Iâm at a Scottish wedding and thinking about this a lot đĽ˛
a fine wee lass, a bonnie wee lass ch.1
John âSoapâ MacTavish x Fem Reader
Rating: Explicit - 18+ only
Word Count: 2k
Warnings / Tags: Smut, infidelity, size difference, references to previous underage romance (when they were both teens).
Summary: You're the bridesmaid at your brotherâs wedding and his best man, John MacTavish is back in town. You just hope he doesn't remember when you last saw him, when you tried with all your might to stop him from joining the army.
A/N: I've not played COD since like 2012 but I keep seeing clips of Soap on TikTok and my wee Scottish heart just fancies the pants off him. This is inspired by a Scottish folk song called 'Bonnie Wee Jeannie McCall'. The dialogue is written in Scots - I hope you can follow along.
ALSO I just found out about @glitterypirateduckâs challenge by a happy accident the day after I wrote this and this fits nicely into:
Prompt 28: They don't need to know
Masterlist (thereâs no other COD stuff here sorry)
Chapter 1: The first night I met her she was awfy, awfy shy
You pull your shawl around you as you stand outside the old castle. Rain lashes down across the sprawling Falkirk countryside while revellers laugh from the wedding inside. The music hasnât started yet - you think that youâre safe to have a breather before you need to go inside for the first dance.Â
You stand as close to the wall as you can, taking cover from the rain. Your pink satin shoes are getting soaked. Not that it matters. The shoes your brotherâs new wife chose for her bridesmaids are so ugly itâs unlikely youâd have worn them again anyway. But sheâll be fuming when she sees the state of them.
The door to the castle opens behind you and you move over, dodging a puddle to let the newcomer seek the shelter of the castle wall too.
âAwryt, darlin?â asks a voice and you look up from the puddle at your feet to see John MacTavish, your brotherâs best man, pulling out a packet of cigarettes from his jacket pocket. âI didnae think you smoked.â
âI donât,â you say, putting your vape to your lips and raising your eyebrows once.
He pulls a sour face. âThem? Theyâre fulla chemicals and like, mercury, and that.â
âOh aye? Whatâs in these? Vitamins?â you ask, flicking the pack of cigarettes in his hand with a forefinger. âYou didnae smoke afore joininâ the army.â
âAye, well, I was sixteen when you last saw me. And you were, whit, twelve?â
âFifteen, John.â
Thereâs only a year between you and your big brother, Tam. But the way he and John treated you, youâd have thought there was a decade between you. Acting like you were an annoying wee tag-along. You just wanted to be included from time to time.
But that was ten years ago. Last time you saw John, he was just a boy, and you, just a lass. But now heâs older, with a scar on his chin thatâs only highlighted by his coarse, dark stubble. The scar cuts across the hair there like white lightning. Heâs taller, and broader than when you last saw him and his hair is shaved much shorter and neater than the teenage John you remember.
âAw, aye. I mind now. You and your pals had wangled your way intae the sixth-year leaversâ gaff. As usual.â
âDid I? Any excuse for a drink back then, I sâpose.â
âAye, but I remember âcause I wis leavinâ in a few days for the army. And you were -â He cuts himself off suddenly.
âI was whit?â a smile cracks across your face, waiting to hear his description of how you looked that night. Beautiful? Stunning? Mesmerising? You see yourself as you had been - your hair perfectly straightened, your Oh Polly bandage dress hugging your form in all the right places. In your memory, you were the embodiment of a siren. You had dolled up that night to impress the older boys. Or, if you were honest, one particular older boy.
âWell, I mean,â he says putting a cigarette between his lips and flicking his lighter. The orange glow briefly illuminates his face, casting shadows that seem to momentarily harden his features, making you remember heâs no longer a boy of sixteen but a man of twenty-six. âYou were absolutely gantinâ for it.â
Your mouth falls open and you hit his arm.Â
Mortifying.Â
âWhit? Fae you? Aye, right !â you say, sarcastically but your face flushes bright red, immediately giving you away. You might have been drunk but John MacTavish rejecting your drunken advances as a teenager was probably the defining moment of your formative years.Â
As your words, brushing off his teasing, hang in the air, the jolt of embarrassment reminds you of a different party.
