watch as your boyfriend gets out of his truck in the driveway. He grabs his bag from the passenger seat and makes his way to the front door, a smile twitching under his mask at the sight of you waiting for him.
Just as he steps to the porch, you close the door and lock it. “I know my third amendment rights!”
Ghost stops at the door, dropping his bag. Rights? What were you talking about? “Your what?”
“No Soldier shall, in time of peace, be quartered in any house without the consent of the owner,” You reply, reading off your phone.
Ghost sighs. Third amendment? Of course, the one American he dates is the one that has them all memorized. You could probably recite them in your sleep. Patriotism, or whatever. Which makes zero sense. You were living with him in Manchester. If all went well and you got married, he was making sure he changed your status to British.
“You fucking Americans.” He grabs the key from his bag, going to unlock the door only to find you locking it. “Are you serious?”
You show your phone at him through the glass, the third amendment displayed on a Google search. He stares back at you from his mask, unamused. “Bloody hell, woman,” he mutters.
You giggle from behind the door and give him a few more minutes before going to unlock it. You knew Simon’s limits. You only needed a few seconds of fun anyway, but by the time you unlock it, he’s gone.
“Simon?” You call out, poking your head out the door and checking around the house. His truck was still there, so he didn’t turn back around. You don’t see any movements or even hear anything. Was he picked up by aliens?
A thud sounds from behind you, and you yelp, shutting the door and turning around.
Simon stands in front of you, arms crossed and his duffel bag on the floor.
“What the hell?” You said, looking him up and down.
“I should be asking you that,” He retorts. “You should really lock your windows, love.”
“Are you… did you climb through one?”
“You locked me out.”
“I went to unlock it!”
“Third amendment rights, my arse.” He grabs your waist, pulling you towards him. “We’re in England.”
You shrug, tracing up his arm. “Thought it was funny.”
Simon just sighs. “Americans.”
Gaz:
“Oh, hell no!” You exclaim as Gaz approaches the door. “I know my third amendment rights.” The lock clicks.
“No fucking way,” Gaz said, strolling up to the glass storm door.
“No soldiers in this home.”
He stares at you, his hands on his hips and that signature scowl on his face. There was no way he was coming home to this bullshit right now. “Open the door.”
“No quartering soldiers without my permission,” You replied.
Gaz rolls his eyes. Your home? He was pretty sure his name was on the mortgage, even if you were living in it 90% of the time. “I own the fucking property! I live here. You’re the guest.”
You shrug, grinning. “Not anymore.”
He runs a hand down his face. Sometimes just sometimes he regrets finding your stubbornness so damn attractive. “I’m going to crash out, actually.”
“Crash outside? Yeah.”
“Let me in!” He shouts, grabbing the door handle and jiggling it.
“No!” You shout back, holding onto it and preventing him from entering without your permission.
Gaz leans against the glass. “Remind me why I chose to date an American?”
You smile at him. “Because we’re funny, and we have better Chinese food.”
He glares at you, trying to unlock the door again. He groans when there’s no avail. “Babe!”
You say nothing, finding his annoyance quite amusing and a change of pace for once.
And then he actually crashes out, grabbing the handle and pulling, twisting, pounding at it. He yells a string of curse words and then starts banging on the doorframe. He gives up, frowning, and leans his forehead on the glass. “Please?”
You unlock it. “Thought you’d never ask.”
He storms inside, throwing you over his shoulder. “You are so in for it.”
“I like where this is going,” You giggle as he throws you on the couch.
He raises a brow, hands coming to your waist. “Yeah?” He starts tickling you. You yelp, laughing under him and trying to push away.
Gaz doesn’t relent and continues tickling you even after you’ve pleaded with him to stop. “You lock me out of my fucking claim it’s your right,” He mutters. “Consider this my very reasonable punishment.”
Soap:
“I know my rights!” You shout, watching Soap approach the door.
He stops in his tracks, tilting his head. He had no idea what you said. The poor guy could barely hear from all the bombs going on around him, and you shout through a door? Good plan. “What are you on about?” He asked.
“There will be no soldiers in my home!” You close the glass door and lock it.
He approaches the front door, staring at you through the glass. His expression is clueless, brows furrowed. “You mean our home?” He knocks on the glass. “Can I come in?”
“Nope!”
He frowns. “Why?”
“Third amendment.”
“Amendment?” He scoffs. What the hell are you talking about? Is this what he gets for dating an American? You start proclaiming your rights? What’s next, the pledge of allegiance? “Are you taking the piss? Does this look like the land of the free?”
You giggle at him, his accent thickening with his frustration. “I’m still an American!”
“Trust me, I know! Can I please come inside?”
“No soldiers allowed.” You tape up a piece of paper displaying those words.
Soap continues frowning at you and realizes he isn’t going to be let in anytime soon. It’s a good thing he knew how to easily change that. Americans and their rights. More like Americans and their feelings. He sits down on the porch steps, facing away from you, rests his chin in his hand, and sighs loudly.
You don’t budge.
He sighs again, kicking his boots on the porch, turning back at you with sad eyes. Still nothing. He concludes there was one last option to get you to let him in. He grabs his phone, and you watch with furrowed brows as he types something in. Suddenly, music is blasting from his phone as he looks at you with the biggest puppy dog eyes ever. Not just any music, but the sad hamster violin music.
“Oh my god.” You unlock the door, opening it up to him. “You’re such a baby.”
He practically skips inside, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “Your baby.”
Price:
Your husband stands on the porch, rolling his eyes at you.
“I know my rights!” You shout at him through the window.
“Do you, now?” He asked, playing along with your prank or whatever this was. If it brought you this much amusement to lock him out, he might as well indulge in it. That was the kind of man he was. Until he started freezing of course, then he would demand you let him in.
You nod your head. “As an American, amendment 3 of the Bill of Rights says that I don’t have to house you if I don’t want to.”
Price hums. At least they taught you something in American schools. “Does that extend when you’re in another country?”
“It does to me.”
He huffs, grabbing something from his pocket and displaying it to you. “You know I have a house key, yes?”
“I’ll just lock it again.”
He tilts his head at you. You were really trying to sell whatever rights you thought you had. “Really?”
“I’m taking this very seriously.”
Price strokes his beard. “I can see that.” An idea pops into his head, and he steps away from the glass and in front of the door. You didn’t want to let him in? That’s fine. You wanted to lock the door? No problem. He’s got methods of entering from being in the military, after all. “Guess I’ll just have to kick down the door.” He raises his foot, fully intent on doing it. You were going to repaint the door anyway, might as well get a new one.
You swing open the door. “Are you crazy?”
He strolls past you. “Did I lock you outside our home? Besides, crazy would’ve been bombing the house.”
Your lips parted, unsure if he was joking. You assume he is, but his expression says otherwise. “Are you being serious?”
He laughs at your face, grabbing your hand. “Only if you start proclaiming your rights again.”
You put your hands up. “What rights? Suddenly, I’m feeling like this soldier can stay as long as he likes.”
