#john mactavish x you

[machveil]

Loser!Johnny who dies a little on the inside every time you don’t smile or laugh at a joke or comment he thought was really funny. you still genuinely reacted well to it, but it wasn’t the belly laugh he was aiming for. he tries to laugh it off and wraps an arm around your shoulders, debating whether to make another joke or not (he always does because he has to prove to himself you find him hilarious)

Loser!Johnny who talks a lot about how you smell - whether it be your shampoo or a little spritz of something, or if that’s just all natural you. he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, captivated by your scent and getting into your personal space. he doesn’t catch the awkward glint in your eyes, the way your smile is a little forced, he just sees you smiling at him and swoons. “You could sweat into a bottle, yeah? I’d wear it as cologne.”, straight faced and beaming, says it to you like it’s the most normal, mundane thing

Loser!Johnny who offers you his hoodie when you go to the gym with him. “Promise t’give it back, bonnie, need that one.”, he doesn’t mention he he’ll sleep in it tonight because it’ll smell like you. god, he’d rather you be in his arms, but this is the next best thing in his eyes. or maybe he’ll stuff a pillow in it, hug it tight to his chest, and pretend it’s you? it’s a little hard to figure out what he should do when his eyes are trained on you, happily walking around in his hoodie. don’t suppose you’d let him have a sip from your water bottle? he doesn’t mind sharing, spits the least of his concern— actually, it’s not a concern at all!

[guppybibi]

part 2 to the johnny fic!

notes: this was pretty rushed,,,so it is fast paced..if u guys dont like this one i could always rewrite it! :3

taglist: @ennovi-9 @vvenus-child @msilwrites @tessakate @beatriceshadowmarvel2 @montenegroisr (for some reason i cant tag the others??) i'll try to do so in the comments

Grief was never an easy thing to heal from to begin with, so Simon has kept a close eye on you ever since. You refused to believe him at first, trying to pull out some sort of proof that you were with Johnny this past year but to your own shock, there was none. Not a singular one.

Luckily, Simon had a xerox copy of Johnny’s death certificate. The original copy was with you but it seems that it was burned to ashes based on the reaction you gave when Simon dangled it over your face.

But you really weren’t believing him, shielded in the denial you were holding tightly close to you. “Where’s the urn with half of his ashes then, eh?” Simon throws the question at you, his words unintentionally harsher than expected.

But he really doesn't get what you've been trying to convince him to believe, don't you remember spreading Soap’s ashes? He expected you to at least remember that part.

“The…what?” That was all you could manage to say right now, your voice failing you now of all times. “The urn with his ashes.” He repeats, crossing his arms in front of his chest as he intently watches your expression.

Simon starts to wonder how hard of a psychosis you went through, or if you ever took drugs after Johnny’s death. That would explain the hallucinations as well, there's no shame in it either. It's not unusual for someone to turn to substances during mourning, it's a common coping mechanism.

All Simon wants to focus on is you, for you to get better. Fuck Johnny for leaving you alone like this, the pitiful sight almost made Simon's face be a constant scowl.

Okay..maybe he was exaggerating but he’ll definitely throw a middle finger up to the sky later. Simon knows it'll probably make Johnny laugh his ass off…or worry. It really depends if he knew your current situation.

Either way, none of that stuff matters much. You have no choice but to be in Simon’s care.

He’s not quite sure what to do when you start crying into his chest the moment you two stepped into your house, no longer a home. He remains still, lightly patting you on the back as he guides you to the couch.

