kriffingstars

[kriffingstars]

price’s niece update!!!

so as some of you may know, i’m currently travelling.

at first i thought that i’d have plenty of time to write (which would have been true), however i may have ended up meeting someone and having a bit of a whirlwind romance.

all being said price’s niece is still going ahead, just at a slightly slower pace than before!

thought i’d just update my wonderful taglist, and let you all know why there’s been no new parts :)

@cassiecasluciluce @misshoneypaper @unknownduck0 @iwannabealocalcryptid @darkangel4121 @clear-your-mind-and-dream @mothiing @pepsicolacoochie @samanthamarkle92 @fullmoon-94 @poohkiee90 @calabeebee

[kriffingstars]

I like how we all just formally agreed soap has sisters. And how he's the middle child. Iconic.

[kriffingstars]

the grip this fic has on me 😅

Guile & Guilt (Ch. 09)

Soap/Reader - MDNI/18+ AO3 Link

WEDNESDAY — Evening: 2 days until the wedding

The worst part was the pretending. You thought that you’d be in the most pain when you were alone, sobbing in your room, clutching Marlowe like a comfort stuffie, but that wasn’t it. The hardest thing, actually, was smiling when you should be smiling. 

No, the hardest thing was staring down at his bed and knowing you had to sleep in it because why shouldn’t you sleep in it? What reason could you tell her that you weren’t able to climb into his sheets and smell his scent in your nose again?

You couldn’t tell her that the softness of his Rangers jersey felt like thorns to you now. You couldn’t tell her why you’d prefer to sleep on the couch, the floor, outside — anywhere but his bed. No. You had to smile, and it needed to be believable. It couldn’t be a masked grimace through tears like you’d been using to get back and forth from the coffee shop and your bed, unable to even make yourself a boiled egg. 

You’d come down, as planned, for the rehearsal dinner tomorrow night, and the real kicker — the stake that just twisted right into your heart — was that Johnny and his whole team would be down, too. Of course all the hotels (of which there were one) and the bed and breakfasts were booked solid. So, they’d all just crash here, as usual. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing except for you. 

You were anything but ordinary. You were desperate for some sort of relief from the pain in your chest. Every time you looked down at your phone, you felt it. You ignored the 47 missed calls and the countless text messages, keeping it on silent no matter what. You’d gotten calls from him, from all of his friends, even one from Ghost. You didn’t return them. You thought he had even come to your door one night, but you didn’t answer it. You couldn’t. All you could do was tell yourself to breathe, to eat, to shower, and to make it to the next hour in one piece so you could get through this wedding without falling the fuck apart. 

“You all set in here, babe?” Pidge asked behind you, watching you stare down at the empty bed, “Johnny’ll be here in just a bit so be sure to claim the good side before he does.”

She laughed. You laughed. You sounded crazy. 

“Makin’ your favorite tonight. Chicken tikka,” she was talking to you like a parent talks to a child when they know something is wrong but are determined not to pry. 

“Thanks, Pidge. I’ll come help in a moment.”

“Alright,” she smiled again and shut the door. 

You dropped your bag and waited what you assumed was a normal amount of time before heading out into the kitchen, a brave mask on in place of your face.

She set you to work after you washed your hands, and you were grateful for it. Pidge was talking for you, retracing her steps from her hen do, telling you the parts she couldn’t remember. It was as if everything she’d said to Johnny had just disappeared into thin air, and you wondered how much of that was by choice or by accident. She didn’t even remember you getting a cab. 

Now, she was gushing about how amazing her photographer was, and how he was coming down for the walkthrough. You nodded when you needed to nod; you smiled when you needed to smile. 

“...told him you’d stand in for me at the altar.”

“What?” You’d missed something important. 

“The photographer needs to shoot Hamish and I, but we cannae be at the altar until our wedding, obvi, so I told him you and Lachlan would be the stag and hen for that practice shoot. Is that alright?” She was looking at you like she’d made a mistake. 

You shook your head,

“Yeah, yeah. That’s fine. No problem. Whatever you need me to do.”

The front door creaked open and you almost dropped the saucepan onto the floor. 

“Pidge?” His voice called through the house. 

“In the kitchen!” She called back. 

You stirred the sauce. 

He must have been staring at you because Pidge made a comment,

“We’re doing chicken tikka. It’s her fav, and I thought she deserved it after what I put her through last weekend.”

“Aye,” his tone was odd, “I’ll go drop my bag. The lads are on their way in.”

You could tell he left the room. It was as if your body could sense it somehow. You wondered if he was staring at the bed. You wondered if it would feel like thorns for him, too. 

Why would it? 

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. You screamed inside of your mind. Get it together. 

You stirred the sauce. It was the only thing you could do. If someone had tried to take the pan from you, you might have smacked them with it. 

Hamish came up beside you with the cream,

“Ready for me?”

“Sure,” you held your spoon away so he could pour it in. 

“Smells great. Go sit, lass. I poured you a wine. I’ll make your wee plate.”

You smiled at Hamish and marched yourself over to the table. Price came in and saw you sitting there, and after he said hello to Ham and Pidge, he sat next to you in some sort of act of mercy. Hamish poured him a wine as well and they caught up. Small talk. Just the weather. You performed your vanishing act, becoming invisible. 

Until you weren’t. 

His eyes bored into you from the hallway as he made his way into the kitchen. He was forced to sit all the way at the other end of the table, as far from you as he could be, next to Gaz and Ghost. 

Everyone was chatting, drinking, eating. And you worked hard to be unseen. But, he just kept staring. You felt his eyes when you took a bite, when you dropped your fork, when you wiped your mouth… he may as well have been pinning you down with his huge hands; you were so scrutinized. You felt like you were being dissected, a frog on a student’s desk, your heart plucked out for examination. 

What was he looking for? Forgiveness? Wrath? You didn’t know, and you didn’t want to guess. You wanted to melt into the carpet like a fallen ice cube, to evaporate into nothingness so you didn’t have to feel his eyes on you anymore. 

Suddenly, you looked up at him, catching him. Only then did he look away. He must have seen something inside of you that answered his question. 

You cleaned up the plates, making an excuse to do the dishes while everyone else lounged in the den. 

Then, disaster. Hamish cut himself while putting away his knives. Blood rushed out of the cut and down his elbow, dripping onto the counter and the tile. You rushed over with a towel,

“Here, put some pressure.”

Pidge took over for you, and she told you,

“Go check Johnny’s bag. He’s got a wee first aid kit in there, I know he does.”

You looked around for Johnny to make him do it instead, but he’d gone outside to smoke with Price, so you jogged off to his room alone. His bag was on the bed, and you took a deep breath before unzipping it, staying tight to your mission. Then, you spotted the little red kit near the bottom. You pulled it out in a hurry, and the rucksack dropped to the floor, spilling its contents. 

“Shit,” you muttered, bending to clean it up. 

You tossed all the clothes back in, but you noticed a journal that had fallen out. It was splayed open, its spine facing you. Your hands shook a bit as you went to pick it up. Then, you saw the one thing you hadn’t expected to see: you. 

Your face was sketched out in careful detail. There were little scratches of pen for the shadows, and negative space for the highlights. Your eyes were looking off in the distance, and your smile was soft, almost like it wasn’t even there. You looked beautiful. 

You couldn’t help yourself. You flipped the page. You found a map, and a sketch with some attack dogs, but in the margin you saw Sonnet 91. You turned the page again. Your face was everywhere. Your body, your eyes, your hands… you were scattered across the paper in bright blue ink. Then, Sonnet 145. Coffee stains and what may have been blood marred the masterpieces he had left behind. You flipped again, and it was you. Pieces of Sonnet 29. Then you. You were on every page. All of the images of war and maps and guns disappeared and now it was just you, you, you.

Your heart slammed into your mouth and you couldn’t breathe. You thought of golden sunrises across the Urzikstani desert half a world away, imagining him sitting on the open tailgate of a Humvee with this book open in front of him. You thought of how closely he had watched you for months; how his hands had traced the curves of your body so beautifully sketched before you. How he had noticed the three freckles on the side of your eye, the ones you thought no one could see. 

You shoved the book back in the bag and ran back into the kitchen, first aid kit in hand. 

Pidge noticed something was wrong.

“You alright, hen?”

“Just squeamish,” you feigned nausea, pointing to Hamish’s blood. 

Johnny came back in from the porch, looking at you, distress creasing his brow,

“What’s happened?”

“Hamish…” You gestured at the injured man, pointedly avoiding looking at Johnny. 

“Don’t like the sight of blood, thief?” Price asked, using your nickname. In your periphery you could see Johnny stiffen at the comment, but no one else seemed to notice. Price continued, suggesting, “Why don’t we go for a walk.”

“Thanks, John,” Pidge smiled at him, glad that he could tend to you as she was tending to her fiance. 

You let yourself be led out of the house through the front door. Price had you by the arm, none too gently, you thought, and walked you into the cool night air, wrapping his jacket around you and shutting the door. 

He was relighting a fat cigar, letting the smoke linger in his mouth, walking slowly, aimlessly down the path, without a destination in mind, leading you nowhere. 

“Are you alright?” He asked, knowing the answer. 

“No.”

You weren’t sure why you told him the truth. He was just going to run back and report to Johnny. But, there was something in his eyes that made you think he genuinely cared, and you so desperately needed someone to care. 

“Have you listened to his side of it?” 

“No.”

“Do you want to?”

You didn’t answer. You wanted to say no, but something stopped you. 

Price stopped walking, his boots scraping in the gravel of the path, his bright blue eyes icy and a little sad. 

“Listen,” he frowned, “I’ve known Johnny a lot longer than you. I’ve seen him broken. I’ve seen him scared. I’ve seen him mad, and drunk, and happy, and beaten… but I’ve never seen him like this.”

You crossed your arms in his jacket, trying to find some warmth. Suddenly, you felt Price’s finger dig inside of the neckline of your shirt. You almost knocked his hand away, but he put up his other in a sign of peace. And when he found what he was looking for, he smiled. 

He’d pulled out Johnny’s dog tag from beneath your shirt, and you knew you’d been caught. Price held the coin up to you like the sacrament, discovering your shame, bringing your sin out into the open. In that moment, you wanted to bend down on both knees and take it into your mouth, and you wanted him to make you whole again with it. 

“This isn’t like him,” he said, the porch light made the silver gleam, and it blinded you for a moment, “He’s generous enough with his smiles and compliments, but he doesn’t give freely of himself. Not like this. Would’ve thought you’d known. He’s kept himself hidden all this time. But, not from you.” 

You cried. You didn’t want to. You bit your lip and furrowed your brow. You swallowed your spit and tried to breathe through the tears, but they came anyway. He held you to his chest, and you knew his tee shirt would be wet from your weakness, but he kept a steady hand on your back, regardless. 

He tucked the tag back into your shirt and it lay cold against that spot between your breasts; the same spot Johnny had kissed you when he’d taken your guilt from you the first night you’d been together, there, in his bed. You thought Price would make some sort of face, some judgment. But, he didn’t. He simply walked you back inside and held the door for you. 

You went through it on your own accord, and Johnny’s eyes were the first thing to greet you. He raked them over you like a forest fire, burning you from roots to boughs, seeing Price’s jacket over your shoulders and lingering on it for a while until you handed it back to his captain. 

“All covered!” Hamish chuckled, holding up his bandaged finger to you, “Sorry, babes.”

You smiled, 

“No worries. I think I’m just tired from the ride in. Gonna lay down early.”

Pidge caught your attention, 

“Don’t forget, you and Johnny have to make it before two. Pictures are at two.”

You nodded, retreating to what used to be a sanctuary. Now, it felt more like a cell. 

Your goal was to get to sleep before he could join you. You knew it would be too suspicious for him to follow you into his room, so you had the advantage of time. How strange it was to avoid what you had been craving. 

You climbed into the sheets, and you did your best to ignore all of the memories that kept rushing back. The smear of her purple lipstick across his soft earlobe haunted you like a ghost. 

THURSDAY — Midnight: 1 day until the wedding

He came in as quietly as he could, but you woke up anyway. You tried your best to pretend to be asleep, keeping your breathing heavy and long. It was pitch black, and when he sat on the bed, you heard the familiar creak of the coils. 

He pulled the covers back, he fluffed the pillow, he took off his watch, and then he just… laid there. 

You weren’t sure what you were expecting he would do. Wake you up? Demand your attention? You’d shut him out completely. He knew his company was unwanted. 

The dark voice laughed at you in your head. It knew the truth. It wanted him to fight for you. It wanted him to beg for your mercy. It wanted him to take you in his arms anyway, despite your protests. It wanted him to ignore your wishes. It wanted the animal in him to claim the animal in you, to remind you that you were his woman and that he could do with you as he wished. 

But, he wasn’t an animal. He was a man, and he respected you enough to stay on his side of the line. 

It was only when he thought you were well and truly asleep that you felt his finger graze the metal chain of his dog tags on the back of your neck, not heavily enough to wake you, but enough to feel that they were real. You wondered if Price had ratted you out or if Johnny had noticed himself. You thought it was the latter, knowing him.  

You passed out eventually, listening to the sound of his quiet snoring, your pillow soaked from tears that had spilled out across the bridge of your nose. Tears he wouldn’t be able to touch. 

THURSDAY — 2:00PM: 1 day until the wedding

Saint Patrick’s church was quaint, and the interior was minimalistic compared to other Catholic churches you’d visited before. There was something sort of liminal about the space, as if it were unfinished. You wondered what it would look like when it was full of people. 

You were standing at the altar, fake bouquet in hand, pretending to be a blushing bride. The photographer was very much in charge of this ordeal, and he was as outspoken as he was confident. 

“Okay, perfect. See? She’s perfect. Can you be perfect, too, Mr….?”

“It’s Lachlan. Lachlan Black,” he reminded him for the third time. 

“Ugh, okay. Lachlan. If only you were a little more memorable, but my brain just — whoosh!” The photographer, Gary, made a little noise and a motion with his hand like a bird flying through a window. 

“And you’re just too damn tall, you know that?” Gary sighed. 

He looked around the room, appraising all of the bridal party like a dealer at an auction, looking for the solution amongst the chaff. Then, he waved Hamish up from the front pew, getting him to stand. Gary looked him up and down, and motioned for him to sit again. With a snap of his fingers, he said,

“Hey! You. Mohawk. What’s your name again? You know what — that’s enough names actually. Mohawk will be groom instead. Nice and tall, but not too tall. Yes, yes… okay, thank you, Lachlan… buh-bye.”

You were face to face with Johnny at the altar. 

You felt the panic make your blood rush into your cheeks. It was hard to catch your breath. 

Of all the times you’d imagine being at the altar with Johnny, this was certainly not it.