Price presses a gentle kiss to your lips. “Thought so.”
Calling them by their full name
featuring Johnny and Kate
Johnny MacTavish
Kate Laswell
Johnny "Soap" Mactavish is the kind of dad who throws your kids around for fun, tossing them into the air and catching them just to hear their infectious laughter, ignoring the worrisome protests that you call out from the kitchen when they get a little too high.
Captain John Price is the kind of dad who convinces your children to ask you for pizza for dinner, acting all surprised when you tell him to call the local pizza place, eyebrows rising with "What's the occasion?" despite the obvious grin that his plan worked. You aren't fooled.
Kyle "Gaz" Garrick is the kind of dad who chases your kids around with a nerf gun, relentlessly pelting them with styrofoam bullets and ganging up on your oldest son with your youngest daughter. Waits behind the front door for your son to get home from school and immediately fires on him.
Simon "Ghost" Riley is the kind of dad who holds your toddlers like footballs, your daughter tucked sideways under his arm and dangling your son by his ankle. "Found these mice sniffin' 'round the cookie tin." He says with a deadpan expression, but you don't miss the way his mouth twitches when they giggle and shriek.
What binds us // 2
John 'Soap' MacTavish / fem!Reader
Summary: Returning home as soon as he is able, Soap can‘t help but hope that his wife will reconsider their divorce.
Content: civilian wife, lots of hurt/angst and some comfort, divorce (?), swearing, coming-home-from-deployment
Word Count: 2.6k
Part: 1/2/3 <- previous chapter next chapter ->
Notes: I finally got around to finishing the second chapter! Had to write this one in my phone notes, so please forgive any mistakes you might find. I felt so bad for him halfway through, but tried to stay strong. 💔 They also own a cat, everybody say hi to Salome - 🐈
True to his word, Price had arranged a flight home within 72 hours of his first message, and Soap didn‘t even bat an eye at the eye-watering extra fees for his checked luggage and business class upgrade.
He‘d been all wired up since his wife had called him. He snapped and shouted at everyone except Lieutenant Ghost (he wasn‘t suicidal enough for that - yet) that came too close, asked stupid questions or even dared to simply breathe too loudly in his proximity. Soap felt himself unravel at the edges, one carefully placed stitch at a time.
Only the extensive therapy he‘d been dragged to over the years gave him enough of an outside perspective on the turmoil inside of himself to realize that all that molten hot anger was not directed at the useless driver, or the informant who didn‘t seem to be able shut the fuck up for a moment.
No. Soap knew that all the irritation and itch to hurt was directed at himself. That he‘d messed up badly this time, that it had been going on for months and he‘d been too focused on other things to see it. Or maybe he‘d just suppressed the sadness in his wife‘s voice, the silences and half-assed answers when he asked her about her day and immediately accepted her fine‘s and the usual‘s.
He had been such a colossal prick looking back, it was kind of astonishing that she‘d held out and waited for him as long as she had. Soap had scrolled back through their conversations, had listened to some of her older voice messages, read his own excuses for cancelling again and again.
And even though she‘d assured him that his training and the missions and his career was more important, he should have been better than that. Should have watched out for her, cared more - not lost himself in the work that ate away at his soul and mind when the cure for all his aches was waiting at home.
Soap rubbed over his eyes angrily as he stared out the plane window, long legs stretched far away from himself. The seat to his left was blissfully empty thanks to his second reservation under her name. The stewardess had given up on offering food, but steadily poured him another glass of Scotch when he pressed the little button on the menu screen.
His eyes felt dry and raw, and Soap wasn‘t ashamed to admit to himself that he‘d been on the verge of tears for three days now. His wife had tried calling him twice more since he‘d hung up, then texted him that he shouldn’t do anything stupid.
Don‘t come home for this, John. I will always be here for you regardless.
He brushed his thumb over the message, and was silently thankful for the forced airplane mode. The drinks in his system made his thoughts run even wilder, insecurities and fears that most army men carried in their hearts rising up in his throat.
Is there someone else? He wanted to type back. Is that why you don‘t want me to fix it?
But Soap knew she‘d never hurt him in such a way, that she truly thought they‘d be better off on their own. He would just have to prove her wrong.
Soap barely registered the landing, the extensive security screenings and double checking of his gun licenses, then military clearance. It was all standard procedure, he was able to answer their questions in his sleep.
The only difference was that his wife wasn‘t there to greet him, wasn‘t standing ready with one of those airport luggage trolleys that always seemed to have at least one jammed wheel. The knowledge didn’t stop him from looking for her, traitorous heart beating fast and then dropping into his stomach at her absence.
Glasgow wasn‘t very busy at this time of night, on a Tuesday no less, and the taxi driver was content to let the meter run when Soap asked him to wait outside the 24 hours supermarket. He picked up the disgusting stuffed olives she loved so much, briefly contemplating flowers before abandoning the thought. They‘d never been that kind of couple, and he didn‘t want to start putting on a mask when what he really needed to do was strip himself.
For the first time since they‘d bought their small house he was glad that she hadn‘t listened to him about completely replacing all the street facing windows with milk glass. Soap was able to see her clearly, sitting at the low sofa table with her legs tucked underneath herself and their fat ginger cat on her lap as she typed away at something.
Her hair was pulled up into a messy ponytail, face bare and pale in the glow of the laptop, and he oddly felt like he was intruding on a scene not meant for his eyes.
It took him a couple more moments to unglue his feet from the sidewalk, to push open the rusty door of the little path lined with colored pebbles that ended in their front door. He‘d been meaning to replace it, along with their postbox - when had that been? Two years ago now?
He fiddled with his keys, anxious. What did it say about him that he felt like a stranger standing outside his own home?
Shaking his head and dropping his heavy bags, he rung the doorbell instead.
There was a beat of silence, and Soap could just picture his wife raising her head away from the screen, how Salome had probably squeezed herself under the armchair, hissing. Neither one of the women in his life liked it when unannounced visitors came around.
Then the faint glow from the livingroom became brighter, he could see it through the colorful glass shards of the entrance door - how the dark shape of her moved closer. She hesitated on the other side. He wondered if he could take the blow of her not answering the door, or if his heart would shatter right here on their doorstep with the faint drizzle of rain dampening his curls.
But then she cracked the door open, her big eyes peering up at him for a moment. They stared at each other, and then she exhaled shakily, resting her forehead on the chipped wood.
"You came," his wife whispered, and Soap ducked his head down to her level, shoulder against the frame as he fought hard not to beg her to open the door further and let him in.
"f'course I did," he rasped, shocked at the raw need in his voice. "Said I would, didn’t I?"
She blinked her eyes back open, and it seemed like she was holding back words heavy on her tongue. That was okay, he knew what she was thinking anyway: wouldn‘t have been the first time you said one thing and did another.
"But you were out on a mission."
There was no question, but he nodded anyway.
"I was."
"And then you left early."
"Yes, ma‘am."
She snorted, then pulled open the door more firmly and stepped aside. Soap stumbled inside, immediately assaulted by warmth and the smell of her that permeated their home. It was dizzying and intoxicating and it made him want to curl up in a ball and weep.