He’ll be here for a while, won't he?

~~~

It's been weeks since you've known about Johnny’s death, but the only thing Simon could notice was the lack of improvement.

You were rotting in bed, relying on Simon completely for you to do basic tasks. You spent most of the time crying and sleeping, an endless cycle that even made Simon feel like he was going crazy.

“C’mon, eat up, luv. I made you some soup. We're runnin’ out of groceries as well, wanna tag along later?” He offers, holding up the spoon full of soup to your mouth. Expectedly, with a disinterested look, you turn your back on him.

He sighs, putting the bowl aside. “Alright, I won't make you go but the offer is still up.” He says, pausing when he hears footsteps get closer and closer to the door.

It's…weirdly familiar. Simon could recognize people based off of their footsteps alone, but he simply couldn't place his finger on this one. As it got nearer, you seemed to notice it as well..

The two of you make questioning looks at each other. “Stay there, I’ll go check it out.” Simon stood up, making his way to the door until a certain someone pops out.

“Bonnie? Ye there? Git us some groceries.”

…Another shared look between you and Simon.

“Oh good, there yer are, lass. Simon? You're here too? Glad there's another set of hands then.”

Simon’s gaze moved to you, seeing your eyes water up with tears. But that wasn't what caught his attention, it was the hole through this…Johnny’s head.

[mphoenix-7]

Bitter Allies [Soap x Reader]

Chapter 16: Annette (pt. 1)

Summary: Soap starts to open up to you about his past. Starting at the very beginning.

Word Count: 7,721

Warnings: Strong themes, death of a loved one, funerals, car crash victim, depression, coping with loss of a family member, stepparents, changing family themes, fighting, mourning of a loved one

A/N: I was gone way too long 😭 Anyway, I finally have an update for this story! This was a tough one to write, and I’m afraid it’s only gonna get worse. Grab your tissues! And enjoy 😊

Masterlist | <- Previous | Next ->

Bitter Allies • Part 16

Before he joined the military, before he got the name Soap, before he became the youngest candidate to pass SAS selection, before he joined Task Force 141, got his rank, and became a demolitions expert and sniper— he was simply John MacTavish. A young boy living in the Scotland countryside with his parents.

Back then, his life was ordinary, much like that of any other young lad. He'd spend hours outside, splashing through streams, playing in the woods, and running through fields with his friends until the sun dipped below the hills. He'd help his father with chores, handing him tools while he fixed a fence, or stand on a stool in the kitchen, watching his mother's deft hands knead dough for bread and steal cookies fresh off the baking sheet. He was a big brother to three little sisters—fighting with them as much as he adored them. His greatest worries back then were rainy afternoons or when his peas touched his mashed potatoes.

But those days slipped away, faster than he could grasp.

How naïve that little boy had been—how sheltered. Then again, why shouldn't he have been? Childhood should be like that: safe, carefree, uncomplicated. And for a time, it was. But those days ended. The world cracked open like glass. John would have given anything to go back—to when his sisters' eyes shone bright with laughter, to the warmth of his mother's embrace, to the days when his father was still a good man.

Before the crash.

Before Annette.

Before everything that came after.

***

John was up late, or at least what he believed to be late, reading an Amazing Spider-Man comic for what was probably the hundredth time. He'd gotten it for his birthday about a week ago. He'd just turned ten not but a few months ago, and he was allowed to stay up until 10:00 pm now. His sisters, all younger than him, still had to go to bed at 9:00 pm, so he was enjoying time to himself.

The house was quiet except for the faint ticking of the clock in the hallway and the soft rustle of pages as John flipped through his comic. His lamp cast a warm glow over his small room, illuminating the mess of action figures, schoolbooks, and stray socks scattered across the floor. Outside his window, the sky was an inky black, clouds swallowing the faint silver light of the moon.

John shifted on his stomach, propped up on his elbows as his eyes scanned the brightly colored panels. Spider-Man was mid-swing through New York, and John was completely absorbed in the comic despite having read it three or four times now. But then he heard it—the creak of the floorboards downstairs.

It normally wouldn't have catch his attention, but for some reason that night it did. He paused, his grin fading slightly as he glanced toward his closed bedroom door. His dad was still awake, clearly. That wasn't unusual, but the steady pacing, the heaviness of his father's steps, made John frown. 

He set his comic aside, slipping off his bed and quietly padding across the floor. He cracked the door open just enough to peek out into the dim hallway. The light from downstairs glowed faintly, and he could just barely make out his father's voice.

John crept out of his room, moving carefully to avoid the floorboards he knew would squeak. He crouched low at the top of the stairs, gripping the banister as he peered down. His father was standing near the phone, one hand braced against the wall, the other gripping the receiver so tightly his knuckles were white. 

"No, she left hours ago. She should've been home by now." His father's voice was low and tight, a sharp edge to it that made John's stomach twist. He never sounded like this.

A long pause followed, broken only by John's own quiet breathing. 

"Yes, I've called the police already. They said nothing's come in yet. But something's wrong, I can feel it." His father's voice cracked slightly at the end, though he quickly cleared his throat. 

John's chest felt tight, his fingers trembling slightly where they gripped the wood of the banister. His mother wasn't home yet. That had to be who his father was talking about. He hadn't even really noticed her absence until now, but now that he thought about it, it was odd she wasn't home yet.

His father began pacing again, his hand running through his graying hair as he listened to whoever was on the other end of the line. "No, I'll keep calling around. You just... you just let me know if you hear anything, alright?" 

The receiver clattered into its cradle with a sharp clack, and his father let out a deep breath, bracing both hands on the edge of the counter. His shoulders slumped, and for a moment, he just stood there, staring down at the linoleum floor. 

John's throat felt dry, his stomach knotting. He wanted to go down there, to ask his dad what was happening, to hear him say something—anything—that would make this gnawing unease go away. But he stayed frozen at the top of the stairs, his heart thudding painfully in his chest. 

The silence stretched on until his father straightened again, rubbing a hand down his face before reaching for the phone once more. He started to press the buttons, dialing another number.

John slipped back into the shadows of the hallway, retreating to his room as quietly as he could. He closed the door behind him and leaned against it, his head resting against the wood. 

His comic lay forgotten on the bed as he sat down on the floor, knees pulled up to his chest. The tick of the clock felt louder now, each second dragging on and on. 

"She'll come home." He told himself. "Mum's fine. She'll walk through the door any minute now."

John stayed on the floor for what felt like hours, knees pulled tight to his chest and his chin resting on them. He listened for the sound of her car pulling up. Every creak of the house, every distant sound from outside made his head snap up, his ears straining for the sound of the front door opening. 

But it never came. 

At some point, he climbed back onto his bed and curled up under the covers, but he didn't turn off his lamp. He tried to read his comic some more, but he couldn't focus on it. Soon, the clock beside him read 10:15. Normally his mum or his father would have been upstairs at 10:00 sharp to tell him goodnight.

John's eyes were heavy, but he forced himself to stay awake, staring at the faint glow of the hallway light under his bedroom door. He heard his father's footsteps again, slower this time, slowly coming up the stairs and down the hall.

When the soft knock came at his door, John sat up, half expecting to see his mum there with his father. The door opened with a quiet creak, and he heard his father sigh as he stepped into the room. 

"John?" His father said softly. 

His father was standing just inside the doorway. He looked tired—more tired than John had ever seen him. His shoulders were slumped, and the lines on his face seemed deeper somehow. 

"It's past your bedtime, son." His father said, his voice gentle but firm. "You need to get to bed."

John hesitated, clutching the edge of his blanket in his small fists. "Where's mum?"

The question hung in the air. His father paused, his lips pressing into a thin line before he spoke. 

"Just running late getting home." His voice was steady, but John could hear the strain behind it, the way it wavered slightly at the edges. "But she'll be home soon, alright?"

He tried to smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. 

John nodded slowly, though the answer didn't ease the knot in his chest. "Okay." 

His father stepped forward, taking John's comic, closing it, and setting it up. He then flicked his lamp off, casting the room into darkness.

"Goodnight, John." He says softly, heading to the doorway.

"Goodnight." John called after him, waiting until his father had stepped out of the room and shut his door before lying down.

He stared up at the ceiling, the sound of his father's footsteps fading down the hallway. Not towards his room, but back downstairs. Occasionally, John could still hear his voice as he made more phone calls.

The next morning, light crept through the thin curtains of John's bedroom, casting faint golden streaks across the walls. He blinked awake slowly, his head heavy, eyes scratchy from a night of broken sleep. For a moment, he thought maybe everything was fine—that he'd wake up, go downstairs, and his mum would be in the kitchen making breakfast, humming to herself as she flipped pancakes. 

John climbed out of bed, his bare feet cold against the wooden floor as he padded to his door and pulled it open. The hallway was quiet, his sisters' rooms still shut tight. They were probably still asleep.

John made his way down the stairs, stopping at the top to listen for the sound of pots clanking together or for his mum's soft voice talking to his father. It was completely silent though. He makes his way down, and when he got to the kitchen, he froze. 

His father was sitting at the table, shoulders hunched over, his hands pressed tightly against his face. A mug of coffee sat in front of him, no steam coming off it and still full. His hair was disheveled, and the lines on his face looked deeper than they had the night before. 

John lingered in the doorway for a moment before stepping inside. "Morning, Dad."

His father flinched slightly, lowering his hands and blinking as if he'd just realized John was there. His eyes were bloodshot, the skin under them purple with exhaustion. "Morning, son." He said quietly, his voice hoarse. "You're up early."

John ignores him and shifts his weight from one foot to the other. "Is Mum back yet?" 

The silence that followed was unbearable. His father didn't answer right away, just stared down at the tabletop, his hands clenched into fists on either side of the empty mug. 

Before he could reply, there was a sharp knock at the front door. 

His father stood up quickly, the chair scraping loudly against the floor as he did. It made John wince slightly.