You stared at your fake, paper bouquet and prayed in your mind, loudly, for a sudden plague. Toads, rivers of blood — whatever you’ve got, Heaven! Throw it down here, please. You begged for a miracle or a smiting. Either would do. 

The Lord did not oblige you. 

“Okay… better! Yes, this is much better. Cute. Can you scooch in a bit, mohawk? She doesn’t bite, I don’t think.” Gary winked.

Mohawk scooched in. You dared to look up into his eyes, and when you did, you knew you made a mistake. You were trapped in him and he was trapped in you. You felt like you were frozen in place, unable to breathe or speak or scream, no matter how badly you wanted to. 

You had a whole conversation with him in the span of those few seconds. You asked him why he’d been covered in someone else at the bar. You begged him to give you some evidence that you hadn’t seen what you saw. You told him about all the nights you’d lay awake, about all the times you’d thrown his tag into the corner of your room, only to crawl on your hands and knees to retrieve it, clutching it to you and feeling sorry that you’d done so. 

He was telling you something as well, but you couldn’t hear him. He was screaming it, you knew that much, but it wasn’t loud enough. 

Gary interrupted you,

“Okay, hold hands around the bouquet, pretty please…”

He grasped your hands, and it was so familiar, you almost melted into him. By some magical power, you held yourself together, but as the camera clicked and flashed, with every moment you lost a little more control.

“...annnnnnnd now the kiss? C’mon. We’re all adults here. This lighting is shit — forgive me, Father — and I can’t deal with the actual money shot being trash. Today, people!”

You hesitated. But, Johnny didn’t. He seemed to set himself, his mouth in a tight, resigned line, and then he held your face in his hands, just as gently as he always did. When he kissed you, he really kissed you. He didn’t fake it for the cameras, and he didn’t hide his passion from Pidge or any of the others. You couldn’t help but kiss him back, letting him guide you as he liked, his big jaw shaking a bit as he let go. 

“Perfect! Okay, and now the happy couple is smiling at the crowd…”

Gary took a step back into the aisle, and Johnny held up your hand in the air in mock triumph, posing for a gleeful moment that didn’t exist. You looked right at Pidge, but she was laughing at something Hamish had said, fully oblivious to the war raging right in front of her face. 

“Alright… well, I don’t know if I’d call that smiling, necessarily, but here we are. Okay. Mohawk, you’re done.”

The way Johnny dropped your hand made you feel like you were on fire, as if he could no longer stand to hold you, or like he had been burned. It was sharp, and you weren’t sure what you were expecting. Did you want him to linger? To profess his undying love in front of his sister and ruin her one special day? You didn’t. So you let his absence cut you like a blade, severing you like a limb from a tree. 

THURSDAY — 7:00PM: 1 day until the wedding

The rehearsal dinner venue, the Auchentoshan Distillery, was gorgeous. Johnny had spared no expense on the stylings, and there was food everywhere you looked. The cakes were elegantly plated, the roast hung shining, its drippings making the shank glitter, and even the boiled potatoes made your mouth water. 

Johnny had obviously arranged the table settings a few weeks ago, because you were sat right next to him and Price, across from Gaz and Ghost. Pidge was two seats down, and the rest of the girls were across from her and Hamish. Lachlan and the other groomsmen were on the opposite side. But, other than for the initial dinner, you hadn’t been made to sit by him much at all. He mingled around the room, talking to everyone except for you, making sure all of the cups were filled and all of the faces were smiling. 

He was an impeccable host. His charisma was electric. And he looked upsettingly handsome. He wore a kilt tonight, one of his hunting tartans, with a sharp button down embellished with gleaming pearl buttons. His shoulders were bursting through the fabric, pulling it taut against his wide back. If you looked carefully enough, you could imagine where his tattoo peeked through.

Gaz cleared his throat, whispering low,

“Have you talked to him, then?”

Your eyes tore themselves away from Johnny to stare at Gaz. You checked over your shoulder to see if Pidge had heard him, and he glanced at her, too. 

“No.”

Ghost spoke at full volume, not caring who heard him,

“Are you going to?”

Price dropped his fork so that it clattered on the plate, giving Ghost a chastising glare. 

“She’ll talk to him when she’s ready to talk to him, and it’s none of our bloody business.”

You didn’t hear much else out of Gaz or Ghost, but as they chewed their food, you could tell that they didn’t believe Price for one damn second. It very much was their bloody business.

And maybe it was. Price had certainly made it his business on your walk last night, and it seemed like your relationship with Johnny was slowly becoming everyone’s business. You had tried your best to return to that same old invisibility you were used to, but it wasn’t enough now. You felt like you were on full display.

“Excuse me,” you got up and fled to the bathroom.

When you opened the door, you saw Bekah and Anjali inside, freshening up their makeup. 

“Hey!” They said in high-pitched unison.

“Hey,” you replied, inching by them to get into the stall. 

“Where’d you disappear to the other night, babe?” Anjali called out to you through the door. 

“Just got too drunk. Took a cab,” you told her, hoping that would end the conversation. 

“Fuck,” Bekah laughed, “That was me, too. Did Cherise tell you about that bloke at Max’s?”

“No,” you said, captivated like a prisoner.

“Arsehole thought he could put something in my drink. Soap saw him and beat him within an inch of his fuckin’ life! You should’ve seen the man. Needed a damn doctor, so he did,” Bekah confessed.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” you said, genuinely. Bekah was not your friend, but she didn’t deserve to be assaulted. 

Anjali laughed,

“Soap had to carry her out! She was stumblin’ all over the road.”

“Wasnae my fault!” Bekah protested, “But, he was a gentleman. Drove me home. Him and Gaz.”

“Oh, that Gaz is fine, no?” Anjali interrupted. 

“Aye. I thought Johnny might kiss me back, just this once, but he still didn’t. That lad is harder to wear down than the goddamn Pope, I swear. I’ve given up.”

“Didn’t you sleep together?” You asked, torturing yourself. 

“God, no! He won’t have any of us. Pidge thinks he has, but I’ve never slept with him. Definitely would though,” Bekah gushed. 

“Hasn’t Cherise?” Anjali asked.

“No! Cannae believe it. All this talk for being a big slut and he’s a choir boy,” you could hear Bekah’s voice get louder with her disbelief.

“Shame,” Anjali lamented.

“Aye, a shame,” Bekah agreed, “Was he a good kisser? He looked it. You were quite a pair up at the altar. Maybe he’d go for you, hen.”

You pulled open the stall door and joined them at the sink. Your hands were trembling. 

“Babes,” Bekah noticed, “Are you alright? You havnae seemed well since the hen do. You’re working too hard for this wedding.”

“I’m alright. I think I just need some fresh air,” you smiled, pushing your way out of the door.

When you walked back into the main hall, everyone was standing. A waitress with a tray found you and handed you a glass of champagne. You moved to the side around the crowd to see what all the commotion was, and it was Johnny. He was standing next to Pidge with his glass raised high, clinking it delicately with the side of his fork. 

“Alright, alright. Settle down,” he smiled at his sister, “I know Lachlan is the one supposed to be up here haverin’ about Hamish, but he was kind enough to give me his go because I needed to talk to my sister.”

His eyes found you and settled there, no longer scanning the crowd. You watched him take a breath before he continued,

“If you dinnae ken me, I am Johnny MacTavish, Sergeant of His Majesty’s Special Air Service —” he was interrupted by proud applause, “Uh, thank you. And I am the younger brother of our darling Brigette here. While I was away, Pidge has taken care of my life for me. She took care of our ma when she was ill, and she buried our da without me. She managed to keep the wee house from fallin’ into the river, and still she has time to volunteer at Saint Mary’s children’s ward on the odd weekend.”

More applause. He paused and went on,

“All that to say, my sister doesnae need anyone. But, love isnae about need. It’s about choosin’ to be with a person who makes you feel like you can be yourself, that you can confess to all the desires and the wants and the hopes and the fears that you have inside of you, and you know that they understand you. They see you for who you are, and they love you for it anyway. 

Love isnae patient, and it certainly isnae bloody kind. It loves to boast! And it falls prey to envy. Love is in a rush, and it eats you alive from the inside out. Love isnae about needing. It’s want, pure and simple. To Hammie and Pidge, may you live a hundred years, and may you want each other endlessly in each of them. Slàinte mhath.” 

“Slàinte mhath!”

You drank your champagne, numb and panicking.

Someone shoved a small microphone onto the strap of your dress, clicking it in place, and you stared down at it while everyone else stared at you, waiting.

You breathed into the mic, listening to your breath come through the speakers. You wanted to talk to him, to tell him you’d learned the truth. But, you were surrounded, literally, by all of his friends and family. There was no worse time for your truth-telling. So, you tried to lean on the speech you remember preparing, mashing it together with words that kept pouring from your heart.

“Hello,” you tried out a smile, “I’ve known Brigette for years, and she is the only real family I have. I’m not Scottish. I know the accent gives it away,” some polite laughter, “But, I’m wearing the MacTavish boar around my neck because Pidge welcomed me here with open arms and took me in as if I had been here the whole time. Like it was the most natural thing to do. She’s selfless in all the ways you should be, and she always promised that I would have a home with her. And I love her dearly for that.”

You spoke directly to Johnny, just as he did to you, 

“I’ve been thinking about selflessness, and about making promises. I’ve been thinking about the type of man who does the right thing, even when it’s hard. I’ve been thinking about the type of man who breaks a promise when he needs to break one, and I’ve been thinking about the consequences of our actions. But, when you love someone, the consequence is just… more love. There’s really nothing else, is there? You could get a shovel and dig until you reach the bottom of the earth looking for them, but there are no real consequences when you’re in love. It trumps… everything.” 

You paused for a long time. Johnny was captivated by your eyes, hanging on every word, and you’d been silent for too long. You said, directly to Pidge,

“So, I hope, when you’re wondering if you’ve done the right thing or not, and you’re digging around for the consequences of that, I hope you just keep pulling out more and more love. Just love all the way down. Forever. Cheers, to Hamish and Pidge.”

“Cheers!”

You finished your champagne and walked over to Pidge. Everyone was applauding and talking loudly again, laughing and sharing their own joys about the happy couple. You were overwhelmed, but you wanted to see her. 

Pidge held out her arms and folded them around you, clutching you tightly to her chest, whispering I love yous and thank yous into your skin. You kissed her on the cheek, whispering to her,

“I’m gonna step outside for a moment, are you alright for now?”

“Yes! Go. Take Johnny with you. When he gets sappy, he starts to hover,” she swatted Johnny away as he leaned in to kiss her, fighting through her protests. 

She gave in, melting into him and smiling as he planted a kiss to her cheek. 

“I love you, Pidge,” he said to her, not letting her go.

“I love you, too, Johnny-boy. And I’m sorry for all the mean things I’ve said. You’ve changed. I dinnae ken what’s gotten into you, but all this…” She looked around at the reception hall, “All this has made me realize that you finally see me, you finally see what I’ve been going through, and I’ve been unfair. Thank you, brother.”

He kissed her forehead, trying to blink away tears as he did so, lingering with his lips on her skin before removing himself from her embrace. 

“C’mon,” he nodded at you and took you by the hand, right in front of her, leading you out to the back courtyard. 

The distillery was situated right next to its water source, north of the River Clyde, and the waters churned from a pump run by the whisky makers. The flow of the water was invigorating and challenging, but the calmness of the lake itself was still and quiet; a dichotomy. It was the same within you, a roiling, tumbling sea of glass, ready to shatter.

Johnny turned and looked at you like he knew what you would say. As he approached you, slowly, he held up his hands, trying to hide that they were shaking, offering peace, carrying no weapon, for once. You unfolded your arms, still clutching yourself around your waist, waiting for him to prove you wrong, for him to confirm the truth you’d overheard from Bekah. 

“Are you willing to hear me now, thief?”

“I already heard,” you said, “From Bekah. And I saw your journal.”

He was speechless. All of the things he’d planned to say to you had dried up, and now he was left chewing on their remains. He put his hands on his hips and looked out at the water,

“I’m so goddamn in love with you, it hurts.”

He pinned you with his gaze, then. Watching you take in his confession. He continued,

“It hurts when I wake up, and it hurts when I go to bed. I dinnae ken how to stop it from hurtin’ like this. Feels like I’m burnin’ up, like I’m on fire inside of me. And when you left me, I…” he had trouble forming the words, “I wasnae… I couldnae ken how bad it would be. It was worse, somehow, and I was prayin’ to whatever god that would hear me for some sort of mercy. And I had none. Until I saw, or I thought I saw…”

He came closer to you, reaching around your neck and pulling out his tags just like Price had done. His eyes shone with unshed tears. 

“You made me hope.”

He took your hand in his and held it tightly, as tightly as he dared, and looked you right in the face, 

“I didnae sleep with Bekah, nor Cherise, nor Anjali.”

“I know.”

“I didnae want to, either.”

“I know.”

“I’m in love with you, mèirleach.”

“I’m in love with you, too.”

Johnny used his tags around your neck to pull you into him, kissing you harshly, not allowing you to let go. You kissed him back, pressing at him with your tongue, tasting the champagne in his mouth, feeling his shaven face bristle against your smooth cheek. He moaned into you, speaking to you in a low whisper,

“Please, mèirleach, forgive me.”

“Johnny, there’s nothing to forgive.”

He hugged you to him and you rested your head against his neck, finally able to relax into him after days of being on a knife’s edge. 

But, you were distracted by the sound of a loud knocking against glass. You turned back toward the distillery and saw Ghost tapping on the huge floor to ceiling window and pointing to a microphone in his hand. You looked down and realized you never handed them back the mic from your speech. You were still wearing it, and the red light was on. 

You showed it to Johnny, stunned by your own idiocy. He spun to see Ghost waving slightly, and the rest of the wedding party — hell, the whole distillery — standing behind him in shock

#kriffingstars fic recs #i love hopelessly in love soap #soap x reader

[kriffingstars]

just spent what feels like my life’s savings on lord of the rings memorabilia and i’ve got to say. it’s def worth it.

#did i need everything? no #is my life better? yes

[kriffingstars]

Perfection, yet again

Guile & Guilt (Ch. 07)

Soap/Reader

TW: sex

MDNI/18+

AO3 LINK

I'm so sorry for the wait!! I hope this long chap made up for it. I really appreciate all the comments and reblogs. It really keeps me going. The next chapter is gonna be rough. Hope you're ready for it. I'm not!

CHRISTMAS EVE

The lecture hall slowly began to fill with graduate students and professors. A gaggle of undergrads huddled to the side with their notebooks, surely attending by someone else’s command and not of their own volition. They were all dressed in various layers of warmth. Anoraks and sweaters rustled and stretched in the cloth seats, the odd peacoat was hung carefully over the edge of a chair. It was nice to have a small crowd, but you were sure everyone had somewhere better to be. The only people that would show up to the long-standing tradition of a Christmas Eve colloquium were the die-hard academics and those desperately needing extra credit in their year-long lab classes.

