Soap Mactavish - Blog Posts
Cupcake
They didnt know your birthday.
141 x neglected!f!reader
“Hey bonnie, you busy? I have a ton of paperwork to do but i was planning on- whats that?” Soap stops his rambling questions upon seeing me with an open flame.
I look down at the candle on the cupcake, it was halfway melted from when i had lit it. The wax was already mixing with the frosting.
“Yeah but its all good.” I say trying to sound light hearted.
I got up and pinched the flame out not bothering to make a wish.
“I can do the writing dont worry about it. Go have fun.” I say looking back to Soap in my doorway.
I walk over and softly grab the files in his hand, expecting him to hand them over easy and take his leave. Only he doesn’t, he doesn’t even move, he hadn’t looked away from the lone cupcake on the counter.
“Hey if im gonna do it i need the files.” I say trying to pull them out of his grasp without ripping them. Only then he looks down at me, i was surprised when i couldnt read his expression. The man was usually an open book, you could read him cover to cover without flipping the page.
“What is that.” It was more of a statement than a question, like he knew but couldn’t believe what it meant.
I look back to the treat i had bought myself, a little more than just confused now as i look back at him. “It’s a cupcake?” I say now skeptical. “Its not gonna bite you, relax.” I joke hoping he would snap out of it.
Soap stares at me still unreadable in the doorway, he takes the papers back and walked down the hall to presumably Prices room without another word. I close my door for the night, no need for anyone else to be upset with my presence today. It seemed no one was remotely happy with me all damn day and that for lack of better words was the cherry on top.
I hadnt expected anything to happen on my birthday, not really anyway. I hadnt brought up my birthday with the team and i had only joined the 141 less than 10 months ago. They hadnt asked and i never told so really it wouldve been my own fault if i had expected anything. But i had hoped for at least a happy birthday wish, as stupid as that sounds. I had thought for sure as the Captain, Price wouldve known my birthday and maybe he wouldve said something, anything. But wishful thinking can hurt worse than a bullet.
When i had emerged from my room this morning to find Gaz had started our usual run without me that had hurt a little, but no worries i can catch up or just run it alone. Only Gaz had stopped running after i started and had gone back to the barracks. I had shrugged it off then.
Later was Ghost, he quite literally ghosted me on training together, it was supposed to start at noon on the dot. Nothing, not a text, not a call, not even 4 hours later. It was when i was training recruits that i saw why, Ghost and Soap had been at the range all day. Shooting the new guns Soap and i had agreed to try out together.
So three of the four men i worked with day in and day out had done something completely out of character. Surely Price would break the cycle of today.
I decided to test it out, walking to his office across the base. I decide i need to start telling the guys more about myself, hell, did they know anything personal about me? They never really asked so i didnt worry about it. I knew so much about them, i could recall all of their favorite movies, food, drinks, guns, knife brands, i could even remember the family members theyve talked about and Soap had so many. But i cant remember telling them any of that about me. By the time i got to Prices office im so lost in thought i almost just walk on in. Luckily im pulled from my thoughts hearing Price on the phone, louder than normal.
“I dont care if the best is on my damn team i need to be able to trust every single person on it! Im not keeping someone if i cant trust them!” The other person talks calmer more trying to coax him to relax.
Price still raises his voice annoyed. “I don’ know shite about’em! Im done, im not having this conversation anymore.” Hanging up the phone he sighes loudly. I blink back tears in succession.
He didn’t trust me? I get not knowing much but i didn’t hide things from them, if they asked i wouldve told? I didn’t mean to make them not trust me, i just didn’t want to share if they didn’t want to know. I didn’t mean for this. I didn’t mean for any of it. How did it get this bad? How did i miss the signs of them pulling away, i hadnt seen anything different up until today.
But now it made sense, Gaz wouldn’t want to run with someone he couldn’t trust, Ghost would never train someone he didn’t trust, and why would Soap test guns with me? It was so obvious now.
I wipe my tear streaked face and walk quickly back to our- their, barracks. I couldn’t call it ours anymore, i wasn’t part of the team. Id need to pack, id need to find a new team again. Only i didn’t want to and that just caused me to cry again. I loved the guys with everything now, it took me so long to let them in and just as long to get Ghost to trust me, i thought everything was okay. It was so perfectly fine just 12 hours ago.