"Stay here, John." He said firmly, his voice low and uneven. 

John nodded, his feet glued to the floor as he watched his father hurry out of the kitchen. However he didn't stay there long. Curiosity pulled at him, and before he could stop himself, John crept closer to the hallway, peeking around the corner. 

Two police officers stood at the door—a man and a woman, both in crisp uniforms. The male officer had a hat tucked under his arm, while the female officer's hands were folded tightly in front of her. 

His father stood in the doorway, shoulders tense, head slightly bowed. 

"...found her car early this morning," the male officer was saying. His voice was soft. "It appears she lost control and went off the road. She hit a tree. We're... very sorry, Mr. MacTavish." 

John's breath caught in his throat.

"No... No, that's not right."  He could see his father's shoulders stiffen, his jaw tightening as he shook his head slowly. "You must've made a mistake."

The female officer frowns, her eyes holding a sorrow John would never forget. "We're sorry, Mr. Mactavish. It was her."

"Are you sure?" His father asked, voice softer, pleading. "Are you sure she's..."

There's a pause before the officer's answer. "Yes. The paramedics declared her deceased upon arrival. She'd been gone for hours. They believe she died on or shortly after impact."

His father's head dipped lower, one hand coming up to cover his mouth as if he were trying to physically stop the sob that threatened to escape. The female officer stepped forward slightly. "Is there anyone we can call for you? Family? Friends?" 

His father shook his head once, sharp and quick. "No." He rasped, his voice cracking. "No thank you." 

The officers exchanged a glance before the male officer nodded. "We'll... we'll leave you to process this. If you need anything at all, please don't hesitate to reach out." 

His father barely nodded before slowly closing the door. 

John couldn't move. He was trying so hard to process what he'd heard. It had to have been a mistake. His chest tight, his breaths coming quick and shallow. His father stood there in the entryway, his back to John, his head hung low. 

For a moment, everything was completely silent and still.

Then, his father let out a sound—a low, guttural noise, like an animal in pain. His shoulders shook once, twice, before he pressed his hands to his face and stumbled back against the wall, sliding down until he was sitting on the floor. 

John's eyes filled with tears, frozen in place. His father—this strong, unshakable figure in his life—was crumbling right in front of him. 

John couldn't stay silent anymore. A gasping cry left his throat and he took a hesitant step out into the hallway, his small voice breaking the silence. "Dad?"

His father turned slightly, his face pale, his eyes red and brimming with tears he was desperately trying to hold back. A few escaped though, running down his father's cheeks and into his beard.

"What... what were they talking about?" John's voice cracked as he spoke, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths.

"Johnny..." He rasped, his voice raw, fragile. "Your mum... she's... she's umm... there's been an accident. Your mum is... she's dead."

John's vision blurred as his father's words echoed in his head, louder and louder until they drowned out everything else. His chest tightened, his breath caught in his throat, and for a terrifying moment, it felt like he couldn't breathe.

When the air finally forced its way out, it came in a broken, heart-wrenching wail. Tears streamed down his face, hot and endless, his hands clutching his chest like he was trying to hold himself together. He wanted his mum—he wanted her so badly it hurt. He wanted to hear her voice just one more time, to feel her warm embrace, to feel the soft press of her lips on his forehead as she whispered how much she loved him.

But he would never have those things again. The weight of that realization hit him hard, leaving a hollow ache in his chest so raw and so deep it felt unbearable. He crumbled to the floor, sobbing so hard it shook his whole body.

John's father closed the space between them within two strides. He scooped his son up and held him tightly, his large hand cradling the back of his head. John collapsed into him, his face pressed against his father's chest as he trembled and sobbed.

John's world felt like it was shattering around him, each sharp piece cutting into his chest, making it harder to breathe. His mother—his warm, kind, loving mother—was gone.

And nothing would ever be the same again after that.

***

John doesn't remember much of the funeral. Only a few things. A church, a dark wooden casket with white lilies on top of it, and seeing his mum one last time.

He'd arrived at the church about an hour before the service started. He held his father's had as he approached the casket. It was closed at the time.

"Is she in there?" John asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

His father hesitated for a moment, then nodded. "Yes, son. She is."

John swallowed hard, his heart pounding. He stared at the casket, his chest tightening with every second that passed. "Can I see her?"

His father stiffened, his hand gripping John's shoulder a little tighter. "John, I don't think that—"

"Please." John cut him off, his voice trembling. "Please. I want to see her."

For a long moment, his father didn't respond, his face a mask of grief and hesitation. Then, with a heavy sigh, he gave a small nod. "Okay," he said quietly. "Just for a moment, yeah?" His father brushed his cheek softly and then carefully lifted the lid up.

John clenched his jaw as the lid was raised. His heart was pounding so hard. And when he saw her, his body felt numb.

There was his mum, lying inside. They'd tried to make her look peaceful, and for the most part, they had. Her eyes were shut, and she almost looked asleep. But the signs of the accident were still there. Faint cuts lined her pale cheeks and forehead, hidden as best as possible under makeup. A faint bruise marked her temple, dark against her pale skin, but blotted out with makeup.

John's chest heaved as he tried to keep the tears in. He gripped the edge of the casket, his fingers trembling.

His father knelt beside him, wrapping his arms around John and holding him close. "You've been so brave, John." His father murmured, his voice thick with emotion and slightly shaky. "I'm so proud of you and how you've been handling this. And I know your mum would have been too. She loved you so much."

John nods a little, knowing that if he tried to speak he would break down completely. He was still trying to hold himself together.

His father squeezes him tightly again. "It's ok to cry, son." He says softly. "Just let it out. I'm right here."

John squeezes his eyes shut, his body shaking. He presses his forehead against the edge of the casket, takes a shuddery breath, and then sobs.

***

The house had changed in the year since his mum passed.

The first month it seemed like there was always someone at their house. Dropping off food, cards, flowers, always asking how he was doing. He got sick of it. He just wanted to be alone.

Then people stopped showing up and it became suffocatingly quiet—so quiet John could hardly stand it. His father practically turned into a ghost, just drifting through the halls, eyes hollow and shoulders slumped. Meals were eaten in silence, rooms were left half-cleaned, and some days his father barely left the armchair by the fireplace.

Some days it seemed like his father had died in that car accident too. He spend all of his time just sitting and staring off into space. He'd only come around enough to cook occasionally for John and his sisters. And even then "cooking" was just reheating the frozen meals left by the local church. Once those ran out, it was frozen pizzas or takeout.

Then his father began to spend more and more time at the local bar. There were many days where he'd be gone from sun up until sun down and return home absolutely wasted. John got used to coming home and finding him passed out on the floor in the hallway. He learned to go in through the back door so his sisters didn't have to see it.

That went on for a few months. John hated his father drunk. But then one day, everything changed. His father suddenly stopped going to the bar, he started getting up in the mornings, his eyes got clearer and his smile returned. The distant, hollow man who had drifted through their lives was slowly replaced by someone familiar—someone John remembered. There was a warmth about him that hadn't been there in what felt like forever. 

It was... nice. They started doing things together again—little things, like actually cooking, going to the market together, watching movies. It felt like a piece of the life they'd once had was coming back. John didn't even think to question the sudden change; he was too caught up in the joy of having his father back. For the first time in a long time, it felt like they might be okay.

School had just started up, putting John back into a somewhat normal routine. His sister, Rowan, was also starting school that year and joined him and Eilidh, his other sister, on their walk to school each morning. They were about four weeks in now, and John was starting to feel happy for the first time since the accident.

Walking home from school one afternoon, John was half listening as Eilidh and Rowan rambled on about something that happened in class. As they approached their house, John noticed a car pulled up next to his father's. He didn't think much of it at first, but as they stepped inside, he could hear a woman's laughter coming from the kitchen.

John's brows furrowed. Normally having visitors wouldn't have been a big deal, but it's been ages since they'd had anyone over. Even Eilidh and Rowan seemed off put by the foreign voice.

"Who's here?" Eilidh asks John softly, making John shrug a shoulder.

"Dunno." He mutters as he starts down the hallway to the kitchen.

As he got closer, he could start to make out his father talking and laughing. It was a kind of laugh that John hadn't heard in nearly a year.

He stops abruptly as he rounds the corner and looks into the kitchen causing Eilidh to bump into his back with a small "oof." There was his father, sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee in his hands and smiling at a woman who was seated next to him. Not in just any chair though. It was the chair where his mum had always sat.

She was perched gracefully, a steaming mug of tea cradled in her hands. Her blonde hair cascaded in soft, perfect waves over her shoulders, not a strand out of place. Her makeup was subtle but polished, enhancing sharp green eyes that flicked up to meet his the second she noticed him standing in the doorway.

She was smiling. Not a wide, toothy grin, but something small and pleasant, as if she were trying to seem gentle—approachable. She wore a pale cream blouse tucked into some dark skinny jeans, her nails painted a soft pink.

His father was smiling, too. Not the broken, distant man John had grown used to over the past year, but someone... lighter. It was almost like the dad he remembered before the accident, a version of him that had only just started to come a little bit ago. This woman seemed to enhance it though. It should've been a good thing, but it made John's stomach twist uncomfortably.

"Oh, here they are now!" His father exclaimed, making John look away from the woman and towards him. "Come in. There's someone I'd like you to meet." 

John didn't move at first, but Eilidh obediently stepped around him and into the kitchen a little ways, Rowan following after her. Their eyes were curious as they looked between their father and the woman.

His father's smile grew softer as he gestured between them. "Annette, this is my son John, and these wee ones here are Eilidh and Rowan. Eilidh is my eldest daughter and Rowan is the middle of the girls."