You liked this lecture room the best. The big arching stadium seating made you feel like a surgeon in her theatre, carving up your poems and displaying their abnormalities, arguing in favor of their spectacular forms, illustrating your skills with grace and ease. It was all well and good not to be the patient on the table. Today’s victim would be Sonnet 91. 

The projector light blinded you in an unnatural blue, making you turn away from its lens, and you pretended to busy yourself with your notes as you waited for it to warm up. You shuffled the papers again, and you had a sip of water. Just fidgeting. If you stopped moving, you’d think about him, and you didn’t want to think about him. 

He’d gotten your message from Gaz, that much was clear. You knew because you started receiving sunrise texts again — just the pictures, though — and when he needed to go out on a mission, you’d get your little promises. You sent him back what you received. If he sent a sunrise picture, you returned it with your own. If he said that he promised, you said it, too. You wanted him to call. You wanted to drag it out, to gut it like a fish, to see all the entrails of your feelings and the bloody evidence of your battle to be together, all of its innards smeared across a cutting board, sterile and measurable. 

But, for some reason, you couldn’t do it. You tried to type out what you’d wanted to say, but none of it made sense. It was all just begging and pleading and wishing for things you couldn’t have. So, you stopped. You kept up the replies. You matched his energy. It wasn’t until he sent you a screenshot of his flight itinerary that you started to realize the other shoe was dropping on you very soon. 

He was supposed to fly in sometime this very afternoon, but it wouldn’t be only him. You’d heard from Pidge that his whole team was coming with him, eager to meet her and Hamish, apparently. You didn’t know what emotion you felt about that, but its anonymity didn’t stop you from feeling it. 

You’d sent him back a Google Maps screenshot of your apartment, since he was supposed to be your ride up to Old Kilpatrick, and he sent you back the thumbs up emoji. 

It was embarrassing to you that the slight change in send-reply patterning made your heart race. You felt like your brain could benefit from a hard reset, like an iPhone that had chosen to get stuck on the same application, unable to move forward to the next task. 

So, you’d tried to put him out of your mind. When your labmate begged you to take her place at this colloquium, you jumped at the chance. A presentation would take up so much time and energy; surely it would cure you of your obsessive behavior. Unfortunately, Sonnet 91 felt all too timely. 

You watched it populate the screen, the first four lines occupying the cold, unembellished center of your slide, professionally stark:  

Some glory in their birth, some in their skill,Some in their wealth, some in their body's force,Some in their garments though new-fangled ill;Some in their hawks and hounds, some in their horse;

You wondered where your glory would come from, if you ever had any. Then, as if to answer your question, the hall door opened and he walked through it, carefully propping it open behind him and letting his three enormous friends through. Johnny was freshly shaven, and his mohawk was back, trimmed on the sides and groomed to stand in a tall, brown shock. You could see the prominent scar on the side of his head, a sharp cross where the hair could no longer grow. 

There was an observable air of confidence to his movements, as if this was his hundredth colloquium, as if he attended them every week. His surety silenced you, and you stood staring, rapt. 

He met your eyes. The bright, glassy blues found you, set in a pleased way, fully at peace. It was the face made when something lost had been found, when a gift was unwrapped. A knowing gleam. 

If you didn’t start talking, people were going to ask you if you were alright. So, you introduced yourself, shakily but smoothing it out as you went,

“Good evening, and thank you for joining us at the 2023 Christmas Eve Colloquium tonight. I love this tradition, and I really appreciate you all being here. If you didn’t get the, uh… the handouts,” you pushed the stack across the desk toward the undergrads who all crowded around them like seagulls with an old French fry, “Okay...”

You pointed up to the sprawling slide,

“In looking at Sonnet 91, most would argue that it is a confession of love. But, it is a tentative one, at best. The speaker claims that despite whatever glory others may have, his glory is found in his lover. We don’t learn until the couplet that his affections are at risk of not being returned.”

You flipped the slide, showing the next four lines:

And every humour hath his adjunct pleasure,Wherein it finds a joy above the rest:But these particulars are not my measure,All these I better in one general best.

It was all very simple. This was an easy sonnet, and there was no real mystery, but as you came to the end, you tried to reiterate your thoughts quickly, feeling the pressure to let people get on with their lives,

“The speaker makes quite a substantial claim here, so much so that the audience may be led to believe that he is being intentionally facetious, especially if one were to consider the content of Sonnet 92.”

“No,” a deep voice from high in the back protested, “I mean, I think I disagree with you, lass.”

The whole room woke up. Everyone turned quietly in their seats, generating a symphony of creaking and rustling of chairs and coats, craning their necks to look at Johnny who, for some reason, had stood up in his aisle.

“Oh, how so?” You said politely, trying to be deferential. 

It was more than a little uncomfortable in the room. No one ever asked questions during the colloquium, even though that was its intended purpose, and certainly no one ever stood up when they asked it. Everyone usually just allowed the speaker to drone on and on about whatever topic they were into that week, and there would be polite applause at the end so you could all go home early. Ironically, Johnny had committed an act of rebellion a mere five minutes into your talk. 

“Well,” he crossed his huge arms over his chest, shoving his muscles against each other. Amongst the mostly lithe, soft-bodied academic crowd, he and his friends looked out of place. He raised his voice, sending it arching down to you like an arrow, “I’m pretty sure he’s genuine. Look at the next four lines.”

He pointed to the glowing screen. You sighed, flipping slides.

Thy love is better than high birth to me,Richer than wealth, prouder than garments' cost,Of more delight than hawks and horses be;And having thee, of all men's pride I boast:

“Look, bonnie,” Johnny chuckled, “I dunno about you, but if I’m boastin’ about a wee hen who’s more than all that — more than wealth, more than all men’s pride? She must actually be somethin’ to boast about.”

You countered, trying to get the talk back under your control, flipping to the next slide: 

Wretched in this alone, that thou mayst takeAll this away, and me most wretched make.

“Then what of his lamentation in the couplet?” You asked pointedly, listening to the sounds of creaking chairs again as everyone turned back to look at you as you responded, “Surely he has some reason to doubt this uniquely prideful love.”

Johnny shrugged,

“He doesnae doubt the love; his life cannae be separated from his love. Love is all there is. Ye ken it from Sonnet 92 when he asks: But what’s so blessed-fair that knows no blot?”

You smiled, slowly, knowingly, and then finished the couplet for him,

“Thou mayst be false, and yet I know it not.”

You were aware of the implication you were wielding like a knife down there in your theatre, staining your hands and hurling your scalpel at him, accusing him through verse of the same sin you’d thrown in his face the last time you spoke to him: of being false, of betraying Pidge. 

Johnny shifted his weight, frustrated, but standing his ground,

“It’s not… he doesnae think it’s false, hen. Tha’s not it.”

Were you still arguing about the poem? You couldn’t tell. His face had become serious and a little pleading. So, you responded in verse since it would fit the conversation either way, 

“How like Eve’s apple doth thy beauty grow, if thy sweet virtue answer not thy show.”

“And I would bloody eat it anyway, thief. False or no.”

There was an awkward silence and then a short, if a bit unsettled, polite applause. People began to shuffle out, standing, stretching, and chatting with each other as they made their way back into the hallway. A few of your labmates waved at you, and a friend from your cohort wished you a happy Christmas. 

Johnny sauntered down the stairs toward you, leaving his friends lounging in their seats, and as he came closer and closer, you felt like you were the one on the slab of your own theatre, open and vulnerable to the empty room, fully at the mercy of your operator. 

You thought he might pause, that he may stop walking and stand a few paces away, ready to talk things out, but he didn’t. He didn’t even slow his pace. Johnny grabbed you around your jaw with his enormous hand, his wide palm hot against your chin, and he pulled you into him, your lips sliding into his, pressing together like the last piece of a puzzle, completing a picture. 

His body was so warm as you crashed into his arms, and he held you down, pinning you like you would fall away from him if he let go. You couldn’t do much else other than submit to his strength; you didn’t want to do much else. You grabbed him around his waist, feeling him through the thin cotton of his shirt, tumbling into him as he forced your mouth to take his tongue. 

Johnny let go of a low moan, a sigh that couldn’t escape, and the hand that had been holding your face was now fisting your hair and running thick fingers through your soft strands. 

He pulled back without warning, gasping as he whispered to you, speaking with his forehead resting on yours and his eyes pinched closed,

“Did you mean it, what you told Gaz? Am I right? Is this right?”

You took a deep breath, smelling his soap and his cologne, the scent of his skin so familiar to you it seemed like home. His eyes remained closed, and he wore a mask of pain, holding himself back from truly letting go. You nodded, whispering back to him,

“You were right.”

Then, his eyes shot open, finding yours immediately, looking back and forth to peer into both of them at once, searching for even the slightest hint of deception,

“Are you fallin’ for me, mèirleach? ‘Cause I’m… I cannae go halfway. I’m in, or I’m out.”

“I’m in,” you smiled, laughing a little at your confession. He kissed you again, softly petting your hair, holding you close. But, you paused and looked up at him with a warning glare in your eye, “But, look, she cannot know. Maybe after the wedding, but… she cannot find out.”

“She won’t,” he was smiling back at you, making it look like it would be on his face forever, “I’m a professional spy, lass, or did you forget my wee entourage back there.”

He nodded up to his friends. The captain was asleep with his hat over his eyes, snoring in long, regular rhythms. Ghost was using a datapad, staring intently at the screen, and Gaz was using two hands on his cell phone, tapping vigorously, engrossed in some sort of game.

Johnny whistled, quick and shrill. The men stirred, peering down at him and making their way toward you. When they reached the bottom, they all towered over you, ready for polite introductions.

“John,” the scruffy, bearded one shook your hand first. His fingers were dangerously strong, and it shocked you to feel it against your own palm.

A young man was next. You knew it was Gaz, but you hadn’t seen a photo of him yet.

“I’m Kyle,” he smiled. He was even nicer in person, “We texted, before.”

You nodded, smiling back, and introducing yourself.

Then, it was the big one.

“Simon,” the tall blond shook your hand for a brief moment, just enough to squeeze and release. 

“It’s really nice to meet you all,” you said, “I’m glad you made it for the holiday.”

“We try to stick together ‘round this time of year,” Price explained, but you weren’t sure you fully understood his meaning. You just smiled and nodded. 

“You ready to head out?” Johnny asked you.

“Yeah, just need to head back to my place and get my bag.”

“Alright, hen,” Johnny smiled, “Lead the way.”

You led them up and out of the building and into the cold night air. Your apartment was only a short walk from this side of campus, so you decided to forego the bus ride. 

Johnny had your hand clasped in his so tightly that you wondered if he was alright. You looked up at him, and he smiled. You didn’t know how to say all the things you wanted to say, so you just commented on the most obvious one first,

“Where did you learn Sonnet 91? Or 92 and 93 for that matter?”

Gaz interrupted you, turning his head to talk over his shoulder as you walked behind him,

“Bloody stuck in his Kindle for months, he was. I think he read them all, and then he read them all to us. We’ve had more of the Bard than fuckin’ Lizzy the first.”

You gasped and made a face at Johnny, waiting for him to answer for his actions. He just shrugged, his cheeks flushed either from the embarrassment or the cold. 

Price walked up beside him and knocked him a bit on his shoulder, ribbing him along with Gaz,

“Especially that one. What number?”

“Fuckin’ 145,” Ghost groaned.

Then, in unison, the three soldiers all started reciting it aloud, their voices sing-song and purposefully annoying, 

“Those lips that Love’s own hand did make breathed forth the sound that said “I hate” to me that languished for her sake…”

Johnny shoved Gaz back to the front of the group with his free hand, laughing it off,

“Alright, alright, you bastards. I may have read it two or three times…”

“Two or three hundred, Sergeant,” Price rolled his eyes. 

You grinned up at Johnny, humming your pleasure,

“Wow! I’m impressed. Didn’t know you were such a Shakespeare fan.”

Gaz scoffed, 

“It’s not the poems he’s a fan of!”

Price smacked him on his arm, stopping Gaz from being too mean in his playfulness, aware that Johnny had his limits of what he would allow to be said in front of you.

“Mmm,” you answered noncommittally, squeezing Johnny’s hand as it held yours, clutching at you like the end of a rope, holding you like an anchor to his hull.

As you made it to your apartment, you pointed to the small coffee shop on the corner of your block,

“Do you wanna wait somewhere warm? I’ll only be a minute.”

Price snorted, grinning as if he had just remembered a private joke, 

“Go help her with her bags, Sergeant. C’mon, lads.”

The trio left you together, and Johnny waited for you to open the door to the lobby. You buzzed in and waited for the elevator in the quiet foyer. 

He was silent the whole ride up to your floor. You thought he’d have more to say, especially after just getting back from a tour. You wondered what was keeping him so quiet. 

You jiggled your key into the lock and pushed your way inside. Marlowe was on the futon, lounging in her favorite position, but when she saw the strange man in her house, she bristled and fled beneath your bed. 

“Marlowe,” Johnny said, recognizing her. 

“Yeah,” you smiled, grabbing your vitamins from the kitchen cabinet to put in your bag, “Sorry, she’s afraid of strangers.”

“It’s alright, hen. I love your place. Look at that view. You can see the river and everything. That’s class.”

He was being polite. Johnny was way too big for your apartment. With him in the space, it felt like you may as well have lived in a tent. It was such close quarters that you spent most of the time edging around him to get to your stuff. 

“Can I…?” He was pointing down at your bed, asking to sit. 

Recognizing your rudeness, you nodded,

“Yes, of course. I’m sorry. Can I get you a water or something? Tea?”

“No, I’m good,” he sat and smiled, still looking around the space, taking it in. To be fair, there wasn’t much to see.

You continued to pack, trying to hurry knowing his friends were downstairs waiting for you. 

“Okay, toothbrush… I think I’m all set. Are you ready?”

“No,” he was looking down at the floor, and his tone was so soft that it made you stop your packing whirlwind to listen to him. 

The silence deepened between you, and you tried to be patient. Neither of you dared to move, but he met your eyes. 

“What is it, Johnny?” You asked, still waiting. 

He stood and walked the half step it took to stand before you. His huge shoulders blocked out the light, and you could tell he was chewing on his words, working them over and over to make sure they were right. 

“I need to know…” he said quietly, running his fingers through your hair again, “I need to know if you are havin’ any doubts about this, lass. I dinnae want to pressure you, and I know I shouldnae be asking you to lie to her, but I need you, mèirleach. I need to know you’re not still havin’ doubts about the way I feel about you.”

Were you? You weren’t sure. You knew he cared about you, and you didn’t have any evidence that he was playing you, but Pidge’s warning still raged in the back of your mind. 