"Are you hungry?" She asked, apparently unbothered that it was two in the morning and that he was dripping all over her nice new carpet in the entryway.
"Starving," he breathed, then followed her like a lost puppy as she disappeared into the kitchen.
Soap felt wrong-footed, clumsy and awkward as he wrung his hands and watched her reheat a plate of spaghetti.
His wife hugged herself around the middle, staring at the rotating dish in the microwave.
He wanted to tell her to be careful as she took it out with her bare hands instead of using the cute oven mitts she‘d gotten from her sister, but all he managed was a weak thanks as she put it down next to him on the kitchen island.
They stood there, and she didn‘t meet his eyes anymore as Soap stared down at the crown of her head. They were close and yet there seemed to be a chasm, an ocean impossible to cross right between them. He might as well have been back in Afghanistan.
"Baby," he whispered, clutching the countertop so tightly that his knuckles turned white. She shook her head, then leaned away from him with yet another shaky exhale and pinched the bridge of her nose.
"Mo ghràidh," Soap tried again, undeterred. "Can I hug you?"
"I-" she started, voice thick. "I don‘t know if I want that."
"Okay," he agreed, heart stinging. "Will you keep standing with me just like this then?"
She nodded slowly, leaning against the counter next to him and staring at the floor.
When he didn‘t move, too busy drinking her in, she nudged him softly in the side.
"It‘ll go cold."
"I‘m not actually hungry."
"Oh." It was a faint sound, somewhere between exasperated and amused. "I see."
They stood like that for some time, the rain heavier now as it hit the windows in a steady rhythm. Soap almost jumped out of his skin when something warm and furry circled around his legs, purring.
"Fuckin‘ cat is lucky I‘m not carrying," he swore, nudging Salome with his boot in greeting. She purred even louder, rubbing her chin along his shins.
His wife giggled, then scooped the gingery monster into her arms. The one green eye that wasn‘t blind yet sparkled in the half-dark, and their cat meowed loudly at Soap.
"She just missed you," she smiled, kissing the scarred ears for a moment.
And did you? He wanted to ask, but swallowed the words down. It seemed like he‘d reached his limit of things he was able to leave unsaid for the night though, because the next question slipped out before he could stop himself.
"Did you call the lawyer again?"
She stiffened a little, then glanced up at him from behind long eyelashes.
"Yeah," his wife said slowly, thinking hard. "She wasn‘t very happy that I called you. Thinks you‘ll talk me out of it."
Damn right I am.
"What," he scoffed, arms crossed in defense of what might follow next. "She wanted you to just… send the finished papers?"
"Something like that."
Soap ground his teeth hard, trying not to panic again.
"Well, I‘m glad you didn‘t listen."
"I wanted to," she confessed, and now it was him who couldn’t meet her eyes anymore. "I wanted it so badly, John. I‘ve been miserable and alone, and our whole life just seems to suffocate me recently."
"I‘m sorry," he said, and meant it with his whole heart. "I know I fucked up, that I should have been better for you-"
"No," she interrupted him, and reached out a hand, resting it on his bicep. Her small fingers were cold but it made him feel warm regardless. "I didn’t need you to be better, I just wanted you to be there."
His throat closed up, and Soap let his head drop far enough to rest his chin on his chest, trying to keep the tears at bay. Their cat meowed between them, as he rested one hand on hers without glancing up.
"I lost sight of what was most important t’me," he whispered. "‘s not an excuse but… bein’ out there, it just fucks up your perspective. Days bleed into one big messed up pile of monotonous tasks, violence, and death. I‘m not a good man, never pretended to be. You knew that when you married me, and never blamed me for it. And… I love you so fucking much, it hurts to even just think-"
He had to pause, drag one hand over his face roughly.
His wife sighed softly, then rested her cheek on his arm where their hands were joined.
"I know I hurt you, badly. And I know that you said you‘d stay in my life as a friend, but you‘re not. You never have been. You‘re my soulmate, my wife, and I-" Soap swallowed, torn between wanting to get it all out and crawl deeper into himself. "I want us to try again. Price offered three weeks of leave, but if I have to find a doctor that can testify how fucked in the head I am so I can stay longer, I will."
"John!" She gasped, grabbing his chin to force him into facing her again. "You know that a bad psych eval might mean the end of your entire career!"
Thinking about that hurt, but not as much as her phone call had.
"I‘d do it for you," he whispered back. "I‘ll say that-"
"Shut up," she hissed, then dropped Salome on the countertop and shoved the cold spaghetti towards him. "Eat this, and then you‘ll go sleep on the sofa. I don‘t want to hear any of this nonsense."
"But-"
"No."
Chastened, Soap carried his plate into the dim living room and tried very hard not to take a peek at the still open website on his wife‘s laptop. There was a strange sense of relief when he noticed that all their wedding and travel pictures were still up on the walls, and he fiddled with his ring as he slumped heavily on the sofa.
The food was good as always, and he didn’t try to protest when she dragged in two pillows and a blanket, carefully putting it down next to him.
She stood there for a moment, looking down at him with soft, sad eyes. Soap balanced his plate on a cushion nearby, then gently pulled her closer by the hips until she stood between his legs and he was able to bury his face in her stomach.
His wife didn’t move for a few long heartbeats, then stroked through his mohawk and all the way down to the top of his spine. Soap exhaled sharply, and hugged her, unable to speak as she comforted him when it really should have been the reverse.
And much, much later, when the lack of sleep and constant worry finally caught up with him, she didn’t comment on the tear-stained blotches on her shirt, or the way his head hit the pillow way too hard. She draped the feathery soft blanket all around him, and the perfume of her skin and laundry detergent was the most heavenly thing he‘d smelt in months.
Just as he closed his swollen and dry eyes, his wife bent down - Soap held his breath as she kissed his forehead and cheekbone.
"We can talk again in the morning, my love," she whispered, and all he managed to do was squeeze her hand one last time before she packed up her things and left.
Tiny, clawed footsteps - then the sudden heavy weight of their cat on his hip startled him from a restless slumber, and Soap groggily patted the gnarled ears as he instinctively listened out for danger nearby.
"You think we still got a chance, old girl?" He asked, and Salome meowed back.
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Hopefully everybody got through their Monday alright, I‘m literally fighting demons to even set an alarm for tomorrow lmao. Much love and slobbery kisses! - A✨
pink dividers by @cafekitsune 🌟
𝐴 𝐷𝑖𝑎𝑚𝑜𝑛𝑑 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑆𝑛𝑜𝑤
A/N: This thought popped into my head after my boyfriend and I looked at engagement rings today, which has been stuck in my head for hours. I couldn’t help but write about the Poly!Task Force 141 with reader! I hope you guys enjoy.
