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sillyswriting · 6 months ago

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: ̗̀➛ Love in photographs

ㅤㅤ ㅤ ₊✩ˎˊ˗ Johnny "Soap" Mactavish x Reader

synopsis : Johnny goes through your relationship, pictures after pictures. Memories after memories. Or three times Johnny wore a kilt.

cw : smut, angst, insecurities, injury, toxic behaviour poorly translated Scottish Gaelic, chubby reader. words : 8.5k

ㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤㅤㅤmasterlist⋆ moodboard

People were chatting outside, laughing at stupid jokes—a stark contrast to Johnny’s state of mind.

He was scrolling through pictures on his phone, each one a snapshot of the two of you. For minutes now, he had been staring at the same photo, his entire body numb. An old one—the very first you ever took together. He was in a hospital bed in the dead of night, and you were there with him.

The picture was a mess; he remembered being pretty out of it. But the moment had been extraordinary, so unexpected, that he’d wanted to capture it forever.

It was the night you met.

You didn’t really know why you were here. The pub was kilometers away from the fancy bars you were used to, but your girlfriends had insisted on coming. They never explained why, no matter how many times you asked. Overall, you were having a good time, even if the cocktails were shit. The music was better than you’d expected from a place like this—a playlist of old rock bands like Pink Floyd, The Rolling Stones, The Clash…

Time passed, and you were all a bit tipsy now, dancing in the packed pub. You’d decided to let loose—no work tomorrow, the drinks were cheap, and the staff was kind enough to give you free shots. Your group didn’t go unnoticed. You were loudly singing in the middle of the dance floor, all jumping up and down in time with the music. Yet, no men made any weird moves. No one approached you to rub against you. No one passed behind you, hands on your hips, pressing you against them. No one tried to slip anything into your drink. Your friends told you it wasn’t that kind of pub.You had laughed at their faces. Men were still men.

"Oh! They’re here!" one of your friends screamed, jumping around in excitement. Turning around, you were met with a group of men making their way inside. They would have looked like any other group of friends—if they weren’t wearing… skirts? Your drunken brain didn’t immediately register that they were kilts. You burst into laughter.

They didn’t even look silly. If anything, they looked bloody hot—hotter than any men you’d seen before. Now you understood why your friends wanted to come to this bar. They must have been regulars, judging by the way they chatted with the staff. Charismatic and exuding confidence, they were undeniably intriguing. Big, burly men in skirts. You laughed again at the thought. Why the fuck were they wearing skirts in the middle of winter?

"It’s not skirts, girl. It’s kilts!" one of your friends corrected. Oh. You’d asked the question out loud. Shaking your head, you tried to get your thoughts back in order. You really needed to slow down with the drinking.

It made sense now—the kilts. After all, you were in Scotland. You weren’t Scottish yourself, so you’d momentarily forgotten that kilts were a tradition here. Looking back at the group, your eyes locked onto one of them—the most handsome of the lot. He had a strange mohawk that somehow suited him, thick, strong arms, a slightly pudgy belly that you were sure was still solid muscle, and the most powerful-looking thighs you had ever seen.

When he caught you checking him out, he raised an eyebrow. But instead of looking away in embarrassment, you held his gaze, lifted your glass, and winked. If you had been sober, you would have run away in shame. But drunk you? Drunk you was fearless.

You turned your back on him, but you could still feel his eyes on you. The thought that he might actually be interested sent a thrill down your spine, your thighs clenching instinctively. You weren’t ugly—far from it—but you weren’t conventionally pretty like your friends. A bit on the chubbier side, men usually overlooked you, choosing to flirt with your friends instead. Maybe a bit more liquid courage would get you to talk to him.

Excusing yourself, you made a beeline for the bar. Another cocktail ordered, you reached for your purse to pay when a deep voice interrupted.

"Thon's on me, Louis." His voice was like honey to your ears—low, deep, and rich with that unmistakable Scottish accent. It was almost unfair how good it sounded. You opened your mouth to protest, but he cut you off. "Dinnae worry aboot it, bonnie." Then he winked at you before turning back to the barman to pay.

You, on the other hand, were speechless. Whatever liquid courage had fueled you back on the dance floor had completely evaporated, leaving you floundering. You had no idea how to flirt anymore—it had been so long. And besides, he was way too handsome. He was watching you now, smirking as he took a slow sip of his beer, clearly waiting for you to say something. Panic set in.

"I love the skirt." The words tumbled out before your brain could catch up. You physically cringed the moment you heard yourself, your drunken incoherence making it even worse. Desperate to escape your own embarrassment, you turned away and took a long gulp of your cocktail, hoping the alcohol would somehow erase the last ten seconds.

Beside you, he let out a deep, amused laugh.

"It's no a skirt, or else i'd been wearin' somethin' under it, birdie." The man answered, still laughing a little. Even in your state, you could tell he wasn’t making fun of you—his laugh was genuine. Then, his words registered. Blood rushed to your cheeks the moment you understood what he meant. "The name's Johnny, lass."