You sighed,

“I don’t doubt that you have feelings for me.”

“But, you think they willnae last?”

“I don’t know, but I want to find out. It’s just hard to have confidence in a secret.”

He furrowed his brow,

“I’d call her and tell her now, if you’d let me. You wanna wait, hen. And I’m fine with that. I am. But, how am I supposed to show you who I am when I’m not supposed to be showin’ you anything at all?”

You didn’t know what to say to him, and it made you feel discouraged. Maybe you were wrong. Perhaps you should have kept your promise after all, and this was just too complicated. 

Johnny watched the guilt spread across your face and chased you down with his eyes, his tone laced with dark suggestion,

“Unless you want me to show you now, thief.”

You did. You wanted him to show you everything he was. And, you understood what he was asking you for. The nerves between your legs pulsed, and blood rushed down your arms, excited for whatever he was threatening you with. You wanted him to fuck you right here in your apartment. But, you hesitated, very aware that if you said yes, if you let him show you what he wanted you to see, you wouldn’t be able to come back from that. The guilt would eat you alive. 

“Your… friends…” you picked at the zipper of his thick coat, stepping close enough to him that you could feel his heat radiating from inside the fleece lining of it. 

“My friends can wait, thief. I can’t.”

“Then don’t.”

The same way a bear trap snapped shut, its teeth digging into the writhing flesh of the creature inside its metal maw, that was how he caught you in that moment. You looked up at him, eyes wide and expectant, and you were greeted with a hunter’s smile. He knew he had you, and he went for the kill, putting you out of your misery. His arms wrapped around your body as he kissed you with a high fever, moving from your mouth to your neck as quickly as he could, devouring your soft flesh there, nipping and sucking at you frenzied and harsh. All of his gentle reservedness was gone, pushed aside in favor of sating his wild craving. 

You were on the bed in a second, your back flat, pressed into the mattress by his heavy weight. He didn’t readjust. He allowed his body to pin you down, crushing you beneath him. You tried to rid him of his jacket; there were so many layers between you, and you were eager for there to be none. 

He helped you, shucking off his coat and shirt layers quickly before returning to your mouth and throat, breathlessly panting as he kissed and licked your throat. His chest was bare to you then, and the cold metal of his tags stung your chest as they jingled out of his clothes, falling onto you like two silver coins. You rubbed his body down, pressing into the muscles of his neck and back, feeling them jerk and lunge as he moved above you. He kissed your mouth again, moaning through his nose. 

Then, he was peeling you apart, taking your clothes and tossing them away, pulling off the tissue from a coveted gift. Johnny didn’t even take time to pause at your bra; he just yanked it over your head with the rest of your clothes, unceremoniously. While you were sucking on his tongue and kissing down the scruff of his jaw, you heard his boots thump onto the floor, one after the other. 

All that remained between you were your slacks and his jeans, and he was forced to leave your mouth to deal with the barriers. He made his way to your breasts, sucking on them hungrily, but not playing. He was done playing with you, it seemed. 

He popped the button on your pants and tucked both of his hands into the waistband, grabbing your panties along with it, and ripped them down your legs with a deep grunt. You were naked, and the denim of his jeans raked against your sensitive skin. He was grinding his body against you as you were trapped beneath him, and you felt his hips rock back and forth as he rubbed his cock against your core, trying to use the friction inside of his jeans to find some pleasure, returning to your nipples to lick them into stiff peaks. 

You wrapped your legs around his hips, your thighs halfway between the skin of his ribs and the bite of his belt, letting him thrust against you. 

“Johnny,” you whispered, “Take them off.”

“Not yet, hen.”

You moaned, feeling his crotch pressing hard against yours, but not being able to find any sort of consistency in the texture. 

“Why not?” You asked and begged at the same time.

“Because…” He kissed his way down your belly, settling his face between your thighs, “As soon as I do, I’m gonna fuck you, mèirleach. And I’ve not tasted you, yet.”

His mouth was wet and hot and just what you wanted. Johnny ate you like he was on a mission. There was no careful exploration like the first time. It felt like he was eating you to satisfy his own craving, and your enjoyment was merely a fringe benefit. 

You keened as loudly as you dared, crying out for him as he lapped at your folds, hunting down your flavor. 

Then, he began to speak to you as he sucked on your clit, pausing to say his words before returning to his font to swallow more of you down into his throat. 

“Do y’know how long I’ve waited for this, hen?”

Suck, lick, kiss…

“How many nights…”

Suck.

“...in the sand…”

Lick.

“...in the bloody dark…”

Kiss.

“...waiting to have you in my mouth like this.”

Lick. Lick. Liiiickkkk…

“Oh, fuck, Johnny!” You bit down on the back of your hand, reeling from the pressure building in your center, feeling chills on your arms and chest, “Please…”

“And when Gaz told me…”

Suck.

“...I didnae believe him.”

Lick.

“But, I wanted to. I wanted to believe…”

Kiss.

“...that you were really mine…” 

Suuuuckkkk.

“...mo mèirleach…” 

Liiickkkk.

“...mo ghràdh.” 

You started to come, your hips vaulting into his strong jaws, and his eyes found yours, bright and clear, staring at you, watching you fall apart in his mouth. At the last moment, just before you fell over the peak, he wrenched his eyes shut and sucked even harder, yanking you into a furious, crashing orgasm. 

Then, desperately scrambling to taste the result, he thrust his tongue deep into your hole, his entire mouth suctioned to your pussy, reaping his soaking reward. 

“Johnny,” you sobbed, overwhelmed by the power you felt growing inside of you, bursting across your body like hundreds of little fireworks.

He was back up by your face in a moment, cradling you and kissing you with your come smeared all over his lips and cheeks,

“Shh, shh… it’s alright, lass. I know what you need. It’s what I need, too.”

You heard his zipper and watched him slide out of his jeans, kicking his socks off with them, naked with you once more, and now with full intent. His cock was drooling onto your belly, the precome leaving long, sticky trails as his swollen shaft traced its way up and down through your folds. Johnny’s cock was so hard that it felt like a warm, iron pipe was pressing into you, threatening and dangerous. 

You must have worn the concern on your face because he chuckled down at you, kissing your forehead sweetly as he humped himself against you,

“Too much for you, thief?”

You let your hands meet in the middle, holding his dick with one on top of the other, effectively jacking him off as he thrust forward and back, wetting him with his own lubrication, and you watched him throw his head back in sharp need. You smiled up at him,

“Not yet.”

“Jesus Christ,” he paused, holding his position, poised like a viper. Then, he looked down at you, suddenly serene, “Do you need a condom?”

“No, do you?”

“Fuck, no,” he said, and he immediately sank his head into your softness, melting into you with a slick slide, trusting you implicitly, believing you like a disciple. 

Your body hadn’t experienced a cock as thick and as hard as his. It wasn’t uncomfortably long, but its upward curve was particularly cruel. It was built to torture the soft pleasure-ladden spot inside of your walls, dragging across it as he fit himself inside of you. It took a few thrusts until you felt his hilt, but you were wet enough that your pussy didn’t need much coaxing. He was sighing above you, audibly and full of relief, his face bent and twisted in a perfect torment. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck… thief, holy fuck. Oh, Christ. I cannae… oh…”

His thrusts were audible. Flesh pounded into flesh, and the wet noises coming from you seemed unreal. Each and every time he entered you, pressing through you and molding you to his shape, you felt sparks of bliss within your belly, expectant and eager. 

“Johnny… it feels so good. You feel…” 

“You alright, mo ghràdh? Do you… mmmph, fuck… do you need me to slow down?”

You imagined what that would be like, and your pussy railed against it, feral and wanton, fighting any semblance of gentility with sharpened teeth and greedy claws. 

“No, please… don’t.” you kissed his cheek as he lay his head into your shoulder, deep in concentration, rolling in his passion.

Your kiss made him turn to face you, kissing your mouth so softly, with loose, relaxed lips, gently sliding his cheek across yours like a huge cat, rubbing himself all over you. He didn’t stop, but he spoke to you darkly, 

“I’ll do whatever you want, lass. Tell me, and it’s yours.”

“This,” you sighed, moaning as another wave of pleasure made you clench down around him, gripping him from within you with a fluttering squeeze, “You. Just you, mo chridhe.”

You tested out the nickname you’d used before, hoping to encourage him. You may as well have poured kerosene on a fire. He narrowed his eyes at you in disbelief, obviously hearing it and using it like war paint, covering his body in it, staining himself in it, changing himself from the inside out to fit its definition. He lay his head next to yours as he worked his cock within you, grunting through gritted teeth with each heavy thrust. His body started to tremble, shaking with his need to come, and the low, long whine that came from his throat made it sound like he was boiling over with blinding pleasure. 

He took both of his arms and crossed them behind your back, grasping your shoulders from behind in a painfully tight hold. Then, pressed to his chest, he lifted you, settling you in his lap in the lotus position, keeping his cock sheathed deep inside of you. You grabbed onto his neck instinctively, holding him like a lifeline, rocking your hips into him to chase that friction. 

Johnny sighed, pressing his forehead to yours, 

“Yes, yes, yes, thief. Take it. Fuck yourself on me, hen. Use me. I wanna feel you come, mèirleach…” 

He begged so sweetly, and you were happy to oblige. You used his shoulders to brace yourself while you pushed your body down onto him, spearing yourself over and over. At this new angle, his cockhead hit your g-spot every single goddamn time, and you were dizzy from his menacing shape. He snaked his hand between you to press on your clit, not even rubbing it but applying force, giving you something to grind against. The combination of his hand and his cock and his growling whines of struggling for control were enough to do the trick, and you saw white behind your eyes as you fell into a chaotic, plunging orgasm once again. 

“Fuuuuckkkk…” He groaned loudly, his voice turning vicious, “You are mine.”

Your body fell back to the bed and he shoved your legs onto one of his shoulders, fucking you as deep as he could go, stretching you as he did, throwing himself into you as you came down from your high. He was shouting, curses and praises, all in a filthy, animalistic snarl. Johnny just kept repeating the same phrase in a cultish chant, mindless and recursive, completely beyond himself, past reality. 

“You’re mine, thief. Mine.”

As he came, he searched for your eyes, staring into them, showing you his elation. You ran a hand across his scalp, your fingernails dragging through his mohawk, and you saw the whites of his eyes as he rolled them back into his head involuntarily. You held onto his hair and gave it a little pressure, holding his skull in your hands as he filled you with his spent pleasure, his cock throbbing, pulsing rope after rope of hot come into your belly, frothing and foaming around the base of his shaft as he fucked you through it. 

20 MINUTES LATER

You were so worried that his friends would make some sort of comment. As you walked back to the coffee shop, tucked under his heavy arm, you prepared for the playful banter and the jeering. His mohawk was destroyed, and you were both glowing with a sheen of sweat, matching in your states. You knew that they knew. You could also tell that Johnny was bracing himself for the worst, steeling his resolve before entering the cafe. And you thought you would get, at the very least, some mention of how long it had taken to get your bags. But, when you made it to the coffee shop, they didn’t say a word. They smiled, and although they smiled knowingly, there was more affection in it than mischief. It shocked you. After all the ribbing from before, to have none now seemed like some kind of gift. When Johnny realized they were going to let him keep his prize for himself, uncontested, he began to glow with pride as much as pleasure. 

The ride was not quiet, though. All of their stories from Urzikstan and its many dangers started to come out. Price told you about how Gaz and Ghost were almost incinerated in a cobalt mine, and Johnny was showing off his newest badge - a retro SAS pin Price had given him for rescuing the other two from said mine. The blue wings and the motto surrounded a bright sword.

“Who dares, wins?” You asked, trying to see the words in the dark backseat. 

Ghost, who had needed to sit in the front with Johnny because of his height, nodded, taking the pin back from you to admire it.

“Well deserved,” Price commented beside you. 

“Sounds like it,” you agreed. 

Johnny had been so sweet to you after his ferocious lovemaking, you thought all the medals in the world might not be enough to thank the man. No one had ever been so kind nor so attentive. Most of the time, you and whatever lad would clean up separately, maybe watch a show or two and then say your goodbyes. Not Johnny. He spent most of his time admiring your body, making sure you were intact and unharmed. Then, after covering you up with your softest throw, he came back with a hot towel and cleaned you up meticulously. He lay beside you until you felt good enough to get dressed, and still as you were putting your hair up, he made you a tea and finished packing your bag with the things you’d forgotten; your vitamins on the counter and your phone charger. 

When you came out of the bathroom, he had stripped your sheets and put them in the hamper, and Marlowe’s food timer had been set. Her litter box was clean, and the automated litter keeper was reset. You wondered fleetingly if he had wiped down the counters as well. 

The drive felt shorter than usual, especially since your thoughts were on other things. But, when you pulled into Old Kilpatrick, Johnny spoke up to the whole car,

“Look, no one says a fuckin’ thing about us to my sister. To anyone, alright? She’ll find out when she’s bloody meant to.”

The men agreed to keep quiet, but Gaz mouthed off beside you, 

“Sure we can keep a secret, Soap, but what about you? I wouldn’t give you a medal for impulse control, mate.”

Johnny eyed him in the rear-view mirror with a stern glare,

“Aye, but then that’s my problem, you daft bastard.”

 Gaz rolled his eyes, grinning all the while. 

By the time you’d arrived, the only open spot to sleep was a big pallet on the floor of the living room. Hamish was the only one awake to welcome you, and he set you up with pillows and blankets to camp out like a row of sardines. 

“Hey, lass,” Hamish told you, “Go sleep with Pigeon. She’d murder me for leaving you on the ground.”

He looked worn out, and although you didn’t mind sleeping on the floor, you didn’t have any real reason to insist. So, you hugged all the boys good night, making sure not to take too long on Johnny’s turn, and retreated to your post. 

Pidge was snoring softly as you entered the room, and you got ready for bed as quietly as you could, plugging in your phone to the nightstand. It buzzed, and you saw his message flash up on the screen:

Mo Chridhe: miss you 

You: i miss you too

Mo Chridhe: im still in a wee shock

You: why

Mo Chridhe: you. cannae believe youre mine

You: i am. and youre mine johnny mactavish.

Mo Chridhe: promise

You: promise

CHRISTMAS MORNING

Waking up with Johnny and sitting around the tree together with your coffee was every bit like Christmas morning as when you were a child. Instead of presents, you were content to sit as close to him as you dared, pretending to be making room for others by finding spots on the floor beside the gifts and stockings. 

All together, it was Johnny, his three soldiers, you, Pidge, Hamish, Hamish’s mum and dad, and Roger. Rodger had crashed on the couch last night, the Hamiltons had taken Johnny’s room, and now you were all crowded up in the small den, passing gifts around and chatting as you opened your presents. There weren’t many, but it was enough to feel like a holiday. 