Annette's eyes crinkled at the corners as she turned her attention on them. "Oh, you're just as lovely as your father said." She cooed, her voice syrupy sweet. "Eilidh is such a pretty name and I love your blonde curls, Rowan."

Eilidh said a soft thank you, and Rowan ducks her head slightly, taking a step towards John and tucking into his side. It makes his father chuckle.

"Rowan is a little shy." He explains, and John notices as his father places a hand on Annette's shoulder.

Annette just giggles slightly, looking back at his father and placing her hand over his. The exchange is quick, and Annette is turning her attention to John now, their eyes meeting. "And it's nice to meet you as well, John. I've heard a lot about you. Your father speaks so highly of you." She looks back to his father once more, giving him a bright smile.

John narrows his eyes slightly, quickly piecing together what their relationship was. He hoped he was wrong. "And you are? I haven't heard a thing about you." He shoots his father a look as he says it, making the couple look back at him.

John's father clears his throat. "This is Annette." He says, gesturing towards her. "We've been... spending some time together. She's a friend." 

John's eyes darted between his father and the woman—Annette. Spending time together. He wasn't stupid. He knew exactly what his father meant. 

"So you replaced mum that fast huh." He says bitterly. Annette's eyes widened and John's father's eyes narrowed.

"John Alexander!" His father barks, making both him and his sisters jump. "I am not replacing your mother."

The force behind his father's words hangs heavy in the kitchen, sharp enough to cut through the tension. John's shoulders are tight, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

"Could've fooled me." He mutters bitterly under his breath, but loud enough for both of them to hear it.

"John..." Annette speaks up softly, her voice sickeningly sweet. "I know this must be so hard for you, sweetheart. Losing your mum, trying to adjust to everything... but I'm not here to take her place."

"Don't!" John snaps, his voice sharp and trembling with restrained anger. "Don't you talk about her. You don't know her. You don't know us."

Annette flinches at his words, and Rowan starts to sniffle, but before John can even register either reaction, his father slams his fist onto the table. The loud, sudden bang makes Rowan clutch tightly at his sleeve, and she starts to cry.

"John!" His father's voice cracks through the air again, sharper this time. His face is flushed, and there's a glint of something unreadable in his eyes—anger and disappointment. "You will not speak to Annette like that! She has done nothing to deserve this attitude from you."

John scoffs, his eyes filling with tears, but he's blinking them back. "Whatever." He growls out, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. "But just because you're replacing mum doesn't mean I'm going to."

His father points towards the hallway, his voice low and firm. "Go upstairs! Now. Take your schoolwork and don't come down until I tell you. We will talk about this later."

John tugs his arm free of Rowan's grasp, making her cry harder, and he turns, quickly running up the stairs towards his room. His vision starts to blur, and he angrily wipes away any tears that fall.

Once in his room, he slammed his door shut and threw his bag down, his body shaking slightly. He never fought with his dad. At least not from what he could remember. And he was so mad at him for bringing this new person into their lives without even a heads up.

He goes to his bed, but he's not alone for too long. He can hear Rowan's sobs getting louder as she nears his door, and then his doorknob starts to jiggle as she opens it. She walks in, eyes red and cheeks already puffy.

"Go away, Rowan!" He snaps, being a little more harsh than he meant to be, but he wanted to be alone.

"But Johnny..." She sobs, hiccuping softly and taking shallow shuddery breaths. She gets closer, trying to climb up onto his bed with him.

John pushes her away though, his hand on her chest to keep her back. "Stop! Go away!" He yells again.

His father comes in next, his face still fuming. "Rowan, come on! Get out of your brother's room." He picks her up, which just makes her cry more as he carries her out and shuts his door. Her cries get softer, but he can still hear her through the walls.

Ten minutes crawled by. John sat on the edge of his bed still, staring at the floor, his jaw clenched so tightly it hurt. His hands balled into fists, resting against his knees as he tried to steady his breathing. He was still angry.

His door opened once more, and John half expected to see his dad, but instead it was Eilidh this time.

"Johnny?" She says softly, almost hesitantly.

He glares at her. "Get out." He growls. "I want to be alone! Stop coming in here!"

"Why are you so upset? Dad said they were just friends." She says innocently, making John sigh and turn to face her.

"They aren't 'just friends' you dobber! They're dating." Saying those words left a bitter taste in his mouth. "He's replacing mum is what he's doing."

Eilidh frowns at him, her brows pinching together as she crosses her arms. "Don't call me a dobber! You're being really mean!" Her lip starts to tremble.

John lets out a frustrated groan. "Well you're being annoying!" He throws back.

"Stop being such a moany git!" She shouts back, tears filling her eyes now as she turns and runs out of his room.

John's angry only lasted a few more seconds, quickly being replaced with guilt. Now he'd upset two of his sisters, and he really didn't like making them upset. He lets out a frustrated groan and sinks into his bed, more hot tears filling his eyes.

***

It was a few hours before Annette finally left. John could hear as his father walked her to the door and as they said their goodbyes. Right after that, his father's footsteps started up the stairs and were soon right outside his door. There was a soft knock, and then his father came in, making John pull his blanket up more around himself.

"John." His father said softly, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. "We need to talk." 

John didn't respond. He hoped his father would just think that he was sleeping or something and leave him alone.

His father sighed, rubbing a hand over his face before sitting down on the edge of the bed. John still didn't move.

"I know you're upset." His father started, his voice low and measured, the way he always spoke when he was trying to stay calm. "And I understand why. But you've got to believe me when I say... Annette isn't here to replace your mum." 

John snapped at that, his face twisting with anger as he sat up. "Then why is she here?" He spat.

His father flinched, his shoulders stiffening at John's words. "John, listen to me—" 

"No!" John shouted, his voice cracking slightly. "You don't get it! It hasn't even been a year! You're acting like mum never even mattered. Like we can just move on and be happy again!"

His father's mouth opened slightly, but no words came out. For a long moment, he just stared at John, his lips pressed into a thin line, his eyes glassy. 

"That's not true." His father said finally, his voice trembling slightly. "Your mum... she mattered more to me than anything in this world. And when she—when she was taken from us, it felt like the world stopped turning." 

John's throat tightened, and his father continued. 

"For months, John, I could barely get out of bed. I couldn't sleep, I couldn't eat—I couldn't breathe without feeling like I was drowning."

John looked away, his vision blurring with tears. "You didn't even ask us. You didn't even tell us. You just... brought her here. Like we'd just be ok with it." 

His father's face fell, and he looked down at his hands, clasped tightly together. "You're right," he said softly. "I should've talked to you first. I should've explained it better. I didn't want to hurt you, John, I swear it.

But Annette... she helped me feel... normal again. She reminded me that there's still something left to hold onto. That maybe—just maybe—it's okay to let myself smile again. To be... happy." 

John shook his head, hot tears spilling down his cheeks. "But I'm not happy. I just want mum back. I don't want anyone else."

John's father sighs heavily, his voice wavering just slightly. "I know. I wish more than anything that your mum was still here."

John sniffled, wiping his face roughly with the sleeve of his shirt. His father reached over to his desk and grabbed a tissue, offering it to him.

"I'm not asking you to like her. I'm not asking you to accept her right now. But I am asking you to give her a chance. For me." 

John took the tissue and used it to blow his nose and wiped his eyes one more time. "And if I don't like her?" He questions, looking back over to his father.

He's silent for a moment before he answers. "She's not gonna be your new mum if you don't want that. Just think about what I've said, alright? We'll have dinner with her in a week or so. You can get to know her better then. Who knows? You might find you like her."

The answer didn't really sit well with John—it felt like avoiding the question entirely—but being so young, he didn't have the words to argue. He was tired. With a heavy sigh, his shoulders sagged, and he gave a reluctant nod.

His father offered a small, encouraging smile, squeezing his shoulder firmly. "That's my boy." He murmured before standing up and heading toward the door. He paused in the doorway, turning back to look at John.

"I love you, son. You and your sisters. I only want what's best for you."

John forced a faint smile. "I love you too." He replied, his voice soft. His father returned the smile before stepping out and closing the door behind him.

As soon as the latch clicked, the smile fell from John's face. He lay back on his bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. His chest still felt heavy. He didn't want Annette in their lives, but he trusted his father. If he said she wasn't going to replace his mum, he had to believe him.

If he couldn't trust his father, who was he going to trust.

***

The MacTavish family began to see a lot more of Annette after that. It started with her coming over once a week—always with a warm smile, always with some little treat or compliment ready for the girls and him. Then it became twice a week. Then almost every dinner. 

John tried to be on his best behavior around her. He still wasn't sold on having her around, but he was at least trying for his father. He smiled at Annette and said hi whenever she was around. Spoke to her when she spoke to him, but he wasn't one to start the conversation.

Eilidh was quickly warming up to her, and so was Rowan. Kirsten, only being three going on four at the time, didn't even really know what was going on, but she modeled her behavior after her siblings.

John wanted to tell his father that he still didn't want Annette in their lives, but how could he? The way his dad smiled at Annette—an easy, effortless smile he hadn't seen since before his mother died— how could he possibly ruin that? His father seemed to think Annette made their lives better, and for everyone but John, it looked to be true.

Then, only a few months later, his father sat them all down in the living room. John immediately knew something was off; his father couldn't stop fidgeting. Annette sat beside him, her hand resting lightly on his knee, her smile soft and hesitant. They kept sharing looks, they kept grinning at each other.

"We have some news." His father said, glancing at Annette before clearing his throat. "Annette and I... we've decided to get married." 

John's heart plummeted. His stomach felt like it was folding in on itself, and his hands balled into fists against his knees. He couldn't say anything. He couldn't even breathe. He just sat there silent and stone-faced.