Word Count: 2.0k
The glow of twinkling holiday lights reflected off the fresh blanket of snow that adorned the base of the towering evergreens, casting a magical ambiance over the secluded safehouse. Each individual light shimmered like a tiny star, illuminating the crisp winter night in soft, ethereal hues. The snow itself was pristine, untouched except for the faintest traces of footprints leading to the door—evidence of a quiet arrival long past. The air carried a profound stillness, broken only by the occasional whisper of wind through the branches, rustling the needles and adding a gentle symphony to the night. Somewhere in the distance, a lone owl hooted, its call echoing through the frosted forest.
The safehouse stood as a haven amid the wilderness, its rustic exterior adorned with garlands of fresh pine interwoven with crimson ribbons. Candles glimmered in the windows, their flickering light hinting at the warmth and life within. The faint scent of burning wood mingled with the crisp winter air, creating an intoxicating blend that spoke of comfort and serenity. Icicles clung to the edges of the roof, catching the light and refracting it into shimmering rainbows that danced with every movement of the breeze. It was a scene that could have been lifted from the pages of a holiday storybook, yet it carried an unspoken depth that transcended its picturesque beauty.
Inside, the transformation was even more profound. The safehouse had always been a place of refuge, a temporary escape from the chaos of missions and battles. But tonight, it had taken on a life of its own. Strings of lights were draped along the walls, their soft glow accentuating the wooden beams and casting a golden hue over the room. The fireplace roared with life, its flames crackling and sending warmth radiating outward. Stockings hung from the mantle, their cheerful designs a stark contrast to the tactical gear piled neatly in the corner. The scent of freshly baked cookies mingled with the aroma of mulled cider simmering on the stove, creating a sensory tapestry that was both comforting and nostalgic.
The living room was the heart of the transformation. A towering evergreen stood proudly in one corner, its branches laden with ornaments that glimmered in the firelight. Each decoration told a story—a tiny snow globe with a miniature reindeer inside, a silver bell with a faintly tarnished surface, a handmade star crafted from bits of foil. Some were new additions, while others bore the marks of years gone by, their significance known only to those who had placed them there. At the very top of the tree, a delicate angel gazed down with an expression of serene joy, her gown of spun glass catching the light and casting it into tiny prisms that danced across the walls.
Seated on the couch, Price leaned back with a rare look of contentment softening his features. A glass of whisky rested in his hand, and his usual air of command was replaced by a quiet ease. Nearby, Soap and Gaz were engaged in a lighthearted argument over a board game, their laughter filling the space and blending seamlessly with the holiday music playing softly in the background. Ghost sat in the armchair closest to the fire, his posture relaxed in a way that spoke of trust and comfort, though his sharp eyes never strayed far from the room's occupants. It was a moment of peace, fleeting but cherished—a sanctuary carved out of the tumult of their lives.
In the kitchen, you stood at the counter, sleeves rolled up and hair loosely tied back, focused intently on icing a batch of sugar cookies. The cookies were shaped like snowflakes, their intricate patterns reflecting the meticulous care you had put into each one. Flour dusted your hands and cheeks, a testament to the hours you had spent baking and decorating. The task was both a labor of love and a welcome distraction, a way to channel your energy into something tangible and uplifting. The soft strains of holiday music played from a small speaker, the familiar melodies weaving through the air and adding to the sense of warmth and tranquility.
As you set the icing bag down to stretch your arms, a sudden thought struck you: the boys had been unusually quiet for some time. Normally, the living room was alive with their banter—Soap’s boisterous laughter, Gaz’s sharp wit, Ghost’s dry humor, and Price’s steady interjections to maintain some semblance of order. Yet now, the only sounds were the crackle of the fire and the faint hum of the music.
“They’re up to something,” you murmured with a wry smile, wiping your hands on a dish towel.
Curiosity piqued, you left the cookies behind and made your way toward the living room. The warmth of the fire grew stronger with each step, and the soft glow of the holiday lights beckoned you forward. As you approached, the faint sound of muffled movement gave you pause. “Alright, what are you lot scheming this time?” you called out playfully, your voice tinged with amusement.
No response.
Frowning, you stepped into the doorway—and froze.
The living room, bathed in the soft glow of the fire and twinkling holiday lights, held a scene you could never have anticipated. Soap, Gaz, and Ghost stood shoulder to shoulder near the tree, each holding a bouquet of vibrant red roses. Their expressions were a mix of anticipation and warmth, with just a hint of nervousness. At the center of it all was Price, standing tall and steady. In his hands was a small velvet box, its lid open to reveal a breathtaking ring.
The diamond was unlike anything you’d ever seen. It was an oval cut, its elongated shape elegantly reflecting the firelight in brilliant, kaleidoscopic flashes. The facets seemed to dance, catching every flicker of the room's glow and transforming it into a dazzling display of light. The band was crafted from platinum, its silvery sheen perfectly complementing the icy brilliance of the stone. Intricate filigree detailing traced along the band, forming delicate, swirling patterns reminiscent of frost on a windowpane. Small, round-cut diamonds were embedded into the filigree, creating a subtle shimmer that added depth and elegance without overpowering the centerpiece stone.
Your breath caught as your gaze fixed on the ring, its beauty almost surreal. It looked like it had been plucked straight from the winter landscape outside, its design as timeless and magical as the snow-covered world beyond the windows.
Soap broke the silence, stepping forward with a grin that was unusually tender. “We were tryin’ to be subtle, lass,” he teased, his Scottish brogue soft. “Guess we’re not as sneaky as we thought.”
Gaz chuckled, stepping up next to him. “We figured if we’re going to do this, we had to make it perfect. You deserve nothing less.”
Ghost shifted slightly, his gloved hands gripping the bouquet tightly. “You’ve been through hell with us,” he murmured, his voice low and rough with emotion. “You stayed. That means everything.”
Finally, Price’s deep, steady voice filled the space. “You’ve given us something we never thought we’d have,” he said, his blue eyes holding yours with a quiet intensity. “A home. A family. Let us show you how much that means—for the rest of our lives.”
Your heart thundered in your chest, tears welling in your eyes as the weight of their words sank in. This wasn’t just a proposal—it was a declaration of love, unity, and the unbreakable bond you shared.
“Marry us, bonnie,” Soap said, his grin widening but his voice soft, almost hesitant.
Tears welled in your eyes as you took in the sight of them—these men who had faced countless dangers and carried the weight of the world on their shoulders—now offering their hearts to you. Your hands trembled, and a sob escaped your lips as the overwhelming emotion spilled over.
“Yes,” you whispered, your voice thick with tears. Then louder, with uncontainable joy, “Yes! Yes, of course, I’ll marry you!”
The tension broke as the room erupted with cheers. Soap was the first to reach you, scooping you up into a giddy embrace that made you laugh through your tears. Gaz followed, his hug warm and grounding, while Ghost’s was firm but careful, his whispered “Thank you” carrying a weight that made your chest ache with affection. Price took your hand last, sliding the ring onto your finger with reverent care before pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.
As you looked at the ring now adorning your finger, you marveled at how perfectly it captured the moment—brilliant, timeless, and irreplaceably yours. It wasn’t just a symbol of love; it was a promise, forged from the resilience, loyalty, and devotion that bound you all together.