Roger got the Playstation he’d been begging for from his brother, and his parents had bought him the games. Pidge had given Johnny a new set of headphones since his had melted in the cobalt mining fire. She also got him a pound of her shortbread cookies, which he was stuffing into his mouth with absolute abandon. He’d bought her a tea set off her wedding registry, and Hamish had landed a very aggressive knife from him. The professor was already being given a tutorial by Captain Price, and you tried not to laugh as he practiced stabbing the air with him in the kitchen. Price was scary when he did it, but Hamish looked downright silly. 

“Okay, alright. My turn. Here,” you gave out your cards to everyone in attendance, but pulled out a box for Pidge. 

“What did you do! I told you not to, hen. I am going to give you a laldy, and you’d deserve it!” She hugged you around the neck and jiggled the box. 

Satisfied with the rattle, she tore into the paper and gingerly lifted off the lid. Inside, she saw the MacTavish tartan, woven into a full shawl, embroidered with a tiny pigeon in the corner, just for her. She inspected it with wonder, her breath fully stolen away. 

“Did you… You made this? Are you doin’ your weavin’ again, babe? I thought you gave it up.”

You shrugged,

“I found a reason to give it one last shot.”

Pidge started to cry real, honest tears, and she reached out for you, clutching the shawl to her chest, sobbing, 

“Thank you, hen. Thank you so much. After they buried mum in hers, and I didn’t… I couldn’t touch it anymore, I just…”

You held her and rocked her back and forth, smiling at her outpouring of love,

“I know, babe. I remember you saying so. But, now you’ve got one of your own.”

For a moment, you stole a glance at Johnny. The whole room was a little moved by your gesture, but he looked… unwell. He was standing behind everyone, and you were the only one looking at him. His hand was clasped over his mouth, and he had tears coming from his eyes, unblinking, letting them roll down his cheeks one after the other, staring at you, frozen in place. He was so unsettled that, for a moment, you thought you’d made some error. But, as Pidge recovered, so did he, and he wiped his face to return to normal; putting on a mask of an expression, hiding whatever he had just shown you. 

“You’re the best damn friend I’ve ever had, hen. And I love you. Dearly.”

“I love you too, Pidge.”

“Here, here, open mine! It’s not as braw as all tha’ you did, but still.”

You were handed a gift bag, and you peeked inside. You found a book of poetry with some incredible illustrations inside, and a charm necklace with a silver boar hanging from it. 

“It’s our wee clan beastie. You may as well be a MacTavish by now, hen. So, I thought you should have it.”

You smiled, letting her put it on you. Then, you hugged her tight, 

“You don’t know what that means to me, Pidge.”

Pidge laughed through dried tears, still emotional,

“Ha! Says you, miss weaver. Honestly.”

You let her gush over it a little more before you retreated back to your position beside Johnny. You pulled out the four smaller boxes from your bag and handed them to the soldiers, indiscriminately since they were all alike. 

“What did you do, thief?” Johnny’s voice was low, and he was grinning up at you, staring at you through those dark lashes.

“Open them,” you urged him. 

They did, and one by one they all pulled out small compasses, made with built-in flint strikers, hanging from tied paracord. It was the most tactical practical thing you could find on such short notice, but they all seemed pleased. Gaz shook it at Price, 

“This would’ve been bloody helpful in South Tobraka!”

You laughed, 

“Well, I’m sure it’s a little too low-tech for you, but Merry Christmas anyway.”

“It’s bloody perfect,” Gaz smiled, clapping you on the back. Ghost nodded, and Price hooked it to his lanyard without questioning it. 

Johnny bent over to whisper to you as discreetly as he could, 

“Gotta sneak off to give you mine, lass.”

You smacked him on the arm, whispering back, watching Pidge like a hawk as you did so to make sure she couldn’t see you,

“Don’t be naughty.”

Johnny laughed, 

“No, no. I’m serious.”

“Alright!” Hamish clapped his hands, causing you to jump out of your skin, “Who’s ready for crackers?”

CHRISTMAS NIGHT

You and Johnny were curled up on the couch with a steaming cup of sweet wassail, scrolling through the photos you’d taken that night. You popped two crackers together, pulling out your paper crowns, your gold and his blue, snapping selfies and reading the jokes to each other. Everyone was in their crowns by the end of the night, and while Price smoked cigars on the porch with Gaz and Ghost, Pidge and Hamish had driven his parents and brother home. 

You were finally alone after having such a full house, and your gift for him was burning a hole in your bag. You were dying to give it to him, but he beat you to the punch.

“Alright, mèirleach, are you ready for your wee gift? It’s probably gonna earn me extra PT for a few months, but it’s worth it.”

“Why?” You asked, setting your cup down on the end table and turning your body towards him. 

“‘Cause I’m not even supposed to have these off-duty, much less hand them over to my American lassie.”

Johnny dug into the neckline of his shirt and pulled out the dog tags that you had encountered last night when he took you to bed. The coin jangled on the chain as he pulled it over his head, and like a medal for an award you had not won, he looped it behind your neck, letting the coin fall between your breasts, still warm from his body and now warm from yours. 

You pulled it up to read its stamp, staring at the words:

O POS 2073521 MACTAVISH SAS RC

“Wanted you to have it, lass. A wee piece of me to keep safe, if you will.”

It was hard to know why you started crying, but you felt the searing tears fall down your cheeks as you stared at the tag. His blood type was what started it all, and you began to imagine all of the times that this thin coin would have warranted such a label. 

“It’s alright, mèirleach, if you dinnae —”

“No,” you raised your hand to his face, closing your other hand around the coin and pulling it in to your chest, eager to keep it safe just as he had asked, “Thank you, Johnny. I love it.”

He turned his face toward your hand as you caressed his scruffy jaw, and kissed your palm, holding your hand with his so you couldn’t escape. 

“I got you something, too. But, it’s small, and now I’m afraid you won’t have anything to hang it on.”

You dug in your bag and pulled out a small cardboard box with a thin red string tied around it. There was no card, there was no name printed on it, but he knew it was him nonetheless. He took it from you, almost snatching it, excited and surprised, not waiting for it to be given. 

“Thief! You didnae have to do that,” he was grinning, and his eyes gleamed, full of sudden joy. 

You’d found an old locket at the charity shop, and your gift had fit inside perfectly. When he opened the clasp, he froze. You’d use a scrap of the shawl that you’d woven for Pidge and cut a little circle from it, embroidering a tiny map of Scotland over the threads, planting a little red heart over what was almost Glasgow. 

“Mo mèirleach…”

“Mo chridhe.”

As soon as you said his name, his eyes found yours and he leaned in to kiss you, clutching the locket in his fist, tight, tight, tight. 

BEFORE DAWN

That night, in his bed, smelling his oranges and cloves, his scent filling your nose, covering you with his sheets, you lay buried in his chest where his tags used to lie, your cheek now warming the skin beneath. You imagined the compasses that dangled from the four sets of keys strewn across the kitchen counter. You thought about the shawl that was wrapped around his sister as she slept in her bed. Holding his locket in your hand, you ran your fingertips over its tartan, borne of the same threads as hers. You wondered about tomorrow, and the day after that, and the year ahead of you, and you felt a tightness in your own chest as you considered the timeline stretching out before you, woven from the choices you and your lover had made together. It was as if you had altered fate’s plan somehow, shunning your intended path and forging one of your own making. What future had you created? Did you have the guile to craft the right course? You held his hand, his fingers laced between yours, and whichever way you went, you hoped that he would be braving it with you.

#i will never not love this fic #it’s beautifully crafted #the love for it is so evident #i love this more than reader loves the mactavishes #kriffingstars fic recs #johnny mactavish x reader

[kriffingstars]

Johnny MacTavish; if i were a worm

pairing: Johnny MacTavish x Price!Reader summary: Would you still love me if I was a worm? warnings: verrrrrry slight age gap (I imagine reader to be around 20, Johnny is 26) a/n: right here we go, new part! follow up to found out will be up next. i’ve been working on it for a few weeks. i’ll be releasing it christmas day, new zealand time. please, please send me some fluffy asks about this fic, I need some drabbles to lighten up the angst I’ve been writing.

“Hey, Sweets?”

You’re lying on Johnny’s sofa, when he moves his body so he’s looking straight up at you, head still in your lap.

You mumble a yes, as your hands still continue to card through his freshly cut mohawk. The two of you had spent the morning messing around in his bathroom, as he instructed you very carefully how to use the clippers.

His blue eyes study your face, as he blurts out, “Would you still love me if I was a worm?”

“Hmm,” is all you give him, as a smile creeps onto your face. You can tell by the way he narrows his eyes at your non-immediate reaction, that’s he’s expecting you to answer with a firm yes.

His smile drops slightly when you make a face, looking slightly disgusted at the thought of worm-Johnny.

“Worms are a good source of protein right?”

Hook. Line. Sinker.

Johnny’s moving faster than you’ve ever seen him, and positions himself opposite you. It’s a bit of a sight. He’s flushed and spluttering as he’s trying to put a sentence together, and his hair is sticking up at all angles.

“You’d eat me?!”

As nonchalantly as you can muster you say, “I mean maybe. Could fry you in some butter and garlic, or deep fry you. That seems a bit more on brand.”

“Yer can’t eat me!” his brows furrow, and his shoulders tense even more as his discontent becomes even more obvious.

Johnny’s a lot of things, but one of the things he’s not, is good at telling when you’re winding him up. He does it constantly to you, and you fall for it most of the time. You’ve also become accustomed to the familiar glint in Johnny’s eye when you know he’s done something. It’s a very similar look that’s in you eyes as your boyfriend throws a fit over you potentially eating hypothetical-worm-Johnny.

“Well you’d be a worm, darling. I couldn’t do much for you, and the cat would probably eat you. At least you’d be in my stomach!”

With a deep breath he claps his hands together, bringing his fingertips up to his lips, and releases the air trying to comprehend what you’ve just said and how you’re trying to justify it.

“Yer meant to say that you’d still love me and you’d build me a little home in one of those glass pot things and I can live on your desk. Not that you’re going to turn me into scran.”

With that last outburst he’s jumping off the sofa, as you hide your glee behind your palm that is currently, firmly pressed to your mouth. You didn’t even need to hide it from Johnny at this point, he was long gone.

After about five minutes you could still hear him clanging in the kitchen, muttering about how well he’d treat you as a worm. You’re trying so incredibly hard to focus on the book you were reading before Johnny joined you on the sofa, intent on distracting you, and keeping him company.

At least payback was amusing. Hopefully he’ll be over it soon enough. Turns out soon enough isn’t now because he’s poking his head back into the living room, firmly set on continuing the conversation.

“You know you should cherish me, even in worm form.”

Looking up from your book you meet your boyfriend’s gaze. He’s certainly calmed down a bit but non the less, annoyed that you haven’t answered his hypothetical question in the loving and tender way he wanted you to.

“Fine, I’ll put you in the terrarium, but I’m giving you back to your mum for Christmas.”

Obviously engaging in the conversation causes Johnny to enter the room completely, hands on hips, ready for another play argument.

You’re not sure what about this conversation but the man in front of you seems to be enjoying this just as much as you are. Despite his displeasure at your ‘in-caring’ words to worm-Johnny.

“Okay, but you’ve got to tell Mam that it’s me because she’ll leave me to fend for myself in the garden.”

Finally finding the conversation coming to the end of its course. You can’t help but take the perfect opportunity to get under his skin once again.

You smile, wait a moment and then peak over the top of your book.

“If your Mum loved you as much as you say she does, she’d recognise you even as a worm.”

What you didn’t expect was Johnny to have had enough of you pulling his leg and scooping you up over his shoulder, as he run through the flat. Socks skidding slightly on the hard wood floor as he rounds the corner, and dropping you unceremoniously onto his bed.

You’re both red in the face now, as you fall into each other, still laughing, before you cup his cheek gently pulling his gaze up to you. Faces inches apart.

“I would love you in any form, I’d just prefer it if I could do this,”

His lips are warm, and the stubble on his cheeks is prickly as you cup your hands around his face. This is the kind of Johnny you try to remember when he’s off on deployment.

Happy, carefree, and completely in love.

Taglist: (please let me know if you’d like to be added, all requests from my taglist will get priority)

@cassiecasluciluce @misshoneypaper @unknownduck0 @iwannabealocalcryptid@darkangel4121 @clear-your-mind-and-dream @mothiing @pepsicolacoochie@samanthamarkle92 @fullmoon-94 @poohkiee90 @calabeebee

#johnny mctavish x reader #johnny mactavish headcannon #john mactavish headcannon #john mactavish x reader #soap mactavish x price!reader #soap x reader #john mctavish x reader #soap mactavish #cod mw soap

[kriffingstars]

for your tf141 imagines and prompts

“would you still love me if i was a worm?”

especially if it would be them asking or their partner.

soap is totally the kind of guy to ask his so this.

I've been giggling my ass off at this request (in the best way possible). I had so much fun writing quick little drabbles for each of them. Enjoy!

Find the Imagines & What If masterlist HERE

Content Warnings: foul language, brief suggestive themes (on one)

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist

John Price:

“John?”

John glances up from the morning paper. The two of you sit outside in the garden. The sky is gray and cloudy.

“Would you still love me if I was a worm?”

John blinks. Frowns. “Would I still love you if you were a worm?”

“That’s right,” you reply.

John places his steaming mug of tea on the table beside him. Then, he folds up the paper, placing it in his lap.

“We have three kids together.”

“I know. But—”

John shakes his head. “Of course I’d still love you. What kind of bloody fucking question is that?”

John "Soap" MacTavish:

“Would you still love me if I was a worm?”

You sit up and laugh, disbelief in your tone. “What did you just ask me?”

John shrugs and then grins sheepishly. “If I was a worm, would you still love me?”

“Asking the important questions,” you reply, shaking your head.

“Always.” He rolls onto his stomach and rests his cheek on his fist. “Humor me.”

“I’d keep you in a little jar of dirt. Carry you around everywhere. Give you tiny kisses,” you say.

John nods. “Good answer.” He fishes out his phone. “I’m gonna ask Simon the same thing.”

Simon "Ghost" Riley:

“Can I ask you something?”

“Always.”

You turn on your side, wiggling up to Simon’s side in the bed. He sits up with his back against the headboard. The silk sheets are tangled around his thighs, and he holds a pack of smokes in his hand.

“Would you still love me if I was a worm?”

Simon just stares.

“Would you—”

“I fucking heard you.” You watch him inhale. “A worm? A fucking worm?”

“Yes,” you say slowly.

“You fell apart on my tongue a bloody minute ago.”

“True.” You pause. “Does that mean—”

“Yes. Bloody fucking hell.”

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick:

“You’re having a laugh.”

“Answer the question.”