I walk into my room shutting the door quietly, packing wouldn’t take long, i didn’t have much. I hadnt joined with more than a duffel bag to my name. I could still fit everything in that bag in the corner of the room. But when i opened the fridge is when I remembered the cupcake i had bought myself.
Now here i was packing after Soap had walked out, i didn’t relight the candle, i didn’t really have a wish that could come true. The only one i could think of is that today hadn’t happened at all. But it was bound to happen if Price was that upset on the phone. Better to jump ship than to be pushed. I finish up packing and look around, nothing of mine, nothing that could show i had even been there at all except a lone cupcake on the counter. And thats exactly how i had lived before the 141, why would now be any different. Price had said in the beginning that i could change the room however i wanted, glad i didn’t.
Walking out of the barren room i could hear voices down the hall, some louder than others, seemed like an argument. I turned and began the walk to the front base gate, no longer do i need to worry them with my presence. No longer did they need to worry about an untrusted stranger.
Should i make a part 2?
“is that the best you can do?” simon asked, chuckling underneath his mask. he was supposed to be training you but you could barely land a punch on the six foot soldier.
“fuck you.” out of breath, you put your hands on your knees in an effort to catch your breath. “quit going easy on me.”
suddenly reinvigorated, you get back into your stance, preparing to try again. locking eyes with your opponent, you attempt a two hit combo only for him to block each once again.
“fuck!”
“nice moves.” soap entered the room, sipping on a cup of coffee. “try going for his legs, fuckers too big for his own good.”
taking his advice you readied your stance for one last time. with a surprise attack, you slid on the ground, using pure strength to hopefully knock him over. suddenly out of no where your vision went black.
“you’re crushing me.”
“i’ve been waiting for you to kick my ass.” Simon said, helping you up.
“thanks for the show, guys.” Soap laughed.
Soap covered in soap
Forever his 🩷Soap🩷
Some small tidbits of what I think Soap would do if he fell in love
John "Soap" MacTavish who smiles to himself when thinking of you. John "Soap" MacTavish who might or might not take a small bottle of your perfume/cologne to spray on his pillow at night. John "Soap" MacTavish who writes letters to his mother back home about the beauty that is in his life, who promises to bring them to meet her.
John "Soap" MacTavish who makes sure to memorizes your favorite songs so he can learn the words to sing them to you John "Soap" MacTavish who made Ghost promise that if push comes to shove on a bad mission, he will be there to look after you.
I hope you loved it, I am thinking of maybe doing some of these for a few other characters *kisses*
Sgt. John "Soap" MacTavish. Another rough day, another mission
[please support me with a reblog, i really wanna be in the cod fandom circle ♥]
▪︎𝙅𝙤𝙝𝙣 “𝙎𝙤𝙖𝙥” 𝙈𝙖𝙘𝙩𝙖𝙫𝙞𝙨𝙝 | 𝙏𝙁 𝟭𝟰𝟭– 𝙊𝙥𝙚𝙧𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙫𝙚 𝙁𝙞𝙡𝙚 ▪︎
JOHN "SOAP" MACTAVISH -> Dark Water Call of Duty: Modern Warfare II (2022)
Poor Ghost 😆
Now no one can sleep hehe
Pure preciousness.
That smile...🫠
filler drawing until i have more ideas :((
in advance, i might do some non-cod related posts soon soooooo stay tuned ig
MDNI 18+ / ~ 2.6k words / Oneshot
Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Call of Duty (Video Games), Modern Warfare II (2022) Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: John "Soap" MacTavish/Reader Characters: John "Soap" MacTavish, Reader Additional Tags: No use of y/n, POV Second Person, Smut, light fluff, Oral Sex, gender neutral reader, Brat John "Soap" MacTavish, A little bit anyway, Gender neutral terms of endearment for reader, Light Dom/sub, Hand Job, briefly, Soap gets most of the attention in this one folks, Light Possessive Language, Oneshot, Author Has Played Call of Duty, not well, but I did, Reboot John "Soap" MacTavish, Reader is an Operator, Desperate John "Soap" MacTavish, Not Beta Read, we die like (redacted), Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot Summary:
Soap and you find yourselves in a safe house all on your own, in a rare moment free of danger, and manage to steal it for yourselves, indulging in some much needed RNR.