⋆⁺₊❅.
That night, the safehouse was filled with more than holiday cheer—it was filled with love. The bond you shared with these men was unshakable, a light brighter than any star on the tree. And as you curled up on the couch with them later, watching the fire crackle and feeling the weight of the ring on your finger, you realized this wasn’t just a safehouse. It was home.
The celebration carried on well into the evening, the living room transformed into a space filled with laughter, warmth, and joy. Soap’s mischievous streak resurfaced as he popped open a bottle of champagne, the cork flying across the room with a loud “pop” that made Gaz duck and Ghost roll his eyes. “Watch it, MacTavish,” Ghost muttered, though there was no mistaking the faint smirk beneath his balaclava.
“Just addin’ some excitement to the night!” Soap retorted with a wink, pouring champagne into mismatched glasses that had been hastily gathered from the kitchen. Price handed you a glass first, his hand brushing yours in a gesture that felt both grounding and electric.
“To family,” he said, raising his glass. His voice was steady, but the emotion behind his words was unmistakable. The others joined in, their glasses clinking together in a toast that felt as binding as any vow.
The night unfolded in a tapestry of moments that would linger in your memory forever. Gaz took over the music, switching the playlist to a mix of holiday classics and upbeat tracks that had everyone—even Ghost—tapping their feet. At one point, Soap coaxed you into an impromptu dance, spinning you around the room until you were both breathless with laughter. Ghost, ever the observer, eventually joined in, his stiff movements earning playful jeers from Soap and Gaz but making you smile all the same.
Price, true to his nature, stayed close, watching over the group with a quiet contentment that seemed to soften his usual commanding presence. When the dancing subsided, he pulled you aside, wrapping a warm blanket around your shoulders and guiding you to the couch by the fire. The others followed, settling in around you like pieces of a puzzle falling perfectly into place.
Stories flowed freely, each tale punctuated by laughter and the occasional teasing remark. They spoke of missions gone awry, moments of triumph, and the camaraderie that had carried them through the darkest times. When it was your turn, you shared memories of quieter moments—the times you’d patched them up after missions, the late-night conversations over cups of tea, the small gestures that had solidified your bond.
As the night stretched on, the safehouse seemed to embrace you all in its warmth. The fire crackled softly, casting a golden glow over the room, and the snow continued to fall outside, muffling the world beyond. You leaned against Price, your head resting on his shoulder, while Soap and Gaz argued over the last cookie, their voices a playful counterpoint to the serenity of the moment. Ghost sat nearby, his posture relaxed, though his sharp eyes never strayed far from the group.
The ring on your finger caught the firelight, its brilliance a constant reminder of the promise you had made. It was more than a symbol; it was a testament to the love, trust, and unwavering loyalty that bound you to these men. Together, you had faced the unthinkable and emerged stronger, your bond forged in the crucible of shared trials and triumphs.
That night, as you drifted to sleep surrounded by the people who meant the world to you, a profound sense of belonging settled over you. This was more than a safehouse, more than a temporary refuge. It was your home, your family, and your future—a future as bright and enduring as the diamond on your finger.
𝑃𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑒 𝑑𝑜 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑔𝑖𝑎𝑟𝑖𝑧𝑒 𝑚𝑦 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑘 𝑜𝑟 𝑟𝑒𝑝𝑜𝑠𝑡 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑚𝑖𝑠𝑠𝑖𝑜𝑛. 𝑇ℎ𝑜𝑠𝑒 𝑤ℎ𝑜 𝑑𝑜 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑏𝑒 𝑏𝑙𝑜𝑐𝑘𝑒𝑑. 𝑇ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑘 𝑦𝑜𝑢! ❄️
𝐷𝑖𝑣𝑖𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑠 𝑏𝑦 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑙𝑦 @𝑜𝑚𝑖-𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑐𝑒𝑠
One of my favs
LOW COUNTRY | HIGH NOON
johnny mactavish x reader
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yearning—they're both so dumb.
Two weeks fly by and Johnny proves himself in ways you weren’t prepared for.
The first two days after he arrived, you’d spent hours showing him the ropes, expecting some level of difficulty, some struggle once he got down to actually doing the dirty work. Sure, he could listen and memorize to his heart's content, but if he couldn’t do the work, he wasn’t useful to you.
But goddamn, could he do the work.
The day after he arrived, you had him shadow you as you worked. You narrated everything you did for the livestock and important things to remember. Shimmer was on a diet and needed a little less hay in her stall. The water in every barn had to stay cool to keep the animals from overheating. The sheep’s bedding came from cornstalks harvested straight from the fields, and the barn doors had to stay open during the day for ventilation. Dixie had to be fed alongside the sheep—otherwise, she'd get jealous. The cows ate soybeans, and their barn fans had to run non-stop to keep the heat at bay.
On the second day, you let him take the reins. He remembered everything, every miniscule detail, down to a T. You were there if he needed help, but he never did. He fed the animals—hell, he did it all like he's been doing it his whole life, like he could do it blindfolded.
It was almost jealousy-inducing how easy it comes to him. You’ve spent years building up the strength needed to handle farm work. You’ve got muscle, no doubt about that. Every long day under the sun has carved power into your body, earned through a lot of sweat and double the tears.
It’s unfair. It’s painfully distracting. He’s painfully distracting.
Regardless, you shove your pride to the side. This is what he’s here for, after all.
The division of labor falls into place easier than you expect. He takes over livestock care and you handle the crops and the house. But together, everyday, you both fix the fences, riding out in the afternoons with supplies in tow, patching up the weak spots before they become real problems.
You don’t speak to Johnny much during the day—mainly during meal times. He spends most of his day to the left of the house at the livestock pastures and barns. The main pastures are all sprawled out, home to about fifteen cows and sheep, respectively. You spend most of your time at the crop fields, which stretch to the right of the house, along with the old barn your family stopped using years ago. Too much upkeep for what it was worth. The cornfields are there too, easy to reach on horseback.
The stables sit in between both, a ways behind the house. The whole farm isn’t a big operation, not by most standards, but it definitely needs more than one person to run it. With Johnny proving himself capable, you both fell into an easy routine rather quickly.
Johnny's up at 7 a.m., like clockwork. He takes the biggest horse, Scout, and makes his rounds, feeding the animals breakfast, checking the water troughs and filling them up when needed. He lets the livestock graze before the sun gets too high.
By 9, Johnny finally gets a moment to breathe while you’re awake and already in the kitchen cooking breakfast. You found that if you time it right, you can get an eyeful of Johnny from the kitchen window. You’ve unintentionally made it part of your morning, standing by the window, mug of coffee in hand, watching him. You repeatedly tell yourself it's to make sure he’s getting the job done, but the more you watch, the more you find yourself thinking about him in ways that grow exceedingly inappropriate for a boss-employer relationship.
You should stop watching. If he were to ever catch you, he’d probably think you were some kind of freak. Maybe you should focus on the eggs in the pan, the bread in the toaster, but it’s hard to follow your better judgement with Johnny around. Pa’s been on your ass for how much toast you’re burning these days.