Kyle smiles behind his mug of English tea. “No.”

“Kyle!”

He shrugs and takes a sip. You place your hands on your hips. “I require an answer.”

Laughing softly, Kyle places his tea down on the counter behind him. He leans back casually, crossing his arms. He’s not wearing a shirt.

“You want an answer?” he asks.

“Yes. I do,” you reply.

Kyle huffs, a mischievous grin forming on his face. “I’d give you to Captain Price as fish bait.”

You point at him, stifling your own rising laughter. “How fucking dare you.”

taglist:

@glassgulls @km-ffluv @glitterypirateduck @tiredmetalenthusiast @spicyspicyliving @childofyuggoth @coffeecaketornado @aykxz98 @kayden666 @36namey @pearljamislife @wrathofcats @keiva1000 @pertinentpostmortem @enfppixie @bbyfimmie @berarenado @saoirse06 @ninman82

#this is too good #above and beyond expectations #giggling and kicking my feet to this #they’re all spot on #kriffingstars fic recs

[kriffingstars]

john "soap" mactavish edition. (pt. 2)

"I don’t ‘develop’ headcanons. They come to me in visions and I know they’re correct."

• he is actually very insecure about his art, even though he is very talented

• one thing you know but you let him believe its a secret:

• johnny insists you fell in love with him first. about a year after dating, you found his journal full of drawings of your face, all with dates at the corner,, the first one? he drew it the day you met

• he almost died when he found out you had dogs,, he postponed going to your house for MONTHS

• he actually really likes them now (but please don't leave him alone with them for too long, he gets nervous if he's outnumbered 😭😭)

• he stills carries a polaroid of each dog and one of you in his wallet

• soap has an AMAZING taste in art in general. music, books, movies, paintings. his knowledge is one of the most attractive things

• favorite artist? it's lana del rey but he says is the strokes

• for some reason things just happen to him and people don't believe him:

• once he saw 5 owls in a day and called price like ??? this can't be normal

• or the day he was fixing something around the house and found 3 identical socks

• one time gaz made fun of his outgrown mohawk,, he pretended he didn't care but went to his barracks and cut it himself

• (bad idea, it looked so uneven from behind)

• if you think his accent is thick now, wait to see him speaking to his family (good luck if english isn't your first language)

• if you get a period and have bad headaches, you have no idea how soft-spoken he gets,, he is so sweet and naturally caring you could cry

• he can be such a teenager ksknskn,, if you have to go somewhere and you kiss him a little too hard

• "you gonna get out of the car?"

• "...in a minute"

• this is too random:

• please google 'monkey boy at apple store' and tell me he doesn't stand like that while texting around the house

#howling at the monkey boy reference #it’s SO accurate #kriffingstars fic recs

[kriffingstars]

john "soap" mactavish edition.

"I don’t ‘develop’ headcanons. They come to me in visions and I know they’re correct."

• huge fan of reality shows and doesn't hide it

• stomach sleeping ONLY

• (unless you want to sleep on his chest, but be prepared because this man SNORES)

• he genuinely thinks he is handy around the house (he ain't)

• not really a morning guy

• needs a few minutes to sit on the bed and stare at nothing

• yes, scared of dogs, but donates to every animal shelter he sees

• regularly steals gaz's socks

• (simon knows)

• halloween FANATIC

• (you are going as fleabag and hot priest this year)

• sit-on-my-shoulders-during-concerts kind of guy

• this man has a thing for your hair ??? will touch it and brush it for you every chance he gets

• has a thing about his hair too, falls asleep about 90 seconds after you start caressing it

#kriffingstars fic recs #i love this sm #these are so original and SO on point

[kriffingstars]

this!!! you cannot tell me that the 141 boys don’t like chubby girls.

everything about their job is harsh and hard. there’s so much violence and it’s horrible, but coming home to their chubby girlfriend?

heaven. she’s soft and squishy and indulgent in a way they don’t get to experience as much as they’d like.

she’s safety and the complete opposite to them in the best way. she’s soft and kind, because she doesn’t have to be any other way, and they just fall into her when they come home.

soap loves chubby girls

simon loves chubby girls

gaz loves chubby girls

price loves chubby girls

everyone loves chubby girls

end of post..

i said end of post

end of post!!!

#141 brainrot #sorry to jump on your post but these are daily thoughts i have #coming from a chubby girl #ALSO these hunky men have the muscles to pick us up. i’m not worried about squishing them

[kriffingstars]

Gross Childhood Best Friend Soap

Word Count: 1.6K

Warnings: The tiniest smidgen of angst but it ends nice so you better not complain, not super proofread

A/N: Yeah I dunno, came up with this last night and just crammed it out today in a sort of word diarrhea in which I blacked out and woke up naked and alone in the middle of the bush with this on my laptop screen. Make of that what you will

Contrary to his callsign, Soap is, and always has been, a gross little goober of a man

He’s been gross since you were kids, going digging for worms, collecting hermit crabs to take home from the beach in his pockets, rolling around in the dirt and coming home tracking mud on the carpet. Of course, it wasn’t all bad. He’d always offer to kiss your scrapes and bruises better, even if they were bloody or muddy. He’d always find pretty seashells to give you amidst his hunt for the largest hermit crab. He was gross within reason.

You had many a fond memory of going off to the creek at the back of your neighbouring houses with him. You'd climb up to what felt like perilous heights in your child minds, to sit on the highest point of the creek. From there, you would watch as Johnny dug for the perfect stones for you both to skim, watch him build dams and change the currents of the water. Watch as he would lunge at bugs, fish, tadpoles, lizards, and present them up to you from below, the squirming creatures clutched in his mud covered hands.

At the end of the day, just before your parents would call you back home for dinner, Johnny would climb up on the rock with you, just to sit and hold your hand. If he was feeling particularly bold, he would plant a kiss on your hand, and tell you he was going to marry you one day. You called him gross for that too, but latched onto the idea all the same.

Your early teen years, where puberty had begun for the both of you, was plagued with a myriad of varying smells and odours. Forget sweating like a pig, Johnny sweat like a boar; walking home from school with him after P.E. was a nightmare for your nasal cavities. You didn't mind though, he made good enough conversation that you ended up getting used to the stink.

For the amount of afternoons you spent in his room, you'd think you would eventually get used to the sight of his dirty clothes and mugs littering his floor and desk. You never did, always scolding him for not keeping his room clean knowing he had a lady coming over. He would always laugh, even as you threw his pillow at him, copping it square in the face.

So many nights were spent laying side by side in his bed, talking late into the night, curious hands too scared to do more than brush pinkies with the other laying inches away. You always felt as though you could feel him staring at you in the quieter moments of those nights, but you never caught him.

You spent your later teen years feeling bitterly towards him. You went from thinking you'd be best friends forever, to being an afterthought for Johnny. You did try, of course, to keep close to him.

In his late teen years, Johnny was gross in the sense that he’d go off to parties just to see how many people he could make out with. Would have sex with anyone who offered, just for the hell of it. Accompanying him to parties was a nightmare.

"You promise you won't abandon me this time?" You found yourself asking this more than once, each time slightly less optimistic than the last, but never losing your faith in him.

"Of course not, lass," he would always say. "Yer ma' girl! I'll stick right by yer side this time, lass. I promise."

What shallow promises they were. You were always demoted to the third wheel, the one who held the drinks while he went off to flirt with someone new he hadn't fucked yet. You found yourself leaving early and alone most nights, walking home and hugging your sides to keep yourself from falling apart, kicking stones imagining they were Johnny's face. Cursing yourself for thinking this time would be different, and that maybe he'd look at you for once. Going to bed cold and bitter, knowing just next door, Johnny would be waking up with someone else next to him in his bed. You just hoped he remembered to keep his room clean for them.

You both graduated, with Johnny leaving to join the military and you leaving to go to university. You kept in scarce contact over the years, occasionally calling to catch up, Johnny telling you where he was stationed, you telling him what you were working on at uni, apologising for missing birthdays, missing holidays, promises to call again soon, promising to catch up when he's home, all shallow. At least, that's what it felt like to you.

Until one night, when you were out at a bar with you friends, celebrating your recent graduation. You were all discussing with great vigour what you would all get up to with your newfound freedom from studies, when you felt the familiar feeling of eyes boring holes into the back of your skull. A little unsettled, you took a look around the bar, trying to see who could possibly be staring at you so intensely, but you couldn't quite catch their eye. You sipped at your drink, a frown furrowing your brows for a moment, before you brushed the feeling off altogether.

An hour passed and you'd forgotten the feeling in the haze of the alcohol. You were ordering yourself another drink, and as you reached into your wallet to grab out your card, another hand swooped in front of you to pay for your drink. You looked up, startled, before you met his gaze. Johnny. Staring down at you with a smile that could melt glaciers.

"Johnny, you didn't tell me you were in town," you murmured, eyes greedily taking in as much of him as you could in this moment of reunion. Scars on his chin covering the one he got from splitting his chin riding a bike for the first time. Stubble covering his jaw. The corniest mohawk that he had always talked about getting, sitting on top of his head. Your face flushed beet red when your eyes dragged over his built form; apparently that childhood crush you'd had on him all those years ago hadn't quite faded as much as you'd thought it had.

"You didn't tell me you'd graduated university, lass," he replied, the sound of his voice—finally in person again and not over the phone—sending shivers down your spine. "Had to find out myself from yer mum."

You hid your guilt behind the drink you tipped back into your mouth, averting your gaze as he watched you with dark eyes. "Thanks for the drink," you breathed, and he laughed.

"Don't even mention it, 's the least I can do. Why don't we go sit down somewhere 'n catch up, aye? Come on, lass."

You found yourself being guided over to a booth, Johnny's hand on the small of your back, sending ripples of warmth through you and into places the alcohol couldn't quite reach. You sat down first, with Johnny shuffling in close beside you, your shoulders brushing, electricity coursing through your veins.

As you sat and spoke, catching up on what you've missed in each other's lives, you found yourself noticing something. Johnny was using all the moves he used to use on people he fancied in high school, the ones he used to get them all flustered, to get in their pants.

You had to admit, you could see why so many people slept with him; he was charismatic as all hell, that boyish charm spawning those all too familiar butterflies in your gut, and he was quite literally always in contact with you. Whether it be the arm resting behind you on the seat of the booth, his knee gently nudging yours beneath the table, or a hand tucking a hair behind your ear, it seemed Johnny had turned the charm up to the max.

It was nice to be on the receiving end of it for once, but there was a certain bitterness that still lingered behind like a foul taste in the back of your throat. Was this just meaningless flirting to him, were you just another girl on his list to fuck and be done with? With all the alcohol in your system, you were well and truly past the point of caring, but you knew that if you woke up tomorrow morning in an empty bed you'd not only be cursing him, but yourself as well.

You let him lean in closer, tracing a finger down your cheek, and you let yourself be giddy, blushing like a schoolgirl when he winked at you. You let yourself swoon when he kissed you, cradling your face in his calloused palms. You let him take you back to his parent's place, nestled just next to your own home. You let him take you upstairs and into his room, holding your hand and shushing you when you both laughed a little too loud.

You let yourself feel like teens once more as you stumbled into that all too familiar room, hit with the smell of Johnny, the smell of home. You felt guilty, ashamed, as you let yourself savour the taste of him, the feeling of his naked body pressed against yours, his hands raking along your body as if you'd disappear if he let go. You let yourself fall asleep in his arms, smiling as he carded his fingers through your hair and pressed kisses to your scalp, whispering incoherent things into your skin.

You awoke the next morning, expecting to find Johnny's bed empty. But it wasn't. And neither was it the next morning, or the morning after that. In fact, the pair of you spent a lot of time waking up together.

This is where you find yourself now, lying in the early morning light in Johnny's bed, the man in question sprawled out next to you, snoring with his mouth wide open, drool leaking on his pillow.

"Gross," you murmur to yourself with a fond smile, tucking yourself into his side and closing your eyes once more.

#holy shit this is good #it’s perfect #johnny mactavish brainrot is real #i’m mushy and it’s all bc of this fic #kriffingstars fic recs #johnny mactavish x reader

[kriffingstars]

lmfao

#alright zurg #srsly what is wrong with him?

[kriffingstars]

this is absolute gold dust. everything about this is immaculate!!!

imprimatura

muses - part one - next

Pairing: John "Soap" MacTavish x f!Reader Word Count: 2.8k Rating: Mature (mostly Soap being Soap) Warnings: please see this post for notes about this reader character Also on Ao3.

An artist meets her muse, and a solider meets his.

He arrives early as you’re setting up for your students, in jeans and a tight t-shirt, and the first thing that crosses your mind when you lay eyes on him is Jesus, he’s fit. 

You are no stranger to bodies. Hundreds of them have cycled through your studio, all shapes and sizes and colors; you think you may know every dip, every roll, every hard angle and soft curve that a human body is capable of holding. The mystique of defined muscle has long lost its novelty. Bodies are bodies, and each holds the same value as the next when subject to brush and canvas. It never matters, you teach your students, what a body looks like in the modeling chair. It only matters if they can reproduce it accurately.

Even so, when a body like this walks in, you really can’t help but take notice.

Decadent muscle, fed and worked well, round and full with hydration. It’s impossible to miss, even through his clothes; each group delineated clearly, gracefully, as if sculpted rather than built, and alive with soft, subcutaneous movement. It’s indulgent to look at, the comfortable breadth of his shoulders and chest down to that slight taper of his waist and bulk of his thick thighs. It’s a physique no hard-bodied gym rat could hope to achieve merely with extra time at the racks—a physique that is easily, harmoniously attractive in its makeup of muscle and healthy fat.

The man is also mohawked and suntanned, and his mouth rests at an angle that suggests he often smiles—as if he knows that Michelangelo would have swooned at the sight of him. He comes into your classroom, saunters over to you, and stops precisely two paces away from you.

“Sergeant John MacTavish,” he says, offering his hand. “I understand you’re the instructor?”

He has gorgeous, vivid blue eyes (pthalo and cremnitz, with a touch of hamsa). You blink several times. Fit is still rattling around your skull, and begins knocking against sergeant at the same rolling frequency as his warm Scottish brogue. You realize his hand is still outstretched and quickly take it to shake.

“Yes!” you say. His palm is tough, callused, and not soft in the slightest, but very warm. “Nice to meet you, sergeant.”

He gives a grimace. “John’s fine. Or Soap.”

“Soap?”

“Nickname, y’know.”

Neither of you have released from the handshake. Soap’s grip is firm, the kind of firm that suggests he can squeeze much, much tighter if he needs to. And if the grip isn’t any indication, the broad forearms, dusted soft with dark brown hair, certainly are.

Black lines, a sword and helmet framed in laurels, catch your notice. The ink has the soft edges of having lain in the skin for a few years. You turn his arm to see it more fully. “Oh. Nice tattoo.”