However, you didn't hear that last part. Your eyes had a mind of their own and were now fixed on his crotch. God, you were so embarrassing. When he repeated his name, you snapped your gaze back to his. Your name tumbled out of your mouth in a weird whisper. How did he make you horny? He had barely spoken to you. There was just something about him—something magnetic.

Before you knew it, you had spent the entire night talking—at the bar, at his table with his friends, outside sharing a cigarette. And now, at his place, on his couch. Normally, you would never do this—go home with a stranger—but he had talked so much about himself, his life, his friends, his family, and his job that it felt like he had a genuine interest in you. If you were wrong, well, at least you’d have a good view while you died, right?

You had sobered up a little, but Johnny still had you spellbound. From his messy hair to his massive thighs, and those deep blue eyes that seemed endless—everything about him radiated an effortless, rugged charm. He was way out of your league, so why the fuck were you here? You should have said no when he asked, but you couldn't resist him.

You were trying to sit a certain way so he wouldn't see your stomach bulging, your hands on your thighs to make them look a bit thinner, pulling your shirt down over your arms. You had eyes—you could see he was also a bit chubby, but it was all muscle. That much was clear when he mentioned he was in the military. He was built like a rugby player, making him even more breathtaking.

Truth be told, he had been talking for the last few minutes, but you weren’t listening. You didn’t mean to be rude, but between the alcohol and the overwhelming attraction, your brain was struggling to focus. Your gaze was fixed on his thigh—the one closest to you—and all you could think about was biting it. His words from the pub echoed in your head, and with his kilt resting so high on his thighs, you found yourself silently begging him to move just a little more so it would rise again.

Johnny had noticed the look on your face, the way you weren’t hearing a word coming out of his mouth. He smirked slightly—he was used to those kinds of reactions to his body—but with you, it was different. You were just too cute. He liked the way you adored him so much that you couldn’t even concentrate.But he had also noticed the way you were trying to hide yourself—your curves, every part of you. And that, he hadn’t liked. Every inch of your skin was perfection. From the moment he’d seen you in the pub, he’d been done for, and getting to talk to you had only confirmed it. You were a dream.

Other than being really beautiful—and, frankly, really hot—you could hold a conversation. And you weren’t afraid to disagree when you thought someone was wrong. You had even screamed at one of his pals when he claimed contemporary art was bad, which, to an art history major like you, was as absurd as saying the Earth was flat.

You had been so confident back then, so seeing your insecurities surface in the quiet of his place wasn’t something Johnny was going to ignore.

Next thing you knew, he had you in his arms, pressing you against the wall with his tongue deep in your mouth. It was messy, but you weren’t about to complain. His hands held yours against the wall, and that’s when you realized—he was lifting you using only his hips. Panic set in. You told him to stop, insisting you were surely too heavy, wiggling to get down, ready to leave after such an embarrassment.

However, Johnny had other plans. With a push of his pelvis against yours, he made sure you felt just how hot and bothered you were making him. Seeing that you were about to argue some more, he shut you up by kissing you senseless again.

Once he was satisfied, he said: "Bonnie, I've hauled soldiers twice yer size fer miles an’ didnae even break a sweat."He made sure you were looking into his eyes, seeing how genuine he was. His tone left no room for argument. "Now, A can fuck ye here gin ye want, but A think the bit is more comfortable." When you didn’t answer, he smirked, noticing the neediness in your eyes. You wanted him just as much as he wanted you..

"Guess we can dae both aye?" He concluded, taking off his own shirt at the same time. He didn’t bother removing any other clothes—he simply lifted your skirt, his hands going straight to where you needed him most.

He had spent minutes doing magical things with his fingers while whispering dirty words in your ear, praises spilling from his lips. No one had ever spoken to you like this, no one had ever made you feel like this. And he had done it all in mere minutes.Unknown to you, Johnny was good at this because he listened—to you, to your body. All the men before him felt insignificant now, none of them coming close to this—and none after would, either. In this moment, your pleasure-dazed mind convinced you there would be no one after him.

After you had orgasmed, he didn’t stop—groaning about how you needed more to take him. If you had thought his hands felt good, you weren’t ready for his cock. You hadn’t seen it, but you could feel it was perfect—the ideal length and girth—and god, did he know how to use it. Johnny was a man on a mission, his hips slamming into yours in a way that hurt so damn good, his mouth relentless against your neck and collarbone. At some point, your shirt must have bothered him because he simply ripped it off you.

"Want ye tae ride me bonnie, make yourself feel guid." He spoke before moving you both to his couch. Sitting himself down, he moaned upon feeling your weight on him. You were gripping him tight and warm. You were a dream, and he never wanted to wake up.