Breakfast is never fancy, but it’s solid. Eggs, grits, fried potatoes, sausage, bacon. Sometimes fresh fruit if you’ve got it, a pitcher of orange juice on the table alongside the coffee. Variations of the same spread every morning, something hearty and filling to start the day.
Johnny’s damn near worshipful over your cooking. It brings a flush to your cheeks each time he comments on it, considering Pa’s never had too much to say about it. The way Johnny reacts, closing his eyes when he takes the first bite, letting out a quiet “Christ, that’s good”- or he groans under his breath, making it hard not to feel at least a little smug.
You’re used to running the cooking and cleaning on your own: the dishes, wiping down the counters, making sure everything’s in order. Pa never offered much help in that regard. He’s traditional in the sense that ‘it’s a woman’s job’ to take care of the home, with all of its chores and domesticities. He’s stuck in his ways but he’s got a kind soul.
But Johnny does it all with you. Doesn’t even ask.
He waits till everyone’s finished eating, then rolls up his sleeves and helps clear the table like it’s second nature, like it’s part of the job description. He stands beside you at the sink, drying dishes as you wash, putting them away without needing to be told where anything goes. He just remembers.
Most times, you both wash in silence. The only sounds are the clink of dishes, the rush of water, the occasional scrape of a sponge against a pan. But you can feel his eyes on you, watching as you scrub a pot or rinse off a pan. He never says anything—just waits for you patiently.
But it does something to you. Makes you feel small in a way you can’t quite explain. Not insignificant, but exposed. Like he sees too much, like he notices things you don’t even realize you’re giving away. It sets your nerves on edge, tightens something low in your stomach, makes your hands move a little quicker even though you don’t want to give yourself away. It’s ridiculous, really. It’s just dishes. Just a quiet kitchen. But under the weight of his gaze, it feels like something else entirely.
His arm brushes yours sometimes—subtle and fleeting but often enough that it doesn’t feel like an accident. Like maybe he’s finding excuses to touch you, even if it’s barely there. And it’s nothing, really. Just the briefest press of skin, the softest graze. But it burns and it lingers. It sinks into your skin like a brand, like something your body wants more of, wants to memorize. You keep your face neutral in the moment, your hands steady. Inside? Your pulse stutters, your breath feels too shallow, and your mind won’t stop spinning in circles. It’s ridiculous, how something so small can unravel you like this. But god help you, it does.
You try to brush it off. He’s just being kind, just paying attention. That’s all. Nothing more.
You remind yourself to be grateful for the extra set of hands, for the way his quiet presence makes the work easier. It’s a small thing, really—his help. But somehow, it takes the edge off the mornings, makes them feel a little lighter.
Johnny’s makes everything feel lighter, now that you really think about it.
Mornings used to be a race against the rising temperatures outside—shoveling down breakfast just to sprint outside and make sure the livestock were moved to the shaded pastures before the sun got too brutal. But with Johnny around, you don’t have to worry about that anymore. He’s got it covered.
After breakfast, usually around 11, Johnny heads back out to do just that, while you get ready for your day’s work. You throw on something you don’t mind getting dirty—some overalls and a tank top, old boots, maybe one of Pa’s loose flannels if there’s a breeze.
You head to the stables and grab Shimmer, heading out to the crop fields. You pass the time, watering, weeding, checking for pests, making sure everything is growing the way it should. It’s tedious work, but at least now, you can actually focus on it. In a way, it’s calmer than dealing with the animals.
By 3 p.m., you've made your final rounds around the fields, harvesting some cucumbers and tomatoes if they’re ready, checking on the other plants to make sure everything’s in place. The heat nears oppressive, and you’re already looking forward to heading inside.
As you ride back toward the stalls to put Shimmer away, your eyes find Johnny by the sheep pen. He’s herding them inside, guiding them with an easy patience, keeping them out of the harsh afternoon sun. Even from a distance, you can tell he’s got a good handle on them.
Your gaze drifts past him to Scout, tied to a fence post nearby. Shimmer must notice him too, judging by the way she whinnies, ears pricking forward with interest. They’ve been sticking close lately, choosing to graze together in the mornings and evenings, grooming each other like they’ve suddenly decided they’re inseparable. It’s odd, considering they’ve never paid each other much mind before—at least, not until two weeks ago.
It’s still August. Scout’s still in heat. You make a mental note to keep an eye on him.
Your gaze flickers back to Johnny—jeans slung low on his hips, a plain wife-beater stretched across his broad chest—and as always, you try not to stare.
But Johnny has a habit and it’s downright cruel. When the sun reaches its peak and the heat settles thick over the land, he peels off his shirt without a second thought. Like it’s nothing. Like he doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing.
And maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he’s just trying to keep cool. But sometimes—when he catches you looking, when the corner of his mouth quirks up just slightly—it feels like he’s doing it on purpose. Like he enjoys watching you struggle not to let your eyes linger on him too long, not to let your thoughts wander somewhere they shouldn’t.
You’ve never been so thankful for the relentless southern sun.
It clings to him, highlighting every sharp line and defined edge. His skin glistens with sweat, the golden light catching on the broad curve of his shoulders, the sinew of his arms as they flex with every movement. Thick and strong.
The first time you saw him shirtless, you stared. You couldn’t help it.
And of course, Johnny caught you.
His gaze locked onto yours, sharp and amused, and in that split second of distraction, you didn’t even realize you were sliding right off Shimmer’s back—not until you hit the ground with a graceless thud, landing in a fresh patch of mud.
His laugh had boomed across the fields, full and unrestrained, carrying all the way to your burning ears. You barely had time to process the sheer humiliation of it before you wordlessly climbed right back onto Shimmer like nothing happened, like you weren’t covered in mud, like you hadn’t just been caught drooling over him.
Played it cool. At least, you had tried to.
You shake your head, forcing your thoughts away from Johnny, and focus on putting Shimmer away. It’s easier said than done, but you manage, leading her into her stall and giving her a quick brush-down before heading back toward the house.
Lunch won’t make itself, and you figure you might as well get a head start—assuming you’re not completely covered in dirt from standing around, too busy staring at him to notice the dust clinging to your clothes. Which, if you’re being honest, happens more often than you’d like to admit these days.
At least he has the decency to put a shirt on before stepping inside. Small mercies.
You always whip up something light—sandwiches and a salad, maybe. You’re never in the mood to make anything too heavy. Pa skips out on lunch as usual, though. He always does, opting to head out to visit your Ma. She’s buried alongside a 200-year-old willow tree at the far edge of the property, the place that was always her favorite. Lunch used to be between you and a farm catalogue. Now, it’s between you and Johnny.
He never comments on how Pa slips away; he’s gotten used to the routine of it by now. It didn’t take long for him to piece it all together—Ma’s absence, the way Pa goes to kneel by the tree each day. He notices something in your eyes, too. He’s seen it in his own—loss. Grief.