His sisters gasped and started to cheer, their faces lighting up with excitement. They were already asking if they'd get to be in the wedding, if they got to be flower girls.

They looked so happy—his sisters beaming, his father smiling wider than he had in months. How could he ruin this for them?

"Johnny, what do you think?" Annette's voice cut into his thoughts, soft but expectant. She was looking at him now, her head tilted slightly, a carefully practiced smile on her lips. His father looked at him too, waiting for his answer.

Forcing a smile onto his face, John tried to push down the storm of emotions threatening to spill out. "That's... great news." He muttered, the words tasting bitter.

Maybe it wasn't going to be the worst this. At least everyone looked happy.

The weeks after that announcement were a blur. Plans were made, and it was decided that they'd have a small ceremony—just them, at a tiny church on the outskirts of town. 

The day came far too quickly. John stood stiffly in a button-up shirt that felt too tight around his neck, his hands jammed into his pockets as he watched his father and Annette exchange vows at the altar. Eilidh, Rowan, and Kristen stood beside him, clutching tiny bouquets and wearing their Sunday Easter dresses.

When the minister reached the words "speak now or forever hold your peace", John's heart pounded in his chest. For one brief moment, he thought about saying something—about shouting out how much he didn't want his dad to marry her.

But he didn't. He stayed silent. 

When it was over, when Annette became Annette MacTavish, John felt defeated.

Annette moved in a day later. She breezed through their entire home, "tidying up" the place to make room for her things. In reality, she was boxing up all his mum's things and shoving them into a closet under the stairs.

His mum's clothes were taken out of his dad's room to make room for hers. The kitchen cabinets and draws were rearranged to hold her glassware. Decorations were taken down and replaced with Annette's little trinkets. A shelf that held his mother's keepsakes was cleared to make room for Annette's books. Even the smell of their home was different. Her perfume polluted the halls.

The house felt different now. Like it wasn't theirs anymore—it was hers. 

Only about a week after the wedding, John's father sat them all down again. 

"Annette and I are going to go away for a little while." He said carefully. "Just a short trip, a honeymoon. You'll all be staying with Mrs. McKay while we're gone. It'll only be for a week, alright?" 

John didn't answer. He just nodded stiffly. 

The morning before they left, everyone was bustling around the house, packing bags and gathering the things they needed. John was in his room, stuffing clothes into a duffel bag when Annette appeared in the doorway. 

"John?" She said sweetly, dropping a bunch of suitcases and bags on the floor in the hallway. "Would you take these downstairs for me?" 

John didn't even look up from his packing. "No." He answers shortly. She was perfectly capable to taking her own bags down. And John wasn't even packed yet because he'd been helping his sisters pack.

There was a brief silence before Annette spoke again, her voice tight. "Excuse me?" 

His father appeared a moment later, catching the tail end of the exchange. "What's going on?" He asks, looking between her and John.

Annette straightened up, putting on the smile she always wore. "I was just asking if John would help me carrying a few bags downstairs and he told me no."

"John." He said softly. "Help your stepmother out and-" 

John never tensed up so quickly in his entire life. That was the thing that finally broke him after weeks of holding everything in. He turns around quickly, his eyes blazing with anger. "She's not my mother!" He spat. 

The room went silent. Annette's expression flickered—something cold and sharp flashing in her eyes before she quickly smoothed it over with a small, hurt frown. 

"You know. It's ok, Ewan." She says, her voice taking a slightly whiny pitch. "He's not ready to accept me yet, and... and it's ok. I'll take the bags down myself." She started to fan her eyes a little, like she was about to cry, but John didn't see any tears. With a shuddery breath, she picks up a single bag and walks quickly down the hall.

"Annette! Darling, he didn't mean anything by-" His father sighs heavily, and then turns his gaze back to John. "Dammit, John, you've made her upset."

"You said she wasn't going to be my mother." He reminds his father sharply, stuffing more of his clothes into the duffle bag.

"I didn't say she was your mother. I told you to help your step-mother. It's different." His father says, making John roll his eyes.

"I don't want to call her that either." He growls.

"That's enough! When we get back from our trip you better have that attitude of yours sorted out!" His father shouts, making John flinch just slightly.

John holds his tongue, and just continues packing in silence. When he doesn't say anything more, his father grumbles and starts to pick up the remaining suitcases to carry them down. John bites his cheek to keep from crying.

***

Two and a half weeks go by before his father and Annette come back. They were only suppose to be gone for one. John almost liked the time away from them though. So when his father's car comes rolling up Mrs. McKay's dirt driveway, kicking up a cloud of dust behind them, he's almost disappointed.

Still, when Eilidh shrieked, "Daddy's home!" and bolted out the front door, Rowan right on her heels, John couldn't stop himself from running after them.

His father had just stepped out of the car by the time the three MacTavish kids reached him. John clung to his father first, his arms wrapped tightly around his neck as Eilidh and Rowan squished in behind him.

His father's strong arms held them all, his voice warm and affectionate as he kissed each of their heads. "Ah, I missed my wee ones so much." He said, fluffing up John's hair.

Eilidh giggled. "We missed you too, daddy!" She said, her small hands clutching the front of his jacket.

John leans into his father, letting himself relax a bit. It was nice to see his dad again, even if part of him had started enjoying the quiet without Annette around.

"Don't forget about me!"

Speaking of Annette. She came running around the other side of the car, arms outstretched.

John felt his father shift him to one side, making room for Annette to wrap herself around the group. She squeezed them all tightly, her perfume strong and floral, making John's nose wrinkle.

"Oh, I missed you all so much!" She cooed. "I couldn't wait to get back just to see you guys!"

John rolls his eyes a little at that. Sure. She was so anxious to get back to them she ended up extending their trip by a whole week.

"Were you kids good for Mrs. McKay?" His father asks, standing back up straight as Mrs. McKay walked out holding Kristen, who was squealing and kicking happily.

"Oh they were a joy." Mrs. McKay says, handing over the youngest MacTavish to his father. "Absolute angels the entire time."

His dad beamed with pride as he takes Kristen and coos at her softly. "I'm glad to hear they were well behaved. Thank you again for being able to watch them." He wraps his arm around John again.

"Anytime, Ewan. They really are great kids. Malina would be so proud."

John perks up at that. That was his mum's name. His real mum. He glances up at his father to see his reaction, and he's pretty sure his father's eyes look a little misty at the mention of her.

"Well, you know, I'm convinced that's all her doing. She was an amazing woman."

"Kids, let's get everything loaded up, shall we?" Annette says suddenly with a bright smile.

John blinked, his gaze snapping from his dad to Annette. Mrs. McKay hesitated, just for a moment, glancing between Annette and John's father. Her warm expression faltered briefly, but she quickly smiled and nodded. "Yes, you kids should grab your things." She agreed, her tone a bit softer now. "I'll help you carry them out."

John shuffled toward the house with Eilidh, Rowan, and Mrs. McKay trailing behind. About halfway, he glances back, seeing Annette and his father talking. Annette's arms were crossed over her chest.

Once inside, they quickly gathered their bags. It didn't take too long as their stuff had been piled by the door earlier that morning. By the time they were back outside, Annette was back to beaming her bright smile, and his father was putting Kristen in a car seat.

The bags were thrown into the trunk, they all said one last thank you and goodbye to Mrs. McKay, and then everyone piled into the car, buckled up, and they were on their way home.

Annette immediately launched into a full telling of their honeymoon. She described the warm beaches, the fancy dinners, and the "cute little boutique" where she found the new necklace she was wearing.

She talked the entire trip home, not once stopping to ask about them. John just stared out the window, resting his head on the glass and trying to shut most of it out.

They were only fifteen minutes from home, but it was a long car trip.

@the-faceless-bride @venavanup @hotthankss @daemondoll @thepowers-kat-be @xheera

[sigh-tofm]

when they come home drunk…

… price

- thinks it’s important that he loudly tells you he’s married while you steady him upstairs to bed. points to his ring incessantly, slurs on and on about his perfect wonderful wife with the big ass and soft tummy. you roll your eyes and can’t help but smile when he doesn’t let you hold on to his arm to support him. something about protecting his virtue for his wife, as if you’re not standing right beside him. proceeds to lock you out of your own bedroom when you finally get upstairs, telling you his wife will be home soon so he can’t have a strange woman in their bedroom (but still remarks on your wonderful ass). you decide it’s too early in the morning to persuade your drunk husband to let you in, so you go down to sleep on the couch. you wake up with price sleeping soundly on the floor beside you, having gone to find his wife when she never showed up in his bed the night before.

… kyle

- gets sappy and apologises for being away. loses all concept of time when he’s drunk, says he’s sorry, he didn’t mean to be away so long, he was thinking of you the whole time, the guys pulled him along and he couldn’t say no. while he’s on his knees at your feet, pressing his face to your thighs and mumbling into your marbled skin, almost making you lose your balance with his fervent apologies, you gently remind him that you were the one who made him go out with the boys because he needed to unwind after a stressful weekend of combat drills, and that he had left with them less than two hours ago. he refuses to hear and only hugs your thighs closer, so much so that you have to support yourself on the wall. turns out all he needed to relax was you.

… johnny

- is horny. almost starts drooling when he eyes you at the top of the stairs, after struggling to close the entrance door for a good minute, causing you to investigate what made all the noise. gets a wild look in his eyes when he sees you in just his t-shirt and makes you scream and giggle as he chases you back up the stairs and to the bedroom. being absolutely shitfaced, he has the coordination of a tranquillised moose and stumbles head over heels across the floor, catches his foot on the doorway and narrowly misses the edge of the dresser with his head as he falls. still, his little soldier is courageously tenting his pants when you worriedly lean over him and he gets a good look right into the collar of your shirt.

… simon