At first, you were shy—none of your ex-boyfriends had really liked you being on top. But after hearing Johnny’s moan, you were positive he loved it—a lot. You felt him throb inside you. With the help of his hands, you began moving. At first, you followed the rhythm he had set, but soon, you moved on your own, fueled by his groans. His grip on your hips was bruising, his lips attached to your breast. It was an intensely erotic sight—seeing such a burly man at your mercy—and you loved it.

It had been clumsy—this was almost your first time in this position—but you thought you were doing great. It certainly felt incredible for you, and the look on Johnny's face told you all you needed to know. Even if you were blind, the filthy words spilling from his mouth would have been enough. Your pelvis rubbed against his, creating just the right amount of pressure on your clit to make you see stars, and his cock was hitting the perfect spot. Everything was pure bliss—so intense that, for a fleeting moment, you felt yourself drift outside your own body as you came.

Your ears were ringing, but you heard his scream—and it was not one of pleasure. Opening your eyes again, you saw that his face was not twisted in ecstasy; pain was written all over it. His grip had become painful as he tried to carefully get you off him. Oh fuck, you had messed up. Big time.

His cock had softened the moment he screamed, and you had no idea what had happened. As you hurried off him, he let out a strangled noise of pain. Both of you looked down—and yeah, that was definitely not how it was supposed to look. It was weirdly bent and already swelling. You weren’t a professional when it came to penises, but this was certainly not normal.

None of you knew what to do. Johnny tried to carefully scoop it in his hands to assess the problem, but even the softest touch made him wince in pain. Yeah, that was not good.

"Have a drivin' licence, bonnie?" Johnny asked softly. Even though he was the one in pain with a broken penis, you looked like you were about to pass out at any moment. He had to be gentle with you—he didn’t want you thinking it was your fault. Well, technically, it was, but Johnny really didn’t care.

When you hummed, tears in your eyes as they remained fixed on his broken penis, Johnny added, "Need ye tae drive me tae the hospital, lass. Can ye dae that for me?"

His accent was thicker now, making it harder for you to understand him, and your panicked state wasn’t helping. Still, you nodded, quickly getting dressed and helping him put his shirt back on. He asked for frozen beans from the fridge before you made your way to his car. Walking was painful, but he had been through worse. Watching him, it was almost unnoticeable that he was hurt. In a way, that reassured you.

He was glad you weren’t American because his car was a manual. Even through his pain, there was something oddly sexy about watching you drive it. The way you handled the gear shift made him imagine filthy scenarios—ones he really shouldn’t be thinking about while suffering from a broken penis. Every time his mind wandered to you, a fresh wave of pain shot through him, and he almost came to appreciate it. He made a mental note to himself—this was a kink worth exploring. Hopefully, with you.

The nurse at the front desk looked at you with annoyance, as if you were just another person clogging up the emergency room with a minor issue. Meanwhile, Johnny had gone to sit down—standing up seemed to hurt even more.

Everyone in the waiting room was staring at him. He understood why. A burly man, wearing a kilt in the middle of winter, holding something suspiciously close to his crotch—it didn’t look great. He probably would’ve thought the same if he were in their shoes. Trying to ease the awkwardness, he offered a gentle smile to the teenage girl sitting across from him. But as soon as he did, he realized how it must have looked. Yeah, not his best moment.

Back at the front desk, you weren’t sure what to say. The nurse had asked what your emergency was, and at first, you mumbled something about your night out—how you met Johnny and everything leading up to this moment. But you quickly realized that none of that was relevant. Taking a deep breath, you got straight to the point.

"I think I broke his penis." It was almost a whisper—too quick and too quiet for anyone to understand. The nurse's confused expression made it clear she hadn’t caught a word of it.

So, in the dead silence of the waiting room, you repeated yourself—this time, much too loudly. "I think I broke his dick." As if that wasn’t bad enough, you had also unknowingly pointed at Johnny at the same time.

A completely shameless Johnny. The moment the entire waiting room turned to stare at him, he simply pursed his lips into a weird little smile and gave them a casual wave. He didn’t mind that they all now knew he’d gotten injured while sleeping with the goddess currently shouting about a broken dick at the front desk. When he looked back at you, he caught the exact moment you realized what you had just done—your eyes widening in sheer horror. His smirk deepened, and he winked at you. Yeah, he was going to marry you.

That’s how he ended up in a hospital gown, ready to go into the OR for the doctors to fix his dick. They had explained that without surgery, he risked long-term erectile dysfunction and a whole lot of other unpleasant complications. They had sedated him a little to calm his nerves—he might have been military, but he was still just a man.

A man about to undergo penis surgery.

You had been standing in the corner of his room, biting your fingers out of stress. He was getting surgery because you broke his dick. The worst part was that he didn’t seem to mind at all. He was having the time of his life while you anxiously waited for the doctors. He kept telling you he couldn’t wait to get his hands back on you, promising to treat you right. How could he still want to see you after this? You broke his dick. Surely, the pills were working.