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"Tha's it, pet." Soap praises, his voice low and soft, a sound that's gradually been growing to be more and more of a comfort to you as of late, it mixes beautifully with the slick sound of his cock easing in and out of your mouth. He always takes his time with you when you let him have you like this, as if making sure to savour it, even his thick, scarred fingers which were tangled amongst the roots of your hair had a certain gentleness to them, amplified further by the way his other hand was caressing your cheek, the pad of his thumb tenderly brushing over the corner of your eyes, wiping away the involuntary tears that had gathered there and clung stubbornly to your lashes, before doing the same to the bit of drool that managed to escape from the corner of your mouth, and had been lazily dribbling down your chin.
Despite the way it makes your jaw twinge, getting to see the way his breathing gradually gets shallower, louder, adding to the symphony that always accompanied your intimate moments together alongside his staccato groans and grunts, made it all worth it. "Jus' like tha'." Every sound he made was nothing short of addictive, and you were determined to make it your life's mission to pull all of them from Soap's lips until you memorized them all.
Which is why you fight against his grasp to push him deeper into your mouth, until you can feel the weeping tip of his cock kiss the back of your throat, before you swallow around him. A low strangled groan forces its way out of Soap's body, seemingly startling the man himself as much as it delights you. He huffs and pulls you back up some, his hips twitch off the bunk, chasing the warmth of your mouth reflexively, as he shoots you a reprimanding look, one that didn't really come across as anything other than fond, which had his striking blue eyes — that are as vibrant as ever, even in the low lighting of the safe house, as if taking personal offence to anything that'd dare to try to hide them, and shining anyway from a mix of spite and Soap's special brand of unbridled defiance — narrowing minutely, doing nothing to hide the way they practically glinted with amusement and want. "Easy wi' tha', dinnae need ye hurtin' yerself."
You roll your eyes at him, and huff through your nose. With the tip of your tongue you follow one of the veins along the underside of Soap's cock up the length of his shaft, only to smooth your tongue right back out on the underside of his tip and running it right back down, over and over again. "Cheeky." Soap barely manages the word, his voice trailing off into another unsteady vocalization of his pleasure as his lashes flutter, fanning out when his eyes were mostly closed. That doesn't spur you to relent though. You both know that he likes it— he likes when you mouth off to him, when you walk by him brushing your hand along the small of his back, when you squeeze his arse when you know you can get away with it, when you eye him up, especially if you do it at a time where he's not allowed to immediately get his hands on you and retaliate, like during briefings.
Even with how much Soap seemed to live for you riling him up till he snapped, he never got rough about it, not unless you went out of your way to ask for him to. No, your big bad Sargent liked to keep a soft touch— even after you teased and prodded him to his limits with fleeting touches and words of filth whispered against the shell of his ear whenever they'd pop into mind, leaving him redfaced and caught off guard, often resulting in him staring at you like a puppy that just had a steak pulled out from under it as you'd go back to whatever it was you had been doing, teeth pressing against your bottom lip as you fruitlessly tried to force down your smirk.
When he'd finally break — and he always did no matter what it was that you had been doing to him — and take you over a desk, or against a wall, in the armoury, in your rooms in the barracks, or like now, on an old lumpy bunk that creaked at any and every movement, tucked away in a remote location in a safe house that was held together with little more than rusty nails and a fraying hope, with a crackling fire and the soft moonlight easing through the windows acting as your sole sources of light, he was still so fucking gentle. Touching you as if you were something delicate, or fleeting, like he thought if he moved too fast or pressed too hard you'd flit out of his touch like a startled finch, or as if you were a vase at risk of shattering into countless shards.
Keeping your hands flat, you gently smooth your palms over the tops of his thighs, savouring the way you could feel the slightest of tremours in them. His belt buckle jingles softly, hitting against itself from your fingers catching the hem of his pants. In your rush to get at him earlier you had merely pushed down as much as they had to be, leaving them quickly forgotten after the fact.
It was about time you corrected that.
Shifting on your knees, you draw back until only the head of Soap's cock remained in your mouth so that your tongue could still lap at him while giving you just enough space to fuss with Soap's clothes, an action that has Soap letting out a broken off whimper. A sound which is quickly chased by a slew of what was presumably curses, but was so enwrapped in Soap's accent — now much thicker from how worked up he was and worsened further by his budding frustration from being pent up — that you couldn't make out anything intelligible. Your hands trail lower to fumble with Soap's combat boots, pulling at the knot of the laces until it loosens, and you can ease his feet out of both of them, dropping them behind yourself to be found later. Eventually he seems to pull himself together enough for you to catch a few things, at least. "Yer nae playin' fair, pet. Cannae jus' dae this ta me." He whines rather petulantly.