- is emotional and clingy. can’t get enough of you, won’t leave you alone. you can’t make out half his words when he’s had this much to drink (and the mancunian in him breaks out too, making it ever harder to make out the words), but you play along, smile and nod and let him sit on the closed toilet seat and talk and talk while you do your night routine in front of the mirror. so lucky to have you, luv. how could’a lug like me get a pretty one like you, luv. his melancholy statements of love become comfortable background noise for you as you remove your makeup and apply moisturiser. lets you wash the sweat and grime of the day off his face with a washcloth, closes his eyes while you massage your floral-scented moisturiser into his skin, never once stopping his little speech. ambles after you out of the bathroom, holding on to the hem of your shirt, when you’re all finished and ready for bed. his devoted mutters only let up when be falls asleep next to you.

[bi-writes]

okay...what about surprise pregnancy but you aren't sure whose it is? (18+, ghoap x f!reader babytrap)

you come crying to simon, so embarrassed when you see johnny there, too. they coax you to sit down, standing side by side, and you explain through sputters and soft tears that you're pregnant, and you're so sorry, you're even more sorry because you're not sure if it's johnny's baby or simon's baby.

you didn't cheat, you never put labels on anything, you thought you were just having fun, but now they're finding out at the same time that you were sleeping around, and you were totally irresponsible--

you freeze, hiccuping when you notice that simon and johnny aren't even looking at you anymore. simon has a gloved hand in johnny's hair, wrapping those thick fingers into his mohawk and pulling until johnny's neck snaps back, and he's baring his throat to simon.

"mmm..." simon growls a little, and your lip trembles when simon hikes his mask up to lick over johnny's cheek before kissing him wet and sloppy. "good boy. olways doin' as y'r told..."

you squeeze your legs together when simon cups your jaw, drawing you closer. he fits a thumb into your mouth to soothe you, and johnny coos as he brushes your hair out of your eyes. it was a team effort, after all, no need to fret.

don't you know it takes two to make a baby?

[skauni]

Can’t stop thinking about Soap calling himself ‘Uncle Johnny’ around your kids but they consider him a dad because that’s how he acts:

When your friend John MacTavish found out that your boyfriend dumped you after you got pregnant, he was right by your side for all of it. Saying “Dunnae worry, Bonny. Uncle Johnny’s gonna help with the wee bairns.”

And he did. He was there the whole pregnancy, even went as far as moving in so you could rest and he could keep an eye on you.

When you went into labor, he was there. He was there for everything. From the birth of your twins, Aster and Cody, to the sleepless nights after, he was there. You even heard him in the middle of the night telling them “Dunnae worry wee ones, Uncle Johnny’s here. Nothin’ t’fear.” And you loved how dedicated he was to helping you.

When the boys got old enough to talk, you were unfortunate enough to witness the fact that they spoke their first words in Scottish accents. Just like John. It wasn’t bad, it just meant you had a hard time understanding them is all.

When you couldn’t watch them, he would. Saying “Let Uncle Johnny watch the wee lads.”

But, as soon as the boys called him ‘Dad’ for the first time, he looked at you eagerly and said “I suppose Uncle Johnny is becoming the Papa of these wee lads, aye Bonny?” He said to you. You blushed at the comment and looked away in flustered embarrassment.

[metallictastinglifesupportliquid]

Y/N: Why are you following me? Ghost: Because we're dating now Y/N: Ok... what about Johnny? Ghost: We're a package deal Johnny: Buy one idiot, get one free

[luxcuriousao3]

Imagining another angsty and implausible scenario with the 141 cuz why not.

The 141 goes undercover and meet you, a sweet little thing who has no idea what the people she works for actually do. Think oblivious hostess at a restaurant that's actually a mafia front. And fuck if you're not a distraction, greeting them with a pretty smile every morning, asking about their day, offering to help whatever task they have to do. (They've been ordered to go kill a few someones. You were thinking more along the lines of fetching the tea while they did paper work). Johnny definitely fucks you at some point. He can't help himself. Dog with a bone, that one.

Cue their cover being blown, and when more traditional methods of torture prove unsuccessful, your boss decides to use their fondness for you against them.

And thus begins one of my favorite tropes, "being tortured in front of your love interest."

[gofishygo]

no but what if reader sacrifices themself for soap in the tunnel... (implied ghoap, ghoap x reader; mcd, reader has very low self esteem, reader probably has depression, mw3 spoilers)

you know how important he is to ghost. everybody does- it's hard to not notice that they are practically symbiotic- feeding off of each other's laughs, near inseparable. you never see one without the other.

and compared to him, you are nothing more than a burden to the team, you figure. you do not carry soap's explosive force, the intensity in his eyes, nor do you have half of ghost's expertise in sniping, do not carry any of his mystique. you dont- you dont deserve a second glance, much less any of their kindness. your fascination, you like to call it, towards johnny and ghost, it should be hidden under your tongue, clandestine and invisible.

nobody gets a say in how quickly you are to establish yourself as the wallflower of the 1-4-1. and by the time of mw3, nobody gets to intercept how you manage to run solo in a team, no matter how much they try to reach out. they have each other. why would they ever need you?

so in that clammy, chilling tunnel, your reactions to such an ambush are second nature- you shut down the moment johnny's shoulder is shot. tackling the enemy- the movement is so instantaneous and blurry that you do not realise that said enemy is makarov himself-onto the asphalt and plunging your knife in and out of him until the muzzle of a gun presses against your head and it's bullet lodges into the back of your brain. you die instantly, silently, not hearing how johnny screams your name instead of your callsign, how simon, for the first time, seems uncoordinated, desperate like a dog as he fumbles to revive you. you had never thought that they cared, never believed they would look at you with reprocipricated admiration. and moments before you die, you realise that you will never know how much of a presence you were in their lives, and you close your eyes knowing that they will be okay together. but you arent around long enough to see how they crumble, and you die with the belief that in this world, you are none other than a replacement. you never seem to stay around long enough to see how simon, johnny, love you.

and you never will.

[willowed-wisp]

bathtime with ghost, soap and könig

Please bear with my random thoughts again lol

Simon ‘GHOST’ Riley:

- Until he met you, he was a shower guy

- Still is but loves to have baths with you

- It’s the only time he truly feels he could sleep

- You’re waking him up every few minutes, hugging his under his arms and head in the gap of his shoulder blades

- It’s where he’s most peaceful

- But, he will deflate a rubber duck if it comes anywhere near him.

- Simon ain’t playing around- bathtime is serious

- He loves to face you- him faucet end. He just loves your face to be able to the body of the person he loves most in the wretched world he continues to save

- There’s a sad look in your eyes, washing his face paint off after he gets back from deployment… “What’s wrong, love?”

- “I hate seeing you so tired…” On the verge of tears, his arms wrapped around you. He’d let you bawl there for hours on end as long as you were safe.

- That’s why he wore the mask- he couldn’t watch you in the same position as he found himself. “You’re a trooper, y’know that, right?” He’ll say in your hairline. Leaving a peck on your forehead.

- Expect gentle sex from Simon that night, and every night he gets home to you.

Johnny ‘SOAP’ MacTavish:

- Loves, loves, LOVES bath bombs.

- He’s like a child, honestly

- Actually lets your wash his hair in the bath, never in the shower

- It helps him relax especially after being deployed- he needs an exit back to his civilian life… he not ashamed if a hair wash from his love is the way to do that

- Loves being little spoon in the bath, and a massage with some natural oils

- He has his own rubber ducky

- And has been known to smuggle hot chocolate with cream and marshmallows into bathtime… sometimes ending up in the bath…

- But he denies he was the cause of that disaster

KÖNIG:

- He’s a big guy and has a massive bathtub to cater for his long legs and broad stature

- Love having you in between his legs in the bath- giving you bedroom eyes behind your back.

- Massages you, surprisingly gentle at it and washes your hair so delicately. Leaving kisses down your neck and on top of your head

- Adores bubble baths, has little fights with you. Normally he concedes- your his treasure.

- Likes bath bombs especially when they fizzle in his hands. You fight over who gets to hold it

- As much as he loves washing your hair, he enjoys your fingers working their way through his own.

- Such a teddy bear, will fall asleep on top of you in bed and you will love every moment you have your big guy there in your arms

————

masterlist

[ceilidho]

'still wakes the deep' au

prompt: You're an environmental scientist conducting research on an off-shore oil rig with only a few days left before you're slated to leave. The eldritch creature they accidentally awaken throws a wrench in the works. Trouble Brewing masterlist

-

“Shit,” you huff, leaning back in your chair and crossing your arms over your chest, annoyance bleeding into your words as your frustration finally comes to a boil. 

“What’s th’ matter?” Roper, another rig worker, asks. He’s taken to sitting with you in the lounge whenever his breaks line up with yours, one of the few men to not treat you with barely concealed disdain. You can't deny that it's nice to have company.

“Nothing—I think I may have accidentally contaminated the samples. None of this looks right.” 

By this, you mean the papers spread out on the coffee table in front of you—print-outs of the water sample analyses. You’ve been staring at them for far too long, eyes practically burning after your tenth consecutive read through. 

Almost everything in the sample analysis looks off. The alkalinity, the pH, the temperature, the CO2 and H2S levels—even the microbiological parameters are far exceeded. At some point, you must have accidentally contaminated the samples; only in a worse case scenario, such as a massive oil leak, would you expect to see numbers like these, and you would know if that were the case. It would be immediately obvious not only by the distress spreading like a miasma through the rig, but simply by looking at the water crashing against the jacket legs beneath you. 

There’s something else too. Something in the samples that you’ve never seen before—almost like a faint iridescence to the water, a shimmer so light that it’s almost not perceptible to your eye. 

So it can’t be that. You must’ve done something wrong when collecting your samples from the discharge point. It’s frustrating to know that the work you’ve done so far has been basically for nothing, seeing as how you’ll have to do it all over again in order to get a fresh batch of samples, but you just remind yourself that these things happen. It could always be worse. 

A reminder of that appears right before your eyes when a guy on the other side of the lounge opens his trap and says to Roper, “Ye hear about MacTavish?”

Your ears perk up. Roper must notice because he just grins. “Na—what happened?”

The other man whistles through his teeth. “‘Twas a shit storm. Heard about it from O’Connor.”