"Want tae tak' a picture, lass?" he had said, a loopy smile on his lips. Yeah, he was definitely high. Still, you indulged him—he looked cute in the hospital bed. His sheer size made the bed seem small, even though you knew it wasn’t. You really shouldn't be turned on right now. Especially since you were the reason he was in that bed to begin with.

The picture was a mess—stress and worry etched across your face, while Johnny grinned wide, all teeth and childlike mischief. You'd made the mistake of snapping it with your phone, which he promptly snatched from your hands to send himself the photo. You didn’t know it yet, but Johnny having your number was the start of something you weren’t ready for.

As the medical staff was taking him to the OR, he felt the need to add : "Airson cuimhneachadh air an àm seo airson nuair a phòsas sinn."

It took you a moment to realize he was speaking Gaelic. You had no idea what he said, but when one of the nurses turned to you with a big smile on his lips, you assumed it had been something cute—until the said nurse spoke.

"Congratulations on the wedding !"

Johnny smiled at the memory. Any normal guy wouldn't have called back the lass who had broken his dick, but Johnny wasn't just any guy. For some unknown reason, he had found it to be the hottest thing a chick had ever done to him. You had been the hesitant one—always politely texting back, but every time he tried to coax you into a date, you drew the line. Until you gave in.

Johnny kept swiping through the pictures, even though he shouldn’t. It only made the pain worse, not easier to bear. Your relationship had begun with its fair share of hurt, but nothing had prepared him for this—the soul-wrenching agony of the void, the emptiness. A part of him missing.

The next picture was harder to look at than the ones before. Neither of you had taken it—it was in a pub, well into your relationship. Johnny had spent months begging you to meet his teammates, and you had finally given in.

The picture was a bit blurry and poorly framed, as if an old man had taken it. You were dancing in the middle of the bar, a fancy one, gazing at each other with so much love that no one could have denied what you meant to one another in that very moment.

Everything felt wrong—the dress clung to your body in all the wrong way, your hair was a mess, your makeup was uneven. You knew you were going to embarrass him. In front of his second family. Tears started gathering into your eyes as you suck up your stomach, trying to make the dress look a bit better. You needed to change.

Johnny was patiently waiting on the bed, longing for you as he waited. He had been ready for an hour now—showered, shaved, and dressed. When he heard the bathroom door open, he sat up, eager to see you. But his brow furrowed when he watched you make a beeline for the walk-in closet, still in your underwear. He knew you had taken a dress with you when you went to shower—the same dress that now lay discarded on the floor.

"Bonnie?" Johnny said softly, approaching the dresser. You were frantically opening drawers, searching for something. Your movements were rushed, and he could see you were starting to hyperventilate. He moved toward you gently, careful not to startle you. In his mind, you were like a little hurt animal at this very moment—anything could trigger you.

Your back was to him, so he took the opportunity to hug you from behind, wrapping his arms around yours to still your frantic movements. He shushed you quietly when you tried to wriggle out of his embrace. You had been together for almost two years now—Johnny knew exactly what this was. He let you calm down a little before gently asking what was wrong, never once loosening his comforting hold.

"Nothing fits, Johnny," you whispered, tears streaming down your cheeks, taking your mascara with them. "It's an important moment for you, and nothing fits. I look ugly in everything," you choked out, your voice breaking with your sobs. You didn’t know what had come over you. Sure, you had always been a bit oversensitive, but this was new. You blamed it on the stress.

Truth be told, ever since you’d been with Johnny, you had gained a little weight. Nothing drastic—you had always been a bit chubby—but you noticed. And from the way Johnny’s eyes lingered on your stomach and hips, you knew he had noticed too. Neither of you ever mentioned it. You were too afraid to hear that he might find it unattractive, and Johnny was too afraid you’d take it the wrong way if he said anything.

But the truth was, he loved it. To him, it meant he was taking care of you—that you felt safe with him, that he was feeding you well, that you were his.

That’s when you noticed Johnny’s hands moving toward your bare stomach. Panicked, you grabbed his forearm, trying to stop him—but he was stronger. His hands settled there anyway, unfazed by your restless attempts to push them away. He didn’t waver, didn’t pull back.

"Ye won’t believe me, but I’ll tell ye every day if I have to—ye’re the bonniest, hottest lass I’ve ever set eyes on." Johnny’s gaze never left yours in the mirror, his tone firm—his army voice. No room for doubt, no hesitation. He needed you to know. He wasn’t lying.

To drive his point home, Johnny grabbed your hips and pulled you back against him—that’s when you felt it. Felt him.

Hard against your arse. And you’d been crying just minutes ago, mascara smudged, makeup ruined. Yet somehow, this was what turned him on—not the effort, not the artifices, just you. Don’t get him wrong, he loved when you dressed up, loved the little things you did to feel beautiful. But the truth was, Johnny loved you no matter what. You could be having the worst day of your life, looking rough and worn down, and he’d still find something about you that drove him mad.