When the aching sound of silence settles over the house—when the scrape of forks against plates is the only thing filling the empty space, when Pa’s vacant seat feels heavier than it should, Johnny’s hand inches toward yours.
It’s subtle, barely there. His fingertips just skim against your own, light and careful, like he’s offering something without asking. Like he’s reminding you, in the quietest way possible, that he’s here.
The first time he does it, you flinch and pull away before the warmth can settle, before the weight of it can mean something. But the next day, and the one after that, he does it again. Always the same way, always patient.
Day after day, you stop avoiding it.
It’s unspoken, something steady. A silent offering. He never asks for more, never demands, just open to let you take what you need.
Today, your hand creeps to meet his. Your fingers slide to hold his own so easily—so naturally. Your fingertips graze over his knuckles before slipping between his fingers, not gripping, just resting. His other hand stills mid-stab of a piece of fruit, the fork hovering in place before a slow, knowing smile tugs at his lips—soft, easy, like he’s careful not to startle you. He doesn't tighten his hold, doesn't rush, just lets his thumb brush along your skin, as if memorizing the feel of it. His consistency is comforting.
And day after day, without meaning to, you realize just how much you’ve come to rely on it.
Today, Johnny checks on the livestock one last time after lunch, but not before pitching in to help clean up. He’s quick about it, helping you get everything in order before heading out to make his rounds. He moves through the pastures, checking the water troughs, topping them off, and making sure the animals get their feed. It’s a rhythm by now—one that’s almost as natural to him as breathing.
You, on the other hand, head upstairs. The heat of the day still lingers in the air as you peel off your dirt-smeared clothes and step into the shower. The water hits your skin, hot and soothing, washing away the sweat, the dust, the weight of everything. For a few minutes, it’s just you and the steam, curling around you like a fog that keeps the world at bay. Thanks to Johnny, you can take more time for yourself, allowing for a few moments of peace.
Once you're clean, you retreat to your room for a bit, letting the quiet settle around you. The heat from the shower still clings to your skin, steam curling lazily in the air, and for a little while, you allow yourself the luxury of doing nothing. Just breathing. Just being.
But duty calls, as it always does.
With a sigh, you pull on something comfortable—old jeans, soft and faded in all the right places, a loose tank top that drapes over your shoulders, and a pair of boots worn supple from years of hard use. You leave your hair down, still damp, cool against the nape of your neck as you step into the hallway. The air meets you in a soft contrast, brushing against your skin as you shake off the last remnants of stillness and head downstairs.
Pa’s sitting in his armchair, the low hum of the 5 o’clock news filling the first floor. His eyes are glued to the screen, but you don’t disturb him, slipping into the kitchen to prep dinner. The knives feel familiar in your hands as you chop the vegetables you harvested earlier, the scent of fresh tomatoes, onions, and herbs filling the air. You sprinkle salt over the meat, massaging it in gently, knowing it’ll make the roast tender for tonight.
The clock ticks past 5:30, and at 6, the last task of the day is waiting. Fence checks.
You and Johnny do it together every day. At first, it was purely for convenience—two hands are always better than one. But now, you look forward to it—to seeing him again.
You grab your jacket from the hook by the door, the familiar weight of it settling over your shoulders, and step outside. The evening air is cool against your skin, the sky beginning to soften into a wash of purples, pinks, and golds, the colors mixing together like paint on a canvas. The breeze picks up, gentle at first, but carrying with it the earthy scent of grass and soil.
You make your way toward the stables, the gravel crunching under your boots in a steady rhythm. The evening air is cooler now, carrying the scent of hay and earth.
As you near the stables, you spot Johnny already there. He’s inside, leaning against Scout’s stall door, his back to you, speaking in a low murmur meant only for the horse. His fingers move through Scout’s mane with an absentminded gentleness.
There’s something different about him in moments like these—when he thinks no one’s watching. He softens. It’s endearing in a way you don’t quite have words for. And for a moment, you hesitate, just watching, before finally stepping forward.
You hum a soft, "Hey," and Johnny turns from Scout, a small smile tugging at his lips like he can’t help it, and he steps toward you with his hands tucked into his pockets.
For a moment, neither of you speak. You just stand there, caught in some strange pause, like you’re both waiting for something. His head tilts slightly, eyes scanning your face with quiet curiosity, and the longer the silence stretches, the more unbearable it gets.
“You talk to the sheep like that too, or just Scout?” you ask, blurting out the first thing that comes to mind.
He stills, processing your outburst before he huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “Only th’ ones that listen.”
Before he can say anything else, you turn away—too quickly, probably—and busy yourself with Shimmer, running a hand through her mane like she suddenly requires all of your attention. Anything to ignore the way your chest feels too tight, your pulse too loud in your ears.
Johnny doesn’t move right away. You can feel him still standing there, watching, like he knows exactly why you turned so fast but isn’t going to call you on it.
“She givin’ ye trouble?” he finally asks, nodding toward Shimmer as you stroke her mane.
“Always,” you mutter, scratching behind her ears and she whinnies. “She thinks she owns the place.”
“Cannae blame ‘er. She’s got ye wrapped ‘round her hoof.”
You roll your eyes, but your lips twitch despite yourself. He’s not wrong. Shimmer huffs softly, nudging at your shoulder like she knows you’re talking about her. You softly push her nose away, shaking your head.
Johnny steps next to you, leaning his arms over the stall door, softly scratching the base of her neck. “That why ye bolted over here, hmm? Needed an excuse tae hide?" His voice is light, teasing—but there’s something underneath it. Something careful.
Your hand stills for just a second before you scoff, shaking your head. “Please.” You turn, meeting his blue eyes with a practiced ease you’re not sure you actually feel. “If I wanted to hide from you, I’d pick a better spot.” You’re almost teasing when you say it, but you do know the property better than him, afterall.
“Dinnae have tae hide from me, hen,” he hums, the corner of his mouth quirks..
You hate that it makes your stomach flip. Hate that you have to force yourself to look away, to pretend the warmth crawling up your neck is from the evening heat and not from him.
Johnny lets the silence stretch, like he’s giving you a chance to say something—anything. His gaze lingers, drifting over you. Taking in the curve of your shoulders, the way your hair catches the fading light, the way you hold yourself like you’re thinking too much but refusing to say why.
When you don’t speak, he exhales a quiet chuckle, shaking his head before pushing off the stall door. Letting it go, for now.
He nods toward the fields, “C’mon. Fence line’s no’ gonna check itself.”
You follow without a word, slipping out of the stables with him. Long shadows stretch across the fields, swaying with the wind-blown grass, and somewhere in the distance, a few cattle call out, their distant sounds blending with the steady hum of crickets.
Neither of you rush. There’s no need. The fence line is long, stretching across acres of land, and it’s a quiet sort of work—just walking, looking, making note of any broken slats or weak posts that’ll need fixing. He walks alongside you, the toolbox rattles lightly in his grip as he carries it at his side, the sound punctuating the steady crunch of boots against dry earth.
For a while, neither of you speak.