“Och, spit it out, will ye? Quit keeping us in suspense.” 

“A’richt, just dinnae tell him ah tellt ye—‘ah swear he’ll take someone's head off at this rate.”

The men whisper and titter about it all afternoon—how MacTavish got dragged into the rig manager’s office and ripped into over some offshore antics (fightin’—near broke a guy’s jaw for mouthing off tae him, one crew member tells you surreptitiously, again reinforcing the gossiping hen opinion you’d already formed of them). You’re not exactly shocked by the news, but the quiet that comes over the rig in his absence is a bit jarring. 

Coming across him in the aftermath of the incident is, however, far more shocking. 

You see him first from across the mess scowling into his food, a dark cloud hanging over him. His usual roguish countenance is swapped for something more choleric, foul-tempered. It’s incongruous with the image you have of him in your head, the one that sees him as eternally cheery; cocksure and braggadocious. 

Roper warns you in no uncertain terms to give Soap a wide berth if you happen to come across him.

You cock a brow at that. “You think he’d hurt someone?”

“Na, tis nae like that. It wasn’y his fault that someone else wanted tae have a pissing contest. The lad’s just got an ill temper is all. He’ll gallus aff eventually—juist best nae tae git in his way until then.” 

No sense in trying to decipher what he means by that. You have a job to do anyway and the issue with your samples weighs far more heavily on your mind than Soap’s bad mood. 

Still, you recognize it as a distant cause for concern. Every so often it dawns on you how far you are from civilization—out in the middle of the North sea, surrounded by nothing but waves and men with voracious appetites. You grit your teeth and bear a lot as it is; unsavory comments and blatant stares, the kind of thing that registers as an ever present, unsung threat that you are impelled to ignore lest it be mentioned. Lest it be given a name.  

Soap’s bad mood might not be something you have to worry about, but still you acknowledge that you should probably keep your distance for the time being. At least until his pride is mended and he’s back to his old self. 

These days, you’re never allowed what you want though.

You’re around the bend of a hallway when you hear him coming, his distinctive thick brogue snapping at another crew member. Though your heart immediately starts pounding against your chest, there’s nothing you can do; the corridor behind you is too long to run back down without being seen and there aren’t any rooms to sneak into and use as cover. All you can do is stand there with your heart in your throat as he gets closer and closer. 

The sharp dogleg in the hall keeps him from seeing you until he’s already on you, nearly plowing into you before catching himself at the last minute, a big hand slamming against the wall beside you to stop him mid-step. You flinch despite anticipating him. 

“Jesus, bonnie, I didn’y see ye there. Make a bit o’ noise or somethin’,” Soap says, more brusque than he’s ever spoken to you before. 

“Sorry,” you mumble, attempting to sidestep him. 

“Ach, wait, ‘ah dinnae mean tae snap. Where are ye off tae?” he asks, stepping with you to the right so that you can’t pass around him. He’s quick enough that you walk straight into him, crushing your nose against his chest and wincing when you take a step back and wriggle it out. A hand clamps down on your shoulder to keep you from scurrying off any farther. 

“Um…I have some things to do.”

“Things?” he repeats, waiting for you to elaborate.

“I have work. Didn’t mean to get in your way.”

“Ah’m no’ an animal, bonnie; ye dinnae have to run off jus’ because ah’m in a mood.”

“I’m not running off—I really do have work to do, Soap. That’s why I’m here, remember?” You realize that he must like it when you get snippy with him because the second you do, his lips stretch into a grin, blue eyes glinting. 

“Want some help?” he asks. 

“Um…” 

Irritation clouds his expression. “Ah’m no’ gonna flip out if that’s what yer worried about. That shit with Rennick had nothing tae do with my work.”

That shifts the guilt around in you and gives it a bigger hole to wedge itself in. “…Sure. I guess I could use a hand.” 

“Now, ye aren't just asking tae make me feel better, are ye? ‘Cause ah’m a big boy; I willnae cry if ye let me down gently.”

“Oh my god, Soap, do you want to help me or not?” you snap. 

His grin widens, a new little mischievous furl to it. “Well, ye dinnae have tae beg, bonnie. Ah’d be happy tae help ye out.”

Of course it was nothing but a ploy for him to rile you up and get you to be the one to ask for help. 

Back to the discharge point to collect fresh water samples. Soap doesn’t stop talking the whole walk, the onslaught of questions about your personal life and his own life offshore enough to make your ears ring. No chance of peace and quiet—not with him around, anyway. 

On your way up a flight of stairs, you peek back at him to find him climbing with his hands on both railings. You’re not sure if it’s to keep you from slipping away or to keep himself stable, but if you were a bettor, you know which you’d pick. 

Soap grins toothily up at you. You roll your eyes in response and turn back around, climbing up the last few steps. The ocean’s ever tempestuous winds howl in the distance. 

For all your initial reluctance to let him help you, he proves to be a pretty useful assistant, helping you flush the sample point beforehand and then holding your equipment as you carefully fill and cap each sample bottle. 

He’s such a help in fact, that part of you feels a bit guilty for the way you treated him earlier. Like a ticking time bomb. Wouldn’t you also be upset after being told off by your boss? You have the luxury of not really reporting to anyone on the rig—so long as you send your boss daily updates on the progress of your work and follow safety and security regulations on the rig, you never worry about being reprimanded. Certainly not yelled at. 

You’re also surrounded by strangers for the most part, which, while sometimes alienating, also means that you’re not particularly invested in what anyone has to say about you. These aren’t your coworkers. In a couple weeks’ time, you’ll be flown back to shore and you’ll never see any of them ever again. 

The walk back to your room-cum-office is different. Soap follows behind you quietly for a change, your additional samples in hand, and only the sound of his steel-toed boots clanging against the floor remind you that he’s still with you. You didn’t think he had it in him to stay quiet for so long. 

He follows in after you when you reach your room, not bothering to wait outside like anyone with common sense would. It would be more aggravating if he weren’t so handsome. It’s hard to look at him and hold on to any real anger though. 

“I—uh—I’m sorry you had a rough day,” you finally manage to blurt out. 

He must eye you dubiously because you can feel the weight of his gaze. Not like he doesn’t understand what you’re referring to, but more like he doesn’t quite trust your sincerity. 

“Ah must’ve been bonny crabby for ye tae apologize for that asshole,” he teases. You can tell through the joke that even now his pride is a little stung that you brought it up at all.  

If his temper weren’t so volatile, you might actually be tempted to spend more time with him. You have to shake that thought away as soon as it comes to you though; you won’t be on the rig for much longer anyway. 

“What’d you do anyway?” you blurt out, immediately thinking better of your words when Soap’s face darkens, nostrils flaring the slightest bit. “Sorry, that was—don’t answer that.”

“Nah, it’s no’—” he pauses, sucking air in between his teeth. “It’s no’ a secret or anythin’. Got myself mixed up in some bad shit, but it’s over, ah swear. Told Rennick that it wasnae anythin’ tae worry about, but he gave me hell anyway.” 

“He seems like a dick,” you say in consolation. 

“Aye,” Soap laughs. 

He waits until you’ve packed all your samples away before opening his mouth again. 

“Ye ken what would really make me feel better, bonnie?”

You glance over at him suspiciously, bracing yourself for something crass. You can feel it brewing—the culmination of days worth of purred words and heady glances, his interest so blatant that ignoring it feels almost pointless. He lays it on thick enough that you’d have to be blind not to have picked up on it. 

So, it catches you off guard when instead of making a licentious comment, he just sighs, “Ah could really use a hug.”

That’s—that’s a bit more reasonable than what you had anticipated. Surprising enough for you to lower your hackles and turn to face him. 

He holds his arms out in invitation, face expectant. That nearly makes you cringe before you catch yourself. You’ve been caught in this trap before—your tentative kindness leveraged for physical affection; pushing your boundaries at the first sign of weakness, like waging a siege on you—and even though your teeth itch with the urge to snap at him, it just doesn’t feel worth it. Easier just to capitulate and give what he wants. Just this once. 

Besides, it’s just a hug. 

His arms fold around you the second you step into them, constricting around your waist like two steel bands holding you in place. He hugs tight too, not an inch of space between your bodies, your breasts flush with his chest. Toes practically scraping the ground, lifted up by the strength of his arms. 

The blood rushes to your head. Weak kneed. It’s almost a blessing that Soap’s arms are holding you up. Every inch of your body feels electrified, nerves spitting hot fire; even your scalp tingles when he rests his chin on your crown. You don’t like to think about it—how little anyone touches you these days and how starved your body is for it. Even offshore, you haven’t dated in so long that it seems almost incomprehensible now that you’ve ever dated anyone before.

He groans into your hair, lost in his own head. One of his hands curves up and around your back until it cups over your shoulder, anchoring you even tighter to his chest. You can feel the bulge of every muscle, the tensile strength vibrating under his skin, and it’s only then that you realize that he’s shaking. 

The other thing you can’t ignore is the weight of his dick pressing into you. Your eyes bulge when you realize you can feel it thicken with blood against your belly. Even through the material of his pants, you can tell that it’s big. 

“Christ, bonnie,” Soap whines, pulling you somehow even tighter to him, nearly cutting off your breath. “Yer so fucking soft.”

“Soap—” you squeak. “Okay, I think that’s—I’ve—I’ve got work to do—”

You tense when his free hand drifts down your back and settles right over your ass. 

“Soap—” you hiss, then yelp when his hand drops even more and his fingers into a soft, fleshy cheek and he grinds his hips into your belly. You’re not sure if he’s even aware of what he’s doing, his hug devolving into something coarse and almost sexual. 

You reach a hand up to grab him by the jaw and push his head away, struggling feebly in his hold until his arms finally give a little and you’re able to wriggle out, scampering back until you’ve put some distance between the two of you. 

When you meet Soap’s eyes, you have to fight the urge to flinch. It takes him a second to regain control of himself, slack-jawed and hungry-eyed until he blinks and it starts to melt away. His chest heaves with his ragged breath. He looks every bit like a man that just got kicked out of bed before finishing, dick still hard in his pants. 

“Sorry, bonnie. Ah got a little carried away,” he says apologetically, eyes so round that they almost make him look puppyish. 

“It’s fine.” 