Just for that, you pull off of him properly, his poor cock twitches where it lays against his abdomen, making an absolute mess of his shirt. To stop him fussing further you wrap your hand around him and lazily pump him, the quiet slick sounds filling the space between you both, as your other hand works on pulling his pants and boxers down the rest of the way, letting them fall in a heap at your knees. Soap's hips twitch up into your movements, as if trying to goad you into moving faster, but you simply use your elbow to press into his hip, keeping him down while you continue to stroke him. "You're so spoiled, you know that? Should just leave your sorry ass like this."
A proper grin pulls at Soap's lips, and he looks down at you through his lashes, with a glint in his eyes that was the pinnacle of pleased— like a puppy that had managed to charm its way into stealing an entire bag of treats. "Aye, ah ken, but ye wouldnae dare. Ye like spoilin' me, luvvy." There's just something about the way he looks above you, his chest heaving and a healthy flush darkening his skin along his cheekbones, while he's blatantly biting his bottom lip and looking at you like you're the only thing in the world worth looking at, that causes something in your chest to ache and twist in a way that shouldn't be as heady as it is.
Instead of dignifying Soap with an actual reply right away, you just grunt softly, vaguely providing him with a, "Maybe." as you hook your arm under one of Soap's knees, guiding it up so that his thigh presses against his stomach; you can feel the muscle jump under your touch. "God knows why I do, you're always such a fucking brat about it." Your protests are contrary, you know they are, especially with the way you're fisting his cock and lazily rolling your hips against the leg Soap still has firmly planted on the ground in a rather fruitless bid to take a bit of your own edge off. You spoil him because it's him, and as much as he can be a prick or a brat sometimes, at the end of the day Soap had still batted his eyes at you, and managed to sidle up to you enough that he found a nice warm place to curl up in your chest like a stray dog in a sunspot. He was a brat, a loud mouth, a bit of a know-it-all even when he wouldn't let on that he was, and he seemed to find a new way to get himself in and out of trouble every day, but god damn it, he was still your stray dog, and like hell were you going to give him anything less than every breath you took, every bit of blood rushing in your veins through your pounding heart, and every bone in your body.
You'd give him everything, because he was yours, and there was no way you'd ever let this ridiculous man forget it.
"Shite..." Soap hisses through his teeth, both his hands move to tangle in the thin sheets laid over the bunk, as the way his hips meet your hand begins to grow sloppier and more uneven. "M' nae a brat." The protest passes Soap's lips weakly, any bite it possibly could have had was dulled even further by the way his cock was practically drooling all over your hand, and the persistent groans and whimpers leaving him.
While you let it drop for now, you most certainly plan on getting him back for back-talking you later. Right now though, you have much more pressing things to pay attention to, like the way he's so visibly close to falling apart under you, his leg was trembling under your hand as his vocalizations got even more unabashed. The way the corner of your mouth lifts as you watch him is entirely involuntary; not that you do much in the way of trying to stop it from happening in the first place, mind. Hearing how Soap keeps murmuring your name doesn't exactly do much but encourage your expression and touches, especially when he practically keens as you take him back into your mouth, even if it's just the head of his cock. You're already pressing your elbow harder against his hip to keep him from lifting them too much and fucking into your mouth mindlessly; you both know that if he wanted to he could knock your arm out of the way, but even with how little blood was left in his brain he behaved and let you keep him down.
That doesn't stop him from wrapping his thick fingers around your wrist, trying to encourage you to pump his shaft faster. "Fuck, c'mon pet. M' so close ta comin', ye gotta let me. Please, please." There's a steadily growing note of desperation to his voice, the hand he still has tangled in the sheets curls tighter, pulling them hard enough that they now lay heavily askew on the bunk. As much as there's a part of you that delights in the idea of pulling back again, leaving him there heavy and aching, you can only be so cruel to him in one night, so you let him guide your hand, squeezing him just a bit tighter, if only to hear the way his voice gets rougher, a stream of words passing his lips mindlessly as he chases his finish, mostly your name intermixed with a healthy dose of 'fuck, please, yes,' and of course a slew of babbled, 'thank ye,'s over and over again.
It doesn't take long for even that to shift into 'God ah'm so close,' and 'oh ah'm gonna come in yer bonnie mouth, pet. Gonna make sure ye taste m'fer days.'