He wasn’t just horny. He was horny for you.

You had arrived late. Not like you at all, but Johnny had insisted on settling your nerves first—by slowly devouring you, then fucking every last shitty thought out of your head. By the time he was done, he had praised you so much you couldn’t even name a single flaw about your body.

You had picked your dress up from the floor, redone your makeup, and rushed out the door. You hadn’t even bothered trying to cover the hickeys Johnny had left behind. There was no point—these men were military. Even with concealer, they’d spot them instantly. And besides, you knew Johnny loved when you walked around wearing his marks. He was just a man, after all. A dog-like one at that. Marking his territory.

You had been a nervous wreck at first, but oddly enough, the big, intimidating, burly military men turned out to be some of the nicest people you’d ever met.

From the moment you joined them, you could feel the deep bond they shared—something unshakable, forged through years of loyalty and hardship. They had wasted no time teasing Johnny about his kilt, to which he had fired back without missing a beat. "Aye, well, no’ a single one o’ you jealous bastards could pull off a kilt like me."

Now, with a bit of a buzz, the alcohol had done its job in settling your nerves. And damn, those men could hold their drink. You could tell Johnny was drunk—but only because you knew him so well. It was subtle. His hands started moving more when he talked, the same way they did when he was pissed off. His accent thickened, words slurring together just a little. And sometimes, without even realizing, he’d slip entirely into Gaelic, his brain switching over like English had never existed.

By the look of it, his teammates were used to his drunk behavior. They told you a bunch of embarrassing stories about Johnny, just as if they were his brothers. In a way, they were.

It didn’t take long for you to understand their dynamic.

Captain John Price—his title said it all. The leader. The dad. The calm, steady presence of the group, and the so-called old man. He was surprisingly easy to talk to, happily telling you all about his wife and kids. A proud husband and an even prouder father—it was endearing. You never would’ve guessed it just by looking at him, with that gruff exterior and sharp gaze. Your heart swelled when he pulled out his phone, showing you a picture of a tiny baby. "My second son, born a couple of months ago." The proud smile on his face was enough to warm your heart.

Sergeant Kyle Garrick. The one spilling all the embarrassing stories. The moment you saw him, you understood exactly why Johnny always joked about how hard it was to get girls when Kyle was around. He was handsome—not in the same way as Johnny, but a different kind of beauty. Softer. Kinder. His smile was gentle, never overstepping, never making you uncomfortable. And his eyes—warm and sincere—held the kind of attentiveness that made him seem like a man who truly listened. And he was. Once he’d finished roasting Johnny, he’d listened intently as you told him how the two of you met—minus a few key details, of course.

And then, there was Lieutenant Simon Riley. At first, he simply watched you, silently scrutinizing—observing. He was, without a doubt, the most intimidating of them all, though you figured the skull balaclava covering his face played a big part in that. When he drank, he’d push it up just past his mouth, downing his whiskey in one go before pulling it back into place. Not a single word left his lips. He just watched. But his eyes weren’t cold. If you paid close enough attention, you could see it—the flicker of amusement when Johnny cracked a joke, the flash of anger when they spoke about missions gone wrong. For someone who barely spoke, he was surprisingly expressive. You just had to know where to look.

You knew he and Johnny had a special bond, and it pained you that he never spoke to you beyond a polite hello. You paid it no mind but reminded yourself to ask Johnny if you had done something to offend him.

The night had turned out better than you could have imagined. Once the drinks had fully settled in, tipping you past tipsy and into pleasantly drunk, you took it upon yourself to drag Johnny and Kyle onto the dance floor. Coordination had long abandoned you, and Johnny—spinning with reckless enthusiasm—had definitely flashed the pub more than once. But none of it mattered. Laughter bubbled between you, the music pulsed around you, and for the first time that night, you felt completely free. The stress and tears from earlier were nothing but a distant memory.

Johnny was thrilled to see you smiling this much. His mates adored you—he could tell by the way they interacted with you, even Simon. He hadn’t mentioned it, but he’d been nervous too. He never doubted they’d like you, but he worried you might not feel the same about them. Not that the 141 was difficult to be around, but you never really knew how things would go until they did.

Thankfully, his worries had faded almost instantly. Now, he watched as Kyle jumped around with you on the dance floor, the two of you laughing uncontrollably. The three of you were well past tipsy, fully hammered at this point, while the older members of the team exercised a bit more restraint—though even they couldn’t help but crack a few smiles at your antics.

"Dinnae try tae steal ma lass now, Gaz" Johnny joked, wrapping his arms around you. His gaze was gentle, holding no real threat—just pure affection. There was no jealousy in the 141, only brotherhood.

Kyle’s eyes zeroed in on your neck and collarbones, where the marks of Johnny’s love were on full display. “Don’t think I could, even if I tried, Soap,” he chuckled.