It’s not fine. You’re still shaky and your thighs are suspiciously damp and you’re fairly sure all the blood in your body has rushed to your face because your cheeks feel like they’re on fire, but you also don’t want to acknowledge the obvious. The outline of his dick straining against his pant leg. The dark flush on his cheekbones and his glazed over eyes. The way you have to fight the urge not to stare at the fabric of his jumpsuit tight around his thighs and biceps. 

“Ah’ll, uh…ah’ll see ye later then.” He takes a step back, then another, waiting maybe for you to say something. For you to tell him that it’s alright to stay. 

You smile tightly instead, ignore the urge to call him back to you. Your smile only drops when he closes the door behind him. 

There’s trouble brewing. You can feel it swelling up like a wave, ready to crash into you.

Under you, you can feel the rig shift with the water and in the distance, something howls.

[machveil]

Soap when he stumbles upon that shot showing off your ootd. “Who is that scrumptious lil’ bunny????”

😈😈😈

taking this and running with it - Soap stumbling upon your Instagram account via reels and becoming low-key obsessed (delusional king? of course)

Johnny who doom scrolls on Instagram after deployments to get away from reality. he follows fitness influencers, the occasional cooking account, but his latest binge has been you. and he’s blatant about it. one of your outfit of the day videos popped up on his feed and he was smitten. you were so pleased with yourself, giddy smile on your lips as you pointed out your shoes and top, doing a little spin for the camera before padding over to end the video. absolutely taken with you, he watched that little clip for what felt like an hour

Johnny who lays down to binge your account, liking every reel and photo. you get every single notification, an eyebrow raised as this man likes videos from years ago. Johnny doesn’t even register he’s flooding your notifications, he’s too caught up in looking at you, at your posts, taking in what sort of life you live. he’s absorbed by the photos, fragments of your life you shared - he starts wondering if he can worm his way into yours too. another photo, another double tap, another reel, another seven minutes lost watching it

Johnny who starts leaving comments a few days later. finds something to say on every single post. he has no shame, comments on how he wishes he was with you, how you’d feel against him, how you should try your boots with that outfit instead of your flats - because he’s memorized a good portion of your wardrobe. it’s not long before he’s ballsy enough to actually reach out, a quick dm sent your way asking for your number. he’s noticed you don’t have a partner, to your account’s knowledge, and he’d love to take you out

Johnny who’s shocked that you blocked him. huffing and puffing, pouting before he’s making a new account just to follow you. suddenly he’s trying to piece together where you’ve been, your regular coffee shops and hangouts. fixates on trying to meet you because, in his mind, you can’t block him if he asks you out in-person, right? face to charming face, his lopsided smile and smitten gaze looking at you as he asks for your number again, “You remember me, right bonnie?”

[guppybibi]

thinking about johnny who just like–loses a part of himself after he got shot in the head, yes because he totally survived that. i don't know how to describe it, and neither does he.

he just spends a lot of his time disassociating, it creeps you out honestly. oftentimes you find him staring at the wall, the ceiling, and you. he doesn't speak as much as he used to as well, so you're still growing used to the silence.

then one day, johnny just goes missing. he's nowhere to be found, so you go out to try and find him hopefully. along the way, passing by the flower shop you coincidentally meet simon who was just getting out of the shop, a bouquet of flowers in his hand.

with your voice still shaky, you ask him if he has seen johnny at all today. and to your surprise he replies with "what do you mean, luv? it's johnny's death anniversary today?"

...who the fuck was in your house..for practically a whole year?

[7s3ven]

Arm wrestling w/ Johnny but with a twist.

Fem! Reader

( master list )

You know Johnny more than you know yourself which is why you only grin when he offers you all the cash on his wallet if you beat him at an arm wrestling match.

You’re strong but you aren’t SAS soldier strong. Yo watch as Johnny slams a wad of cash onto the marble countertop, outstretching his arm with a coy grin.

“Up for the challenge, lass?” The light reflects off his white teeth, watching your every move with hawk-like eyes.

You shrug. “Sure. Let’s do it.” You clasp your hand with his, gripping it tightly. It takes you a split second to unzip your hoodie and the moment Johnny’s eyes flicker down, you push his arm to the side.

His hand hits the countertop with a loud thud while you victoriously grin, gathering up your reward. “Better luck next time, Johnny.” You utter, feigning a pitying look.

“Ay! That’s not fair, Bonnie! I wan’ a rematch! Come back ‘ere!” Johnny shouts as you walk away, small laughs slipping past your lips.

[sigh-tofm]

if you still sleep with a stuffed animal…

- price makes sure you don’t feel childish for it. you’re a little reluctant about admitting it first, but there’s no hiding it once you move in. you grip the edge of your shirt and stare down into the floor when he asks you about the well-loved teddy in one of your moving boxes. he embraces you and reminds you of your age and your big girl job, your degree, your car. none of that changes because you sleep with a stuffie, he mutters as his hands find your wide ass. goes on to tell you all the grown up things he wants to do you.

- kyle finds it endearing, even when you’re a little embarrassed to tell him about it. you’re already the most important person in the world to him. a stuffie only makes you more adorable in his eyes. and frankly, he gets it. it’s nice having something soft and warm to hold when you go sleep, he says and winks at you. still, teddy gets turned the other way when you two start undressing each other.

- johnny finds it a little odd, but only because he can fall asleep standing up in a chopper mid-flight, and therefore doesn’t quite understand that you have specific requirements in order to sleep well. but doesn’t tease you for it, instead always making sure teddy’s around for you. brings him out to the living room when you two (now three) are watching a movie and even borrows him for himself when you’re away. claims it’s because he smells like you, denies it’s because he’s growing fond of him too.

- simon treats teddy with the utmost respect. he probably had one too, long ago, until his father destroyed it. he understands your feelings about your stuffie and places him carefully on the floor next to the bed if you two get busy. stitches up his torn seams with his balaclava-thread. slides him gently back under your arm if you’re already asleep when he comes to bed. puts his own arms around you in turn, protecting your back while teddy has your front. still, slips a hand under your shirt to feel the soft skin of your tits to fall asleep to.

[bi-writes]

there's only one rule with them--you have to be included, lest you give simon those big eyes that he absolutely fucking despises. (ghoap x f!reader, 18+)

you can't help it, really. you like being the center of attention. no--you need to be the center of attention.

their attention.

even when you're too fucked out to go any longer, someone has to be paying attention to you. simon has found that even when he's too occupied making johnny's eyes roll back in his head, a firm hand tangled in your hair is enough to keep you smiling all lopsided and ooey-gooey warm. a thumb in your mouth, lips against your temple, just a soft touch is good enough to keep you from blinking up at simon all wet and soft-like.

simon even found out that you have a sixth-sense for knowing if simon touched his sergeant when they were deployed. coming through the door, just seeing them, that pretty bottom lip trembling when you meet johnny's eyes because you just know something happened without you.

it's not that you're jealous. it's not that you don't approve. simon knows you're just so delicate. so sweet. you want to be included and noticed, because no one ever had noticed you at all before them, and you just hate feeling left out. you want to know everything about them, and when something happens without you, you feel like you're missing a special piece of them, and it makes your heart drop into your stomach.

"none of tha'," simon says lowly when he sees your eyes well up, all watery and big.

"i'm sorry--" you whine. it takes johnny between your thighs for a full hour before simon sees you crack a smile again.

simon comes up with a nice solution. he doesn't want to see his perfect girl upset anymore. he won't have it any longer. it isn't allowed.

you put the phone to your ear. it's late, and you're a bit sleepy, but with the ringer on full volume, you're always ready to answer the phone.

"h-hello?"

"'ello, baby." your eyes flutter open at the sound of simon's low drawl, and you giggle sleepily. "oi, wot's so funny?"

"nothing," you whisper. "i miss you."

"i miss you more," simon hums. you hear shuffling in the background, a grunt accompanied by a hiss. "say 'ello to our pretty kitty, johnny."

there's some static, and then you hear panting. a gargled cry sounds, one you recognize, and you grip the phone tight as you stare up at the ceiling. you roll over in a bed that's much too big for just you, and you whine a little.

"j-johnny?"

"fuck--ngghh--'m thinkin' aboot yer pussy, bonnie, lemme 'ear it."

you squeeze your thighs together on instinct. you reach for the pillow next to you, the one that still smells like simon, and you bury your nose into it and whine when you hear the distinct sound of skin slapping against skin.

"lemme 'ear it, willnae come unless--"

"johnny," you mewl, sticking your hand under the shirt you wear. it's simon's (the only shirt that fits over your tits), but you're bare underneath, so it takes you no time at all to break open your thighs and stick your hand between your folds. you don't even go for foreplay; there's no need. you are wet enough to dip your fingers just barely into yourself, scooping up a nice amount of slick and spreading it around, frantic enough that when you put the phone on speaker, the slip, slip, slip of your fingers is audible on the other end.

"och--si, she's...aye, she's soaking."

"tha's my girl."

"come...g-gonna come," you stutter, and johnny groans.

"need ye on my face, kitty cat," he pants, "lemme 'ear, closer, bonnie, get me closer--"

you lower the phone down your body, moving your fingers faster, your toes curling as you arch your back and listen to the wet smack, smack, smack of what you know is simon putting his fucking back into it. his groans follow the movements. simon is always a little rougher with his sergeant, always murmuring about how he can take it, not so sweet like our daisy baby.

"coming!" you gasp, and you press the heel of your hand against your clit as you breathe through your orgasm. so fast this time, hitting you from your toes and traveling all the way up, until your nipples pebble and your heart hammers. you bring the phone back up and bask in the glow of it, giggling dreamily as you listen to simon absolutely ruin your sergeant. skin on skin, nasty grunts and filthy curses, hissing and the sounds of things falling over and breaking. you pocket it for later and memorize it now, cooing softly when you know johnny is close.

you talk him until you hear him come, and then you tell simon to eat it off his gloved fingers for you.

"goodnight, kitty cat."

you smile.

"goodnight."

when they come home again, there you are, seated in the kitchen, all big smiles and soft eyes. simon touches a finger under your chin, and you blink up at him.

"olright?" simon asks, and you nod, picking up his other hand to kiss his knuckles.

"perfect."