You just squeeze the underside of his knee, not like you can talk around him, besides, you didn't want to waste any extra brainpower trying to formulate intelligible words; not when you could be using it instead to memorize every little way Soap was starting to crumble under you, the muscles in his thighs jumped as his back arched off the mattress, both of his blue eyes glazing over, wide but staring up at the ceiling unseeingly, at least until they flutter closed, your name bullies it's way out of his mouth, followed by a few more curses, and some pure unfiltered praise, as his come fills your mouth in thick spurts that you're quick to swallow down before he makes a mess, or at least, so he doesn't make any more of one than he already has.
Using his hold on your wrist, he guides you unsteadily off your knees, and on top of himself, causing your legs to tangle with his own. While he lets out a soft hiss of oversensitivity when you accidentally brush against him, Soap just winds his arms around your shoulders and pulls you in even closer for a kiss, tasting himself on your tongue with a soft groan. The way he's touching you quickly lost the notable edge of desperation that had been there before, the usual gentleness taking its place. "Yer tae good 'fer me, luvvy." He murmurs, as he brushes your lips together again.
One of your hands finds its way into his mohawk, absently tugging your fingers through the strands in a bid to try to bring some order to the mussed strands, before tangling near his nape and forcing his head back, he grunts, but doesn't fight you. There's something addicting about the way he always just lets you move him about, especially with the way it makes his eyes spark, and had his breath — which had yet to return to normal — quickening once more. You were more than willing to take advantage of him tolerating this while you could. "You're not getting off that easily, MacTavish." You say in as equally as low of a tone. "I'm not done with you yet." After all, you were still worked up and aching yourself, and you well and planned on making that Soap's problem, much like he had with you.
That familiar cheeky grin returns at full force as if you had just offered Soap everything under the tree on Christmas morning. "Aye, didnae think ah'd ferget aboot ye, pet." A shocked gasp passes your lips as he abruptly flips you both over, which causes the bunk to creak in protest under your combined weight on its old springs. Your gasp is quick to turn into a soft huff of amusement as he pins you beneath him and presses close, like he's doing his best to meld you together. "Gonna take such good care o' ye, luvvy." He murmurs as he peppers your face and neck in little fleeting kisses, as if eager to please you and trying his best to love on you everywhere at once.
You can't help the way you laugh at his antics, which somehow only seems to encourage him further as his hands find your hips, dragging you closer. Rolling your eyes fondly, you use your hold on his hair to pull him back in for another kiss.
He might be a brat, and a bit of a stray, but for better or for worse, he's definitely yours.
And you wouldn't have it any other way.
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Thank you for reading!
If you have any ideas/prompts of what I should write next, feel free to comment or send me an ask. I’m open to writing more stuff with Soap, or any of the other members of the 141 (either with each other, reader, or a combination of everyone).
what the tf141 get teased for - tf141 hcs
John Price - his dad energy (soap has once called him dad.) would 100% ground you then sneak you snacks. gaz got him a 'world's best dad' mug. - swears like poetry. shakespeare, if shakespeare smoked cigars - still doesn't know what "slay" means and doesn't want to. (or whatever gaz says) - rbf? nooo... its "I'm not mad I'm disappointed in you" face Simon "Ghost" Riley - the mask stays on. even in 40°C heat. (but he does take it off when the tf141 is alone) - always lurking like a cryptid in a hoodie. "like batman... but if batman didn't like fun" - gaz's wise words. (i can confirm, I'm his hat) - somehow managing to be the most dramatic one without saying a word - moving silently and scaring the soul out of everyone... John "Soap" Mactavish - his hair routine. that mohawk is constantly abused with gel. it could stay still in a hurricane... - being the loudest in every scenario, like the walls owe him rent. - stealth's arch-nemesis (ghost's words) - his scottish rage... has "talked the chair into submission" after stubbing his toe. Kyle "Gaz" Garrick - knows exactly what "falsies" and "baking" means. blames his sisters. (I hc him having two) - spends an hour+ doing recon and comes back with relationship tea. - his skincare routine. full beauty influencer, "you look like you moisturise with angel tears", soap's words. - similar lines, but his eyebrows. could slice bread with how sharp his eyebrows are. - diva.
--- writer's note:
hihi!! this is my first time writing headcanons (and posting them to the public)... so hopefully these are okay! it's 9am and I still haven't slept (studying for exams). #grindandrise /j. feel free to request or send an ask. much love xx
I've been watching the Fallout series and I started to wonder: The Cod boys, what kind would they be?