On that fateful night, ten years ago, the music was much louder. The floor was littered with empty cans and bottles and youâd âaccidentally on purposeâ bumped into John in the hallway before pulling him into someoneâs parentsâ bedroom. Youâd recklessly thrown your arms around him.
âWoah, woah, woah. What you daen?â heâd whispered in a panic.
âPlease, Johnny,â youâd slurred drunkenly. âI dunno when Iâll see you again. Somethinâ tae remember me by.â
You had leaned in to kiss him but he turned his head. You were so drunk you didnât care. You sucked on his neck, feeling that dark stubble under your sloppy tongue as your hand found his cock in his jeans.
But heâd stopped you in your tracks. Pinned your arms to the side. He was stronger than you, even as a teenager.
âNaw, look, I cannae,â he had said. And even though your eyes could barely focus on his, you could tell he was annoyed at you. But you didnât care. You just wanted him so badly.Â
âAw, come on, John. Please? Iâll show you my tits,â you had said. âIâll - Iâll go the full way. Iâll do anythinâ. Just - just donât leave, awryt?â
The sound of cheers from the reception hall cuts through your memory and snaps you back to your current, rainy surroundings.
âAye, well, I was probably just dreaminâ,â says present-day John. âIt probably never happened.âÂ
Itâs considerate of him, to pretend that it never happened.
But no matter how hard you try to pretend, thereâs no denying that you made a fool of yourself, plain and simple.Â
Sometimes late at night when you canât sleep, the memory makes you cringe as you replay that embarrassing moment. You try and cut yourself some slack, remind yourself that you were just a desperate, heartbroken teenager whoâd drunk half a bottle of vodka working up the courage to make the move sheâd always thought about. Begging John not to join the army. Begging John to fuck her.Â
He had declined both requests.
But that doesnât matter because youâre a fully grown woman now. One that hasnât spent more than a second thinking about John MacTavish coming home for her brotherâs wedding. No, sir. Not one second. Definitely not.
You exhale a laugh like itâs a funny memory. âMaybe it did happen. I cannae really remember, I must have been steaminâ drunk,â you say. But you know what happened. He knows what happened. And he knows you know.Â
John's response comes with a delay, his chuckle soft and tinged with a hint of meaningful self-deprecation, to try and frame some of the embarrassment back onto himself. âYou mustâve been steamin' to have tried it on wae the likes of me. You were always far too good for me,â he laughs, but this time his smile doesnât quite reach those bright blue eyes.Â
Thereâs a long silence as you say nothing. With a deliberate motion, you bring the vape to your lips, inhaling deeply, the action grounding you back to the here and now as the artificial kiwi-passionfruit-guava fills your lungs with something that you know must be bad for them. As you exhale, your gaze drifts down to your soaked shoes, the pink satin darkened by the rain. Theyâve changed beyond recognition.
âWoah,â he coughs his own puff of smoke. âNow just whit is that ?â asks John, his eyes clocking your left hand.
You tilt your hand subtly, letting the diamond catch the cloudy daylight. âDid Tam no mention it?â The words linger between you, almost casual. âIâm engaged, John.â
For a moment, John just stares at your hand, his face unreadable. Then, a low whistle escapes him, a mix of surprise and something unspoken. He glances up at you, his eyes searching yours for the answer to a question that he doesnât voice. âEngaged, eh? Tam never said a word.â His gaze shifts away, a frown creasing his forehead. âWhereâs the lucky man the night?â
âHeâs offshore the now - he works on the rigs.â
âChrist, Iâll say,â says John, taking your hand and examining your ring. âHeâd need tae be workinâ in oil for a big rock like this wan.â
Your hand feels small in his. His thick brows soften from a frown when he pulls his gaze up from your engagement ring to meet your eyes. His eyes are blue and full of a warmth that you wouldnât expect from someone who, from Tamâs account, is a hardened soldier.Â
Your heart thuds in your chest when you realise that heâs been holding your hand for too long. But you donât retract it.
âAww the best tae the happy couple, then,â he says softly. âI suppose Tam never telt me âcause he had a lot to be dealing wae his own wedding and that.â John lets go of your hand. âDae you no miss your fella, wae him being offshore?â
âFour weeks on, two weeks off. I see him plenty⌠More than your missus sees you, I expect. How often dâyou come home? Once or twice a year?â
âIâve no got a missus so I donât need tae worry about that.â
The raucous laughter from inside the wedding venue dies down suddenly. And you hear the master of ceremonies announcing the entrance of the bride and groom.