You turned to face your boyfriend, the need to kiss him outweighing the usual shyness you felt in public. So you did. Once. Then twice. Then your lips wandered, pressing soft kisses across his face—his forehead, his closed eyelids, the bridge of his nose, his cheeks, his chin—everywhere you could reach. By the time you were done with your little assault, both you and Johnny burst into laughter, the kind that bubbled up from deep inside, warm and full of love.

Once you were done on the dance floor, you made your way back to the table, settling in with John and Kyle while Johnny joined Simon—yet another drink in his hand. He had even brought one for his lieutenant.

Simon hadn’t said much. That was just how he was with new people—quiet, watchful. He had trust issues, preferring to observe first before offering anything of himself. Johnny wasn’t bothered by the silence; he expected it. He knew he’d have to explain Simon’s behavior to you later, but he also knew you’d understand. It wasn’t you. It was just him. After a few moments of comfortable silence, Simon finally decided to speak. The only words he would say about you that night.

"You gotta marry that one, Johnny." Simon’s voice was gruff but certain as he watched you laugh with Kyle at their captain’s expense. Johnny didn’t need more than that—he could read Simon like an open book. Of course, he liked you.

A smirk tugged at Johnny’s lips as he downed the rest of his drink. "Copy that, L.T." And with that, he pushed off his seat, ready to join in on the fun of mocking Price.

Laughter pulled Johnny out of his memory. It had been one of his favorite moments with you. The team had liked you—how could they not? But most importantly, you had liked them. You had told him how lucky he was to have people like that in his life. At the time, all he could think about was how lucky he was to have you.

He should stop. He knew the pain would only deepen if he didn’t. But he needed this—it had been so long since he’d seen you. He was like a junkie craving his next fix. He should have known better.

He hated this picture—the last one he had with you. Christmas Day at the Mactavish family home. It should have been a joyful memory, surrounded by the people he loved. But looking at the photo, he could see how fake your smile was, how much weight you had lost, how exhausted you looked. You almost looked sick. This wasn’t a pleasant memory.

You watched through the window as Johnny tossed his nieces into the air, their laughter ringing out in the crisp winter air. He looked so handsome—his hair a bit longer than usual, his frame a little fuller since coming back, but he looked good. And his thighs. Even after almost five years together, you couldn’t take your eyes off his stupid thighs. Why did he have to wear a kilt?

"Formal wear i' a Scots family, bonnie," he had explained with a wink when you asked back at your apartment. Yet, his smile hadn't reached his eyes.

It was cold outside, but you didn’t mind—you needed a bit of fresh air. You loved the Mactavishes, but coming from a small and dysfunctional family, being surrounded by so much love and warmth still felt unfamiliar. You couldn’t shake the feeling of being a foreigner. It wasn’t their fault—his parents and siblings had welcomed you with open arms from the very beginning. You just didn’t quite know how to fit in.

No one had noticed you slipping away—not even Johnny. That had become a pattern now, him not seeing you the way he used to. And that was part of why you needed these moments alone. It hurt. He’d been back for over two months, yet all his time was spent with family or on calls with his teammates. No dates, barely any intimacy, and hardly a conversation.

You were there, but it felt like he wasn’t.

Sometimes, it happened when he came back from a difficult mission. He would close himself off, trying to isolate himself so he wouldn’t "corrupt" you—his words, once. You had a hard time making him understand that he was a part of you, no matter what he did. Of course, his work was hard, and there were so many things he couldn't tell you—or anyone—but you had hoped he trusted you enough to find solace in you.

And he had, at first. He'd tell you all he was allowed to, and you'd helped him come back to the world. But lately, things had been different. He would return, but it was as if his mind was elsewhere. At first, you thought it had just been a particularly difficult mission, but it kept happening. His deployments grew longer, his temper shorter.

At that point, an ugly thought crept into your mind—Johnny had found someone else. You had no proof, and he had always been the one to swear he’d never cheat. But you couldn’t find any other explanation. You didn't confront him though, you went into self-loathing. Loosing sleep, loosing weight, worrying about him constantly when he was away just to get angry when he didn't call. Sometimes, you'd get news from his mother and you'd pretend you knew about what she was talking about.

It hurt even more when you’d have normal moments—those rare glimpses of the Johnny you had fallen in love with. They became scarce, fleeting. Most of the time, they only surfaced when you were in bed together. He would make love to you like you were the most precious thing on earth, murmuring how much he loved you. But then, when he fell asleep, you’d lock yourself in the bathroom, muffling your sobs so he wouldn’t hear.

It had happened again last night. And it was the last straw.

You couldn’t keep going like this. It made you physically sick, and the worst part? He didn’t even notice.