I would definitely imagine that the boys from 141 would most likely be the Steel Brothers or survivors of the bunkers (specifically Gaz and Soap).
Alejandro would most likely be a necrotic (let's be honest, he would be as hot as Ghoul or Hancock), Rudy would definitely be a bunker survivor.
Graves? I really don't know what type he would be along with the shadows, I prefer to let others imagine.
❗PLEASE, someone please get this to the designers here on Tumblr, god knows how they have a fertile imagination for this.❗
Price is the true father of the party.😂
The Lakes
Johnny “Soap” MacTavish x F! Reader
Summary: While on leave for a vacation road trip, Y/N & Johnny come across the Windermere Peaks & talk about their future together. Based on “The Lakes” off of Folklore by Taylor Swift
A/N: Miss Swift is a big inspiration for my work she has a huge discography so yeah, legit this is all I want too. If I could resort to living a small cabin in the woods by a beautiful lake I’d be seventh heaven
Warnings: none
“I don’t belong, & my beloved neither do you”
It had been a few years since you & Johnny took a vacation all to yourselves. He had been working overtime consistently for the past few months & finally he was given some time off. You put in for vacation time & the both of you decided on a road trip. There were still parts of the new country you called home you hadn’t seen before & you wanted to see them in a fun way. Johnny & you had been driving all over the UK for the past two weeks. You planned on ending your trip in Edinburgh so he could show you around his favorite locals spots.
Johnny pulled the rental car you two had chosen into the parking lot of the bed & breakfast the two of you were staying at. It was a old Tudor style cottage in the northwest English countryside. You studied literature at university & wanted to see where William Wordsworth spent the final years of his career as a writer. He parked the car & the two of you started to unpack the car. The air was crisp & refreshing compared to the smog that sat over London. You looked up at the cottage, admiring it’s wisteria & ivy that grew along the side of the building.
“Come on love let’s get settled, then we can go for a nice lunch.” Johnny said grabbed your suitcase from your hand. He never let you carry your own luggage. The both of you walked in & were amazed by the decor. Victorian furniture & carved oak woodwork decorated the interior. A small older woman greeted the two of you from the top of the stairs.
“Oh you must be the MacTavish’s!” She said & started down the stairs.
“Yes ma’am, we are.” Johnny replied smiling at her.
“Oh well I am Mrs. Harkness,” She greeted them. “But please call me Rebekah. Come follow me upstairs I’ll show you around & to your rooms.” The more you looked around the home the more you realized this was your ideal home. The cozinesses & tranquility brought a sense of comfort to you. The room Johnny had rented could’ve made you melt into the floor. A marble fireplace with a Edwardian clock faced the art deco style bed with green velvet bedding. “I’ll leave you two, enjoy your stay. Breakfast is from nine to eleven am tomorrow.”
“Oh John,” You sighed looking around the room. “This room is beautiful.”
“I knew you’d love it.” He said smirking to himself as he put your suitcases on the small loveseat that was in the corner of the room. “You want to get some lunch?” He asked. You nodded following him out of the room. After getting a recommendation from Rebekah you guys decided on a small sandwich shop. The both of you decided on a outdoor picnic the autumn air was perfect for it. The two of you picked a willow tree that sat upon a hill over looking the lakes.
“This is perfect John.” You said turning to look at him. He brushed some of the hair that had flown into your face over your ear.
“I know darling.” He replied. You leaned into his touch & he leaned in for a kiss. He placed one hand on your waist deepening the kiss. Once the two of you were coming up for the air you rested your foreheads together.
“This is what I want for us John.” You softly said. “Imagine it, us maybe a sheep dog & two little ones running around. A cottage that overlooks the lakes.” You smiled just at the thought of it. “I want for our little ones to grow up with grass, trees, for them to be adventurous.”
“Just like their mother,” John started & kissed you again.
“More like you Mr. MacTavish.” You replied & booped his nose. You took his hand pressing it to your little now growing baby bump. His large hands started to rub small circles on your stomach. You brought a hand up to his face your finger tips danced along his stubble. Just you wanted to basking this intimate moment for as long as you could.
“God I love you so much.” John whispered.
“I love you most.” You replied kissing him again. “We should get going baby MacTavish has decided they want something sweet.” You giggled.
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.