He looks at the ink as if it is entirely new to him, and then gives an easy grin. “Thanks. I’ve got a few more too. Hope they aren’t hard to draw.”

When you loosen your grip on his hand, he releases you immediately. You still feel the squeeze in your bones even as you drop your hand to your side.

“So, then, Soap,” you say, “have you ever modeled before?”

He shakes his head, tucking his hands into the front pockets of his low-slung jeans. It tugs the waistband just a bit, revealing a sliver of warm, tan skin (raw sienna, flesh ochre, naples yellow). “Should have, honestly, with how much it pays.”

“It gets very boring, very fast,” you say. “What do you plan to wear for the breaks?”

“Was I supposed to bring that m’self?”

You are unable to suppress a laugh. “Yes, unfortunately.”

“Oh,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck and going a little sheepish—as if expecting a reprimand. You suppose it’s a valid expectation to have, in his world. You aren’t terribly familiar with the military, but you do know it’s one hell of a stickler for rules.

You also can’t help but admire the appealing pull and stretch of his bicep and deltoid, the flex of his pectoral as he lowers his arm. 

“Why don’t you wait here, and I’ll go see if I can find something for you?” you suggest kindly, letting him off the hook.

“Sorry,” he says, pretty blue eyes filled with genuine apology. “I’ll remember nex’ time. Thanks.”

The expression is so hangdog that you almost want to pat his head and noise at him reassuringly, like an actual dog. You press your lips together to hide a smile, and leave the studio.

When you get back from the models’ changing room, you find Soap with one hip against the counter where you’d been organizing your supplies, one knee loose and shoulders set at a relaxed angle. You want to laugh at his easy contrapposto. He’s going to be an excellent model. You can feel it. 

It looks as if he’s moving around the sticks of vine charcoal with one outstretched finger; he pulls his hand guiltily away when you reenter the studio, crossing his arms over his chest as if to hide the evidence of his snooping. It makes his pectorals bunch and round out, gathers the thickness of his biceps up into chiseled, full definition.

You lift one brow at him as you walk over.

“Never could keep my hands to m’self,” he admits, still sheepish.

“It’s alright,” you allow, smiling back. “Do you draw?”

“Used to,” he says. He looks back at the charcoal. “No time, now.”

“Are you deployed often?” you ask, taking the opportunity to look at his face. 

Beauty is cheap in art, but you notice it all the same—appreciate the strong brows, the hard angle of his jaw, the dark stubble of a beard you suspect he can’t keep shaved down, and the long scar that cuts through it across his chin. The light brown of his complexion is speckled with sun exposure, and there are the faintest of creases at the corners of his eyes, which you expect will deepen into genuine, gorgeous crow’s feet as he ages.

He’s not all rugged, though. There is a soft, thick curl to his lashes, which are as dark as strong coffee or expensive chocolate, and an equal decadence to the pink, plush little swell of his bottom lip—which, in the very middle, has the smallest of divots, as if he regularly spends time biting it. 

They’re traits that are far too sweet to belong on an otherwise masculine face, and their effect is such that they turn an objectively average set of features into a shockingly attractive portrait—that suddenly has something fluttering, just a bit, in the roof of your stomach.

He looks at you, and catches your survey. You can see him realize you’d been watching, the knowledge of it blooming in ocean blue eyes like ink dropped onto linen.

“More often than no’,” he answers, showing teeth in a crooked, interested grin. And now he’s looking at you—attention flitting across your face, dropping down your body and jumping back up to meet your gaze. The creases deepen at the corners of his eyes.

The fluttering intensifies. The sudden role reversal has you feeling at once flustered and unmoored. You are never the subject of any perusal—always comfortably the observer.

“Well—” you try, and you’re embarrassed at the low tone of your voice. You clear your throat. “Well, let’s make use of the time we have you, then.”

His smile remains, cocksure and easy. “Let’s.” 

He knows the effect he’s had.

“Anyway,” you say, blinking several times and proffering the sheet you’d retrieved, “none of the other models are your size, so I’m afraid this will have to do.”

He takes it in his hands, which are sun-dark and striking against the clean white linen. “So it’s a toga, then?” he asks.

“Whatever you like. Let’s go over the basics, and then you can undress.”

“Oh, already, aye? Y’move fast, hen,” he drawls, still grinning. “I like it.”

Heat rushes to your face, but you don’t feel embarrassed enough not to laugh. You busy yourself with tapping your charcoal sticks back in place, putting them back in an even row ascending in order of length, and saving yourself from having to look him in the eye. “Ha! We don’t do a lot of foreplay in this studio, I’m afraid.”

“No?” Soap hums, and he steps closer. He’s very warm, enough that you can feel it even with the space between you. You do have to look at him then. His eyes are half-lidded, lashes casting pretty shadows on his cheekbones as he gazes down at you. “That’s a shame. I’m right partial to it.”

Your brows lift, and you will your pulse to remain steady even as you inhale, catching a thread of—cologne? Aftershave? Just plain deodorant?—coming off of him. The scent caresses you, almost beckoning you to lean forward. You swear you can see the thrum of his heartbeat, there in the soft hollows by his Adam’s apple.

You blink. He is your model. “Well—I’ll try to set you up as best I can, anyway. Follow me, please.”

And you turn your back on him, because this is your workplace, and you are at work, and if you don’t get on with things you might do something stupid like actually flirt back.

Soap hadn’t been sure what to expect when he arrived at the art studio. He’s never been to one before, much less one housed in a university—which he has also never been to—and hell, he only ever took one art class in high school.

If pressed, he’d have imagined old brick walls covered in diagram posters, shelves of supplies in all colors, the smell of paint hanging permanently in the air. What he finds instead is modern, clean, and impersonal. Stage lights hang from fixtures in the ceiling, pointing at a platform in the back center of the room. A tight line of easels, all folded up, stand pressed into a far corner, next to a tower of stacked chairs, and waist-high cabinets line half the room against the bare, painted cinder block wall. The linoleum floor looks new.

None of this, however,  has any opportunity to disappoint him. His final unmet expectation, standing across the room and organizing a tray of art supplies, is a very welcome surprise.

You’re bonnie. Like, every point on his wishlist bonnie. Christ, he must’ve done something really good lately, because he can’t imagine just lucking into this. There’s not a hard angle to you, all sweet and soft, but when you meet his gaze during introductions there’s a sharpness to you that skewers him through the chest. You are much smarter than him, he can tell immediately. 

He’s always had a thing for smart women. Soft ones, too.  And if that weren’t enough, you let him flirt shamelessly with you, while checking him out the whole time.

Steaming Jesus.

You direct him to get onto the platform and sit down, still clothed, in an armchair draped in another pristine white sheet. The stage lights are bright overhead, and they highlight free-floating wisps of your hair in gold. 

“You want to ensure that you don’t rest your weight on only one or two points,” you explain. You have a nice voice. Steady, confident—this is your territory, your studio, and in it you are clearly the master. “The main danger is that your arms or legs might fall asleep, and you won’t realize it until you get up, in which case you’ll fall. We can’t touch you, so we can’t save you from that.”

“Y’canna touch me?” Soap repeats.

“Not without your explicit consent,” you say.

He smiles at you, the kind of smile he saves for bright nights at the pub over platoons of shot glasses. “I explicitly consent to you touching me.”

The corners of your mouth tug upward, just a bit, and you look away, clearly bashful. Something in Soap’s chest starts beating a drum. He knows already he’ll ask you to drinks after the class ends tonight.

“I doubt I’d be able to do much,” you say, “you’re a bit more substantial than the usual models.” Your eyes flick down his torso and back up.

“Guess I’ll have to follow your advice, then,” he says.

“You should,” you say, and he looks at your thigh shamelessly as you pat it—even beneath your jeans, he can see the ripple of the impact. “One of the worst-case scenarios is nerve damage.”

“So you have done this before!”

He can’t help it—Soap’s imagination runs wild. Titanic, draw-me-like-one-of-your-French-girls wild. It’s not exactly polite to imagine a teacher naked while she’s in the middle of giving him directions (and Jesus, what a concept, he might be half-mast already), but Soap has always found that people like it when he’s a little rude.

You drum your fingers. “I have.”

He finally hears the nerve damage part of your instruction. “How, uh—how bad can it get?”

The drumming stops. “For me? It just starts to twinge a bit if I sit on this side very long. So don’t rest your weight all on one hip, yeah?”

Concern assuaged that he had not ignored your genuine pain in order to objectify you, Soap grins. “Yeah.”

“Good,” you say. “Also—even if it doesn’t hurt, Soap, you can stop at any time, okay?”

That has him blinking. “Kinda defeats the purpose, doesnae?”

You shake your head. “It doesn’t matter. This is your first time modeling. You don’t know how you’ll feel, sitting here with your clothes off and everyone looking at you. If you need to stop, I want you to stop. I’ll make sure you’re paid anyway, so don’t worry about that.”

You are…so serious about this. The line of your brows is furrowed, imploring, like a little discomfort on his part is a violation of the highest order.

“Sure,” he says, a little dumbstruck and mostly lying. He’d be a rubbish soldier if he tapped out of a little thing like sitting down, but it’s nice that you care.

You purse your lips, nod, and then move onto the task at hand, stepping back and then down off the platform. When you begin to survey him—gaze flitting up and down his body, more pensive than appreciative—he has to resist the urge to flex.

Instead he watches you as you look at him. He especially likes, he decides, the slope of your nose and the smart, serious press of your mouth. You could get him all turned around, he thinks, if you gave it half a try.

Your tits are also great, but that’s by the by.

“Try resting your elbow up a little higher, and twist at the hips a bit,” you instruct, and Soap obeys. “Hm. How would you feel about crossing your ankles?”

You continue like this—nudging him in directions he doesn’t think make all that much of a difference, standing in different positions around the room to check the angles. He half-wishes he could step out of his body and join you, curious as he is about what you’re seeing, what your students will see. He’s not sure he has any clear expectations for how the class will go, but if you’re any indication, it’ll be more fun than he expects.

“Not sure if I’ll remember how to get back into this,” he says, partly to be helpful and partly to get you to talk to him again.

“I’ll help you, don’t worry,” you say. “Okay, I think that’s a good one, you can move now—I’m going to start setting up, the students should be here any minute.”

He stands, and you turn away to collect your supplies, so Soap figures this means it’s time for him to strip. He pulls off his shirt and drapes it over the chair’s arm, unbuttons his pants and shoves them down to his knees.

“Soap!”

He freezes. Then he looks at you. You’re blushing again, deep and saturated, mouth parted in surprise and hand pressed to your chest. He does not miss the quick flick of your gaze down his body; he’s probably violated some rule or another of the studio, but he can’t help but grin.

You’re adorable.

“Gotta happen eventually, right?” he says.

You cover your face with your palm. “I was going to leave the room first!”

“First time someone’s wanted to run away when I’m takin’ my clothes off, I won’t lie—”

“You just come get me when you’re done!” you say hastily as you beeline for the door. “I’ll be right outside!”

Soap chuckles a little when you’re gone, the door slamming mortified behind you, and folds his clothes up behind the armchair he’ll be sitting in. You’re so cute. He can’t wait to sit naked for you for the next three hours.

And he’s definitely asking you out for drinks.

Author's Note: THE PROMISED FIC. I really hope y'all enjoy this one, I've been teasing it since March and I have so many plans. This fic has a special place in my heart because it's drawing heavily from my college days--my bachelor's degree is in fine arts, and I have a lot of fond memories of many hours in the studio both as a student and as a model.

I expect this series will also have a looser timeline than my Neighbors series, so I'm open to suggestion in terms of scene ideas! I already have plenty, but if I know my mutuals, y'all might have some good ones as well. No promises I'll write them, but you never know.

Thanks everyone for your patience, and I hope you'll look forward to where this fic goes!!

#soap x reader #john mactavish x reader #kriffingstars fic recs

[kriffingstars]

Johnny MacTavish; the other man

pairing: Johnny MacTavish x Price!Reader summary: The MacTavish sisters take things into their own hands, and Johnny gets jealous warnings: verrrrrry slight age gap (I imagine reader to be around 20, Johnny is 26), tiniest bit of angst if you squint a/n: i hope this makes up for the lack of follow up, once again asks are always open. if you want to be added to the tags just let me know :) enjoy my beauties

None of the boys are particularly fond of the more ceremonial side of being in the military. The uniforms are too hot, itchy and Gaz has already complained about the way the trousers are splitting him in half.

The nice aspect of it, is that they get to show their families a small part of what they do, even if it’s a carefully constructed show with lots of procedure.

Price can see you mingling with a few of the other soldier’s families. You’ve always been the most personable of the Price’s, taking your mother’s kindness and magnifying it tenfold.

Currently you’re in deep conversation with two ginger girls, the three of you chatting animatedly. Price feels himself smiling as he watches you, he doesn’t really get to see this side of you very often, all your cousins are much younger, and you rarely bring friends round to the house. He’s told you many times, you’re not just a guest, it’s your home and he expects you to treat it as such.

You know it’s your home, but you also see how your Uncle is with new people, and you like to keep the sanctity of your home just that. A sanctity.

“You know you’d be perfect for my brother, he needs someone with a head on their shoulders,” Maisie mentions, switching their conversation in a complete one-eighty.

“Ah, maybe.”

It’s only awkward for you, Maisie and Amelia have no clue that you were in fact sleeping with said brother, not even three weeks ago, and spent most of the time in between texting him.

“He’d be head over heels for you trust me,” is all that Amelia adds to the conversation. From the twenty-minute conversation you’ve had with the two MacTavish girls, you’d learnt Amelia was the older of the two, and slightly more reserved than the youngest, Maisie.

If you thought Johnny was out-going, he had nothing on his baby sister. All big smiles, loud laughs with the biggest heart.

You can see what Johnny says when he tells you he has his work cut out, being the protective older brother.

Maisie’s energy is infections, and her comments about her brother’s potential affections are quickly forgotten as she moves the conversation onto this new band she’s been listening to. Before you know it she’s added a few of their songs to your playlist and you’ve promised to text her what you think of them.

The shrill sound of a bugle cuts off the conversation between the three of you, noting the start of the ceremony and presentation.

It’s nice to see three of the four men parading in all the finery. Ghost for good reason isn’t there, you figured that his mask is not part of the official uniform. You sigh, thinking how it must be a shame that the man can’t be included in the festivities.

The man in question doesn’t, he’s currently in his sweats enjoying the peace and quiet and reading his book, lounging in the now quiet rec room.

Your Uncle sneaks you a subtle smile across the square when you catch his eye. Your face beaming back at him brings him a joy he’ll never admit to.

He knows you’re not his daughter, but you might as well be. He’s resigned himself to the fact that he’ll never have kids, he’s getting older and no closer to meeting someone to spend his life with.