Flicking your cigarette to the ground, you took a deep breath, bracing yourself before heading back inside. You hadn’t wanted to ruin the holiday spirit, but it was getting harder to pretend everything was fine. His mother and sisters had noticed—the dark circles under your eyes, the way your cheeks had hollowed, how your dress looked two sizes too big. They had asked questions, and you had lied. Just like you had been for months.

And you were tired.

Dinner was a blur. You sat next to Johnny, but his usual hand on your thigh was absent. It felt like a phantom limb—something that was supposed to be part of you but wasn’t anymore. He laughed at his dad’s jokes, thanked his mother for the meal, and bickered with his siblings—a normal dinner at the Mactavish home.

Until one question.

"When are ye gonna make the birdie a Mactavish, Johnny boy?" The question came from his father. The silence that followed was deadly. Your heart pounded so hard it felt like it might rip out of your chest. Your legs felt impossibly heavy. You didn’t know why this question made you so anxious—it had always been a common joke in this household, a running gag ever since you told them about the day you met—leaving out a few key details, of course. But now, it felt different.

All eyes were on you and Johnny. You watched him closely, trying to predict what he was going to say. Usually, he'd chuckle and say, "Soon, Pa', real soon." But this time, you felt it in your gut—his answer was going to be different.

You just hadn’t expected this one.

"Dinnae ken if I fancy gettin’ married. My captain’s goin’ through a divorce—dunnae think I want that kind of hassle, ye know?" At that very moment, Johnny might as well have stabbed you in the heart. The pain would have been the same.

You didn’t know how to react. Johnny had never mentioned anything about a divorce, and he certainly hadn’t told you he didn’t want to get married anymore. It wasn’t the idea of marriage itself that bothered you—it was the feeling that he didn’t want to marry you. Like you were the problem.

All his sisters’ eyes were on you, but you couldn’t look at them. You weren’t ready to see the pity. No one had spoken since Johnny did. He had gone back to eating as if he hadn’t just dropped a bomb mere seconds ago. You felt the tears welling in your eyes—you needed to get away. Now.

"Excuse me," you whispered as you rushed to the bathroom. You didn’t hear much—your ears were ringing—but you managed to make out his mother’s voice scolding her son.

This felt too familiar—you, quietly crying in the bathroom. It left a bitter taste. You were tired of crying, of hiding, of hurting. You had been locked in here for about ten minutes now, and you no longer cared about ruining Christmas. As you sat with your back against the door, you heard a rushed knock.

"Bonnie?" Johnny's soft voice echoed in the small bathroom. He had to be kidding you. "Everythin' alricht? Ye feelin' okay?"

You let out a humorless laugh. You couldn’t believe he was this oblivious. He had just humiliated you in front of his entire family, and now he had the nerve to ask if you were feeling sick. You couldn’t deal with this.

"Go away, John."

John. You never called him John. No one did.

Hitting his head against the door, Johnny knew he had fucked up. He shouldn’t have said it in front of his family—but it was how he felt. His captain had been with his wife for a decade, they had two kids, and still, they were getting divorced. What was the point of marriage? He could love you just as much without being your husband.

In his mind, you were just being dramatic. He sighed, ready to knock again—until he heard your quiet sobs. Normally, the sound of you crying would soften him. But not this time.

Lately, something had shifted. The anger, the frustration—it was unlike anything he’d ever felt before. He didn’t know what had changed, only that it was building inside him. He had tried not to snap at you, protecting you from his outburst—keeping his distance instead. Work was getting harder, and his mind just couldn’t keep up.

So he snapped.

"Can ye no just stop bein’ so sensitive for once? Yer ruinin’ the night." Johnny started. He heard your gasp through the door, but his frustration was stronger. "We're all waitin’ on ye, givin’ ye time tae do God knows what. Cut the crap and get out here."

He didn’t wait for an answer; he just made his way back to the living room, already thinking of an excuse. He’d say you had your period, that you just needed some time alone.

On the other side of the door, tears ran freely down your cheeks—you couldn’t stop them. This wasn’t your Johnny. This wasn’t the man you fell in love with, the one who had once wanted to marry you even after you’d broken his dick. He was a stranger in Johnny’s body.

Entering the empty apartment, you took off your shoes and locked the door behind you. It had been impossible to step back into the living room, so you’d called an Uber and made your way home in silence. You made sure no one noticed you leaving. It was rude, but you didn’t care. You needed to get away from him. He’d called you three times already, and three times, you declined.

Rushing to your bedroom, you knew you didn’t have much time before he’d come running through the door. You had to be quick and methodical. Your mind was clouded, and the tears blurred your vision. Work clothes, underwear, pajamas, comfort clothes—you made sure to go over all of Johnny's old shirts that had become a part of your dresser. Shoes were next, and then you made your way into the bathroom.

In fifteen minutes, your bags were packed. Most of your things were neatly put away. You were picking up some books in the living room when Johnny stumbled into the entryway. Fuck. You thought you still had some time—you had been quick. Your heart was racing, and your hands were shaking from the stress.