It’s not exactly uncomfortable, but it isn’t easy either. You’re aware of him in a way that feels impossible to ignore—the way his steps fall in rhythm with yours, the occasional brush of his arm when the path narrows, the way he glances at you when he thinks you’re not looking.
“Ye always this quiet?” Johnny asks, his voice low, barely disturbing the quiet, as if it’s a part of the gentle breeze.
You snort softly, eyes fixed on the fence as you mindlessly trail your fingers along the wooden slats. “Only when there’s nothing to say.”
“That so?” His voice carries easily with a sprinkle of amusement.
“Mhm.”
You keep walking. So does he.
Every so often, you test the fence with a firm press of your palm, checking for weak spots. He does the same. Occasionally, he stops to inspect a loose post, tapping it with the toe of his boot before moving on. It’s a simple rhythm—walk, check, walk again—but the silence between you is anything but simple.
It’s thick, growing heavier as the minutes tick by.
You can feel his presence beside you like a current, something you could fall into and get swept under if you weren’t careful. And maybe he feels it too, because every now and then, his hands twitch at his side, like he wants to reach for something, but can’t. Won’t.
“Ye ever get tired o’ all this?” His voice is quieter this time, almost like he’s asking himself more than you.
Your brows pull together slightly. “Of what?”
He gestures vaguely around you with the hand that isn’t carrying the toolbox. “Th’ same land, same routine. Mornings start early, work’s never really done. That ever get to ye?”
You consider that for a moment, kicking at a stray rock with the toe of your boot. “Maybe. Some days.” You glance at him. “You?”
His mouth tugs into something like a smile, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Nah. Never.”
You don’t know what to make of that.
The two of you keep walking, keep checking the fence. The breeze picks up, stirring loose strands of your hair. Johnny exhales a slow breath, his shoulders shifting as he rolls them back, working out a stiffness from the long day. The movement draws your attention, and for a brief second, you let yourself look. Really look.
The sharp cut of his jaw, the way the light catches on his cheekbones, the way his shirt clings to the broad stretch of his shoulders, still slightly damp from the sweat of the day. The gold cross dangling from his neck and the dark, miniscule birthmark that sits just below his ear. His hair has grown a bit since he first came. Maybe you could cut it for him, like you do for Pa.
You swallow hard and snap your gaze forward before you get caught. Again.
Another long stretch of silence. Another step. Another brush of his arm against yours—so light it could be accidental.
Could be.
Johnny stops when he catches sight of a sagging section of barbed wire, his steps slowing before he finally comes to a halt. Without a word, he sets down the toolbox and crouches, running a hand over the worn wood of the post before reaching for the wire. Testing its give. Seeing how bad it really is.
You watch as he exhales through his nose, shaking his head slightly before grabbing the wire stretcher and a handful of staples. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t even complain about the extra work—just gets right to it, like it’s second nature.
Rather than hover over him, you hoist yourself up onto a sturdier section of the fence beside him, perching on the top rail with ease. The wood is solid beneath you, not like the weakened stretch he’s working on now.
The sun is nearly gone, but there’s still enough light to bathe the fields in a golden glow, the last remnants of warmth brushing against your face. You tilt your head toward it, letting the heat sink into your skin, letting the evening breeze lift strands of your hair. It’s the kind of peace that settles deep in your bones, the kind you don’t appreciate until it’s gone.
Johnny breaks the silence first.
“If I’d’ve grown up somewhere like this…” He pauses, twisting the wire tight before driving a staple into the post. “I think things would’ve turned ou’ different for me.”
The way he says it—flat, almost absentminded—makes you hesitate. You’re not sure if he’s inviting the conversation or just thinking out loud. You don’t want to pry, but something about the way his voice lingers in the air makes you ask anyway.
“Different how?”
Johnny keeps his eyes on his work as he answers, pulling the wire taut. “Would’ve been normal, I guess. Wouldn’t have joined up. Would no’ have spent years runnin’ toward shit other people run from.” He exhales softly, a ghost of a chuckle. “Think I’d have been calmer. More settled.”
You watch him work for a moment, the way his hands move with ease, deft yet steady. He doesn’t look unsettled, per se. If anything, he seems at ease out here, like he belongs in the quiet.
“You don’t seem unsettled,” you say finally, tilting your head to him.
Johnny huffs out a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he pulls the wire one last time, before giving it a final staple to secure it. “Then ’m doin’ a great job at pretending.” His voice is light, but there’s something underneath it, something that makes you press your lips together.
You watch as he finishes up, hammering in the last staple before brushing the dirt off his hands. “If you aren’t happy here, you can always leave, y’know,” The words slip out before you can really think them through. “There’s plenty of families that need help.” It’s not a challenge, just a simple fact.
That stops him.
He straightens up, turning to you with something between bewilderment and confusion, like the idea hadn’t even crossed his mind. Like he can’t quite believe you’d think that, let alone say that.
“Ye think I’m no’ happy here?”
You shrug, glancing out toward the fields. “I mean…” you pause, exhaling as you look toward your boots, drawing shapes in the dirt with the pointed toe. “I wouldn’t be surprised. It’s isolating.”
Johnny sets the tools down in the grass beside him, his jaw tightening as he mulls over what you just said. It sticks in his head, gnaws at something deep in his chest. He hadn’t considered that you might think that—hadn’t realized he might’ve spoken in a way that’d made you assume he wanted out.
But when he looks at you now, perched on the fence, swathed in the gold, pink, and purple swirls of light from the sun, he understands why you would.
You’ve been here your whole life. You know the weight of isolation, watching things in your life pass by and disappear before your eyes. You probably expect people to leave.
And maybe that should be the case. Maybe he should leave—move on to bigger and better things. But when he looks at you—really looks at you—it doesn’t feel that simple. It can’t be. It’s not.
Your very presence buzzes with life, from your hair to the ever-present flush in your cheeks—from the heat or him, he doesn’t know. You’re sat on the fence like you belong here, like the land itself was carved around you. And maybe it was. Maybe that’s why he’s so goddamn unsettled. You’re everywhere; you’re in every breeze that brushes his skin, in each rooster crow that signals the wake of a new day.
He’s spent his whole life moving, chasing something—war, adrenaline, a sense of purpose that’s always been just out of reach. He knows the weight of isolation just as well as you do.
His throat feels tight as he finally speaks, his voice dipping lower, rougher. “I’m no’ unsettled because o’ the job. Or the farm.”
His gaze is locked onto you, unrelenting. Waiting. Willing you to understand—like he’s been holding this in for too long, and if you don’t get it now, he’s not sure what he’ll do.
And then it all clicks.
It’s not about the farm. Not about the work, the isolation, the long days under the southern sun.
“Oh.”
The word breathes out of you before you can censor it, before you can even feel it.
You’re the reason he carries tension in his shoulders, the reason he looks at you like he’s already lost whatever battle he’s been fighting with himself.
All at once you can feel the sharp pull in the air between you, the way his jaw tics, his breath slows, his fingers flex like he’s stopping himself from reaching for you.
And the worst part?
You wish he wouldn’t.