He doesn’t mind. His time at home is spent catching up with old friends, and enjoying your company. You’ve been confused as his daughter a few times in the village and he hasn’t bothered to correct them as of late. He knows you don’t mind, you go as far as calling him your third parent, yes, it’s mainly in jest, but the sentiment is there.

By the time the service is over, all the family and friends in attendance descend on the square to take photos and congratulate the people they’re here for.

You and the two women in tow, make your way over to the three men, lost in conversation over Gaz’s continuous complaints about just how uncomfortable he is.

“Johnny!” is all the older man hears before the Scotsman is out of his vision, being nearly bowled over by a flaming red head flying at break-neck speed.

Soap’s spinning the girl in a circle as he laughs with her, over something inaudible to him.

This time it’s your turn to congratulate John, as he pulls you into his side, checking that you weren’t too bored and laughing when you say how impressive he was.

A call of your name breaks the quiet conversation the two of you are having, it’s Amelia beckoning you over two where the three MacTavish’s are standing.

“This is Johnny, honestly you two would be great together, I think you would really get along,” Maisie butts in again, wiggling her eyebrows as she mentions the getting along.

Oh the irony of the whole situation. Thank god Uncle John can’t see your face because there’s currently a shit eating grin adorning your face.

Johnny’s spluttering, his sisters take this as him being astounded by the woman that’s in front of him, you know better. His eyes aren’t glued to yours, he’s looking slightly behind you, where no doubt your Uncle is glowering at him.

Usually he’d step in, but he’s heard stories about both of Soap’s sisters and there’s no way he’s facing their wrath. He knows how tormented Soap is by the two of them on the daily, even when he’s in a different country. He doesn’t trust that the two of them would turn their focus towards him for interfering in true love.

“We’re going out for dinner later, you should join us!” is the next thing that’s uttered and you try to make your excuses, how you’re actually already going for dinner with the man stood behind you, bit it’s too late.

Fortunately, or unfortunately (it depends on who you ask), John gets invited along too, which is how you find yourself at dinner in a nice country pub as a five, instead of two.

You’re conveniently sat next to Johnny, whilst his two sisters bombard John with questions, many of which are brushed off with a quick ‘I can’t answer that I’m afraid’ but he makes up with plenty of stories of all the times Soap has done something stupid on base, and a few stories from deployments.

“This is not the kind of dinner I was talking about,” Johnny murmurs to you, when he notices his sisters have his CO distracted.

That earns him a gentle slap to his stomach as he laughs at the incredulous look plastered on your face.

“You look beautiful,” is how he follows up his comment, drinking in the way you look in the dim light of the pub.

“So do you, I mean handsome, I mean not that you aren’t beautiful,” you reply stumbling over your words, because god, the tension is palpable.

His hand finds yours underneath the table, stroking slowly over your knuckles, as he decides to finally save Price from his sisters’ rambling.

You’re surprised at how good he is at keeping his cool, you’re sure your face is radiating so much heat that everyone else at the table can feel it.

You’re also surprised at how much you like the thrill, maybe it’s just because Johnny is holding your hand, or maybe its the fact that you know you’re doing everything your Uncle told you not to.

You take a moment to think about how different things could be if John was supportive of the two of you. Maybe you’d actually be dating the man sat on your left, and you’d be holding his hand above the table, maybe his arm would be slung around the back of your chair as you lean into him. He’d toy with your hair slightly, to keep himself from being too distracted from the conversation he was engaged in.

You’d leave the pub hand-in-hand, stealing kisses from each other, as you walked behind the rest of the guests. They’d all be staying in the house with you all. John would make up the sofa bed for Johnny’s sisters, and you’d fall into bed together, stealing kisses and whispering sweet nothings.

You’re snapped out of your daydream by Amelia asking if you’re currently seeing anyone, a mischievous glint in her eye.

“Oh…not really,” is all you can manage, embarrassed to be interrupted from the tangent your mind had taken you on.

“Not really doesn’t mean no! Spill the beans,” Maisie teases, and you realise you’re completely in the shit.

“There’s this one guy I’ve been talking to I guess. He’s not from here, but it could work out.”

You notice the shift in Johnny straight away, you feel the absence of his touch immediately as he drops your hand. Price raises his eyebrow, of course you’ll be grilled when you get home about this mystery man.

“Didn’t know you were seeing anyone,” Johnny mutters, but it’s loud enough for everyone to hear.

You’re quick to use the slight pause to change the subject, bringing up the first time the two of you met, much to his sisters’ glee and his despair. Even John chortles, thinking back to Soap sputtering over the huge mistake the man made upon your first introduction.

“Seriously Johnny?!” squawks Amelia through her tears.

“They even look alike, I figured out they were related as soon as they were stood next to each other, and this is the first time we’ve met!” is the follow up, through more laughter.

Dinner finishes quickly after that, the two men splitting the bill, not allowing any of their companions to even see it.

John bids his goodbye’s to Amelia and Maisie, before telling Soap he’ll see him on base tomorrow, slightly later than usual. Before you can make your way home the two women are pulling you into hugs, before letting you know they’ve set up a group chat for the three of you.

Johnny’s goodbye is short and sharp, gone is the playful man you spent most of the evening with.

It’s only when you’re lying in bed later, rehashing what went wrong that you realise Johnny thinks you were talking about someone else.

I was talking about you, you dolt x

Your phone starts buzzing, and you don’t even need to look to know who’s calling.

“Had me sweating for a minute there, Sweets. Thought I was going to have some random bloke coming for my head.”

You can hear the relief in his voice as he lays the charm on real thick. Between his accent and the things he mumbles down the phone you think your heart might explode.

The crush you have on this man is debilitating, if you can even call it a crush that is. It’s been on and off about two months of talking to each other, and you know that you’re beginning to get in deep with him.

“Sweets, you there?” his voice echos softly through the speaker on your phone, tentative in case you’ve accidentally fallen asleep on the phone. It wouldn’t be the first time.

“Yeah, I’m here. Just thinking, sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, what you thinking?2

“Just about us, you…” your voice trails off, you’re tired now, inhibitions slipping a little as your head feels slightly heavier on the pillow.

“Yeah? Anything good?” you can hear the grin he has plastered on his face as he talks.

“It’s all good. I like you, y’know.”

That’s the first time you’ve admitted your feelings for him. You know he knows, and he’s made it very clear he has feelings for you, but hearing you say it has him bouncing off the walls with glee. It’s the best medicine to fix the conflicting thoughts he’d had about the whole thing once you admitted you were seeing someone.

“I do, I like you too. Like really like you.”

The conversation turns soft once again, and before he knows it he’s whispering goodnight to you, as your gentle snores crackle through the receiver, half muffled by the duvet you cocooned yourself in.

Taglist: (please let me know if you’d like to be added, all requests from my taglist will get priority)

@cassiecasluciluce @misshoneypaper @unknownduck0 @iwannabealocalcryptid @darkangel4121 @clear-your-mind-and-dream @mothiing @pepsicolacoochie @samanthamarkle92

#john mactavish x reader #john mactavish headcannon #johnny mctavish x reader #johnny mactavish headcannon #john mctavish x reader #soap mactavish #soap x reader #soap mactavish x price!reader #cod mw soap

[kriffingstars]

next wip is reader meeting johnny’s sisters before they’re together and one of his sisters loudly pulling johnny away from price, to introduce him to the perfect woman without realising she’s saying this in front of price and he’s just white as a sheet because he’ll argue with soap any day. but his sisters? no chance in hell.

[kriffingstars]

johnny mactavish; t-shirt

pairing: Johnny MacTavish x Price!Reader summary: Uncle Price doesn’t know how to feel about you wearing Johnny’s t-shirt warnings: verrrrrry slight age gap (I imagine reader to be around 20, Johnny is 26), allusions to sex a/n: hahaha left you all on a cliff hanger! sorry not sorry. this series is intended to be released in non-chronological order, which allows me to write whatever i’m in the mood for. it alsoooooo allows you guys to send in requests so keep ‘em coming. prompts, lines of dialogue, non cod gifs. and once again, thank you all for your continued support! i promise i will post a continuation of found out, but i want to flesh the relationship out a little more so we can understand everyone’s reactions better, and build on the lead up to the Price/Soap confrontation

You expected the morning after to be awkward. One night stands aren’t really your thing, especially when said one night stand works with your Uncle and you already have feelings simmering beneath the surface.

Never one to disappoint, Johnny is sauntering into his bedroom with a mug of coffee and a plate of bacon and eggs. It’s not his smile or the corny, but still somehow endearing joke he makes, that causes you to laugh.

No, it’s the kiss the cook apron he’s wearing with nothing but the boxers he slipped on when he got out of bed, long before you were awake.

Once both things have been handed off to you, he’s pressing sweet kisses to your forehead before chasing after your lips.

In the sanctity of his flat, nothing else matters, it’s just the two of you, and the surprising domesticity.

“I want to take you out, proper date. Dress up and everything for you.”

He admits as you rest your head in the crook of his neck, breakfast long since finished. His hands dance innocently on the outside of your thigh, appreciating the feel of your skin on his.

“I’ve got nothing to wear,” you giggle, pressing your face further into him.

You don’t think you ever want to leave his embrace.

“I don’t mean now,” he mumbled, another kiss to your crown.

“I mean when you’re home. I’ll pick you up…want to do things properly with you.”

Now’s not the time to question about what your Uncle is going to think of it. That’s a worry for later, and whilst you’re here with Johnny you’re going to make the most of it. Leave the overthinking for when you’re back in your own bed at home.

The morning slips away far too quickly for either of you. Johnny savours every moment he can, as if this is the only chance he’ll have.

It will be for a while. Two weeks at least, until his leave is over. He knows he can’t go back to base too soon. I mean he would, but he knows you’d hate the thought of him spending any extra time in the barracks, instead of the comfort of his own home.

When it’s time to get your things packed and ready for the short flight home he chucks a t-shirt from his draw at your head, muttering about how it would be more comfortable than the smart top you were wearing yesterday.

It doesn’t really match the bottoms you have, but you think it doesn’t really matter and Johnny’s not thinking about anything other than he wants to see you in his clothes more, because you look mesmerising.

The drive to the airport isn’t that long, but it’s spent in constant conversation. By the time you’re out the car, your sides are aching from laughter, and you’re beaming at the Scot in front of you.

“Safe journey, text me when you’re home.”

And that’s all he really says as a goodbye, before letting the hand resting gently on your waist slip a little lower and connecting your lips in a sweet kiss.

It leaves you yearning for the slightest bit more, and you guess that was his intention because with one more peck to your cheek his heading back to the car, glancing as he goes and flashing you that boyish grin that lights up his whole face.

The flight is uneventful, and before you know it your bag is in the boot of your Uncle’s car as he drives you both home.

It’s uneventful, mundane conversation about how your conference was, and what he’s been up to in your absence.

Even if it is mundane, it feels like home, and you relish the time you get to spend with the man, before he’s jetting off to some country in need of him.

It’s only when you’re in the kitchen, making the both of you a brew, when Johnny comes up in the conversation.

“That’s not your t-shirt,” is what breaks your concentration from the two mugs in front of you.

“No, it’s not.”

Fuck.

You completely forgot about it, it’s not like you can pass it off as a new one of yours either.

“Put it in the wash, I can give it back to Soap when we’re back at work.”

That’s definitely not the response you were expecting. You were expecting something more chastising and another warning about leaving the man alone and not getting too invested.

“Hope he didn’t try any funny business.”

Ah, there it is.

Your Uncle is trying to be as nonchalant as possible, and had you not had a pang of guilt punch you in the gut it would be funny. The way he’s trying to casually lean on the counter in the kitchen and carefully studying your face for any sort of micro reaction.

As good as John is at his job, when it comes to you, he can never read you quite right. Sure he can tell when you’re happy, sad and anything in between, but what irks him the most is that her can never tell when you’re lying.

Maybe it’s because your tells are exactly the same as his, and recognising that is that bit harder. Either that or you’re just as good a liar as him.

So he misses the brief flash of panic before you plaster a smile on your face, recounting how he was the perfect gentleman, and even slept on the sofa and gave his room up for you.

“I’d expect nothing less,” He surmises, as he accepts the tea from you.

He doesn’t even bat an eyelid when your phone doesn’t stop buzzing all evening, a quick, “It’s just Georgie, from uni. Wants to know all about the conference. She’s gutted she couldn’t go.” settles any doubt he had.

Of course it’s not Georgie, it’s the man he warned you about.

The rest of John’s evening, once you’ve gone off to bed, is spent sat on the sofa, catching up on the episodes of bake-off he’s missed over the last few weeks.

It’s nice, and it’s the perfect monotonous activity to tune his mind off from the ruckus that usually follows him.

It’s not long before he’s padding out to the stable door the leads to the back garden, and swinging the top open before lighting the cigar hanging from his mouth. No use letting all the warm air out.

Thanks for looking after her. Appreciate it, mate.

It’s intended as a genuine thank you, and also a subtle reminder of the conversation they had when Soap first met you.

His phone chimes with Soap’s reply.

All good mate, anytime.

Taglist: (please let me know if you’d like to be added, all requests from my taglist will get priority)

@cassiecasluciluce @misshoneypaper @unknownduck0 @iwannabealocalcryptid @darkangel4121 @clear-your-mind-and-dream @mothiing @pepsicolacoochie @samanthamarkle92

#john mactavish x reader #john mactavish headcannon #johnny mctavish x reader #johnny mactavish headcannon #john mctavish x reader #soap mactavish #soap x reader #soap mactavish x price!reader

[kriffingstars]

I didn’t want to make this post but I really need to.

I have been part of different fandoms for nearly 15 years. I’m in my mid-30s. I have been here on tumblr for over 10 of those years. And no matter what fandom I’m in, there are always those people that makes things weird or toxic for others.

There are the people who insult or belittle people on their faves, in their art or writing, on how they interact with choices in a game.

There are the people who cross the line when it comes to devs or voice actors, etc and makes things creepy or sexual or push boundaries of these people.

There are the people who gate keep characters. Who claim that no one can romance their fave because they claim them. That anyone who does is making their character cheat and they will harass you as if we’re talking about real life.

There are the people who criticize everything about a piece of media to find the “problematic” things only to be able to show you why you’re a terrible person to like it.

YOU are the reason fandom is dying. YOU are the reason why people don’t want to share their art or their fic or their gifsets. YOU are why we lose these amazing people because no one wants to hear how much you hate the thing they love.

There was a lot of “don’t have anything nice to say, then don’t say anything” when I was growing up but the internet has made you lose all kindness or respect for other people in fandom. It’s disgusting and you should be ashamed of yourselves.

When people stop making fic and art and gifs, you can thank yourselves for that. Because people can only take so much abuse before they give up entirely.