Johnny looked around the living room, confusion and anger flooding his mind. Bags filled with what he imagined to be your things, and there you were, frozen, putting books into yet another bag. What the fuck? He had thought you had gone home because you were angry, but he never imagined you'd be leaving him. And certainly not while abandoning him at his family's house during Christmas.

He went into combat mode real quick. Something about the situation awakened the sergeant in him—he was in hostile territory.

"Whit are ye doing?" was the first thing he said. You were frozen like a deer in headlights, completely unprepared for a confrontation. Your plan had been to leave a note, saying you weren't coming back. It wasn’t the best move, but you were mentally drained. You didn’t have the energy to fight with him.

But now, it was inevitable.

"I'm leaving, Johnny," you said quietly.

You had never been afraid of him before—he had never given you a reason to be. But now, you were. It was the way he stood, his body rigid, fists clenched at his sides. And then there was that look on his face, the same one you were sure he wore on the battlefield.

It terrified you to think of how he might react.

"Just 'cause I dinnae want tae get married anymore? Are ye really that shallow?" Johnny asked, his anger getting the best of him. His words were meaningless, only filled with frustration and hurt.

For the past few months, his team had been hunting a terrorist organization threatening the country with multiple attacks. It was relentless—every time they cut off one head, three more would take its place. Leads went cold, missions failed, and the pressure from command only grew heavier. Sleep was scarce, patience even scarcer. The weight of it all settled deep in his bones, frustration simmering just beneath the surface.

And without realizing it, he brought that frustration home. The exhaustion, the tension—it all spilled over, and you became the easiest target. He snapped more often, pulled away without meaning to, let silence take the place of the warmth he once gave so easily. But in his mind, you were the one who had changed. You were distant, on edge, always questioning him. It never occurred to him that he had been the one who started it. That his own actions had driven a wedge between you. And by the time he finally saw it, it was already too late.

You let out a hollow, humorless laugh, your eyes brimming with tears. "I'm just tired, Johnny. Tired of you. Tired of the way you are, the way you treat me," you said, your gaze locked onto his, unwavering. The sadness was still there, but now, anger was creeping in too.

"The way I treat ye?" Johnny let out a sharp, bitter laugh, his face twisted with frustration. "Aye, sae now I’m the bad guy? Thon makes it easier for yer wee sob story, daes it?"

"As if you didn’t just humiliate me in front of your fucking family?" you shot back, voice shaking with fury.

"Ye're sae fou o' shit!" His voice grew deeper as his volume rose. "Ye're the ane wha humiliatit me! Hou the fuck wis I supposit tae explain thon, ma girlfriend juist up an' left without a word?" He was shouting now, full of anger, full of something he couldn't even name. His accent was thicker than ever.

He paused, seeing you weren't going to answer. Then he added, "On Christmas?"

His hands had shot up as he shouted, and you flinched. If Johnny’s heart hadn’t already been broken, it certainly was now. You were afraid of him—afraid of what he might do. And the fear in your eyes shattered something deep inside him. How did it come to this?

Slowly, he stepped back, putting space between you. He forced his body to hunch slightly, trying to make himself smaller, less threatening. His arms hung stiff at his sides now, as if any movement might push you further away. He had never wanted this. Never wanted you to be scared of him. You’d had your fair share of arguments before. He had shouted, lost his temper—but this was different. This was something else entirely.

He didn’t recognize himself. So how could you?

Realization struck him all at once. The past few months flashed before his eyes—the distance he had created, now coming back to haunt him. He hadn’t communicated, hadn’t reassured you, and in that silence, you had been left alone with your thoughts, imagining all the worst possibilities. You hadn’t been dramatic. He had been an arsehole.

And now, there was nothing he could do.

He just stood there, watching as you rushed to your bags, still shaking with fear. Watched as you walked out, dropping your key onto the table by the door.

Watched as you left him.

Watched you—for the last time.

Shaking his head, Johnny tried to push that final moment with you out of his mind. It had been two years. Two long, lonely years. He had never reached out—not once. You deserved better than him. Better than someone who couldn’t see when they were crossing the line until it was too late.

Johnny stepped out of the room he had locked himself in, rejoining the festivities—a mutual friend's wedding. Out of habit, his eyes found you. You and your boyfriend.

You were beautiful, the dress hugged your curves the right way and you were glowing. At the end of your relationship, you had been a shadow of yourself, Johnny saw it now. Now, you looked just like that night in the pub. It was impossible for him to take his eyes off you. You were the pollen, and he was the bee—drawn to you not just by desire, but by instinct, by need.

As he was about to approach you, if only to say hello, a sudden glint of light momentarily blinded him. The sun had caught on something in your left hand—something he hadn’t noticed before. But as you lifted your hand to brush your hair from your face, he saw it.

A ring.

happy valentine's day, i guess

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