âGads,â says John, stubbing out his half-finished cigarette.Â
âIf we miss the first dance, weâre fucked,â you say. âIâll never hear the fuckinâ end of it.â
You try to carefully step over the puddle - John takes your arm and holds on to you so you donât fall. He opens the oak door for you but as youâre about to pass, he grips you tighter, stopping your movement.Â
âListen, darlinâ, there are some things that are just off-limits,â he says, his voice a low, gravelly whisper in your ear as he leans close. He smells like cigarettes - normally that smell would turn your stomach but thereâs something sweet in his aftershave, like vanilla, that makes the tobacco smell musky and warm.Â
âMeaninâ?â You look up at him, confused.
âThe last time I saw you,â he murmurs. âYou were mad wae it. I couldnae, in good conscience, take you up on that offer when you were that drunk. And youâre my best palâs wee sister tae boot. I couldnae dae that tae Tam.â
âJohn, that was - that was a long time ago. It was nothinâ.â
âAnd now,â he continues. âNow youâre engaged. Which means youâre even more off-limits.â
Off-limits? Â
Heâs talking like youâre in that bedroom again, begging for his attention. Except youâre not. Youâre not begging for John again. Heâs just assuming that youâre about to.
That presumptuous bastard.Â
âYouâve got some fuckinâ nerve, John MacTavish. Who are you tae try and let me down gently? Itâs been ten years and Iâm no even slightly interested in you anymore.â
âNaw, I know,â he says, refusing to match your volume or tone of indignation. âIâm just tellinâ you out loud why I wonât be trying it on with the most beautiful lassie in the room. And why I said no back then, as well.â
âHaul! You two!â You and John spring apart to see your tiny, furious wee auntie storming down the hallway. âYouâre missing your brotherâs first dance with his new wife and youâre both supposed to be on the dancefloor.âÂ
âWe - we are?â you stammer.
âAye, did you no hear the emcee telling the wedding party to join the bride and groom? That means bridesmaids and groomsmen, ya pair of glaikit idiots. Your mawâs fuckinâ raginââ
And with that, John lets the door behind you swing shut and you both leg it past your auntie to the reception room, with you leaving wet footprints in your wake as you go. The music from the room swells into clarity as you burst through the doors and skid inelegantly onto the dancefloor.Â
Your brother and his wife are too absorbed in their own happiness to have noticed your late entry and you breathe a sigh of relief. But itâs short-lived. You immediately stiffen again when John takes your waist and you realise that heâs your dance partner.
As the two of you begin swaying to the music, your mind races. Youâre no longer that sad, rejected teenager, yet here, in John's reassuring grasp, you feel the ghost of her stirring. His gaze is careful, and guarded, but there's still that question in his eyes that heâs forbidden to ask.
And behind your own eyes, you canât help the stream of curses going off inside your head.Â
You curse your nerves for being the reason you got so drunk at that party.Â
You curse John for being Tamâs best man.
But most of all, you curse yourself as you watch your left hand rest on Johnâs shoulder as you dance, the giant diamond ring glittering like a heavy disco ball.Â
127 notes
¡
View notes
Oh my GAWWWD
day 9, size difference
paladin danse x reader
warnings: nsfw 18+, from danse's pov, mentions of riding & blowjobs, no dialogue, mentions of reader's breasts
kinktober â ď¸ď¸ main masterlist â ď¸ď¸ read on ao3
Danse was a hulking figure, and he knew that. His power armor helped, of course, but even out of it, he towered over his peers. He towered over you.Â
You stood tall in your own ways. You were a leader in every sense of the word. When you defended him against Arthurâs rage, he swore you were eight feet tall.Â
Danse loved how small you were, physically, compared to him. It was clichĂŠ, but he loved to hold your hand against his, taking in the difference. He also loved the difference in a more selfish way. His size made him feel like he could protect you, even if you were perfectly capable of handling yourself. Youâd proven that time and time again.Â
In a more intimate setting, he loved towering over you and bending your smaller frame however he liked. His favorite was to have you under him, legs pushed up so they were nearly over his shoulders, taking his thick cock like you were made for him.
He loved watching you squirm as he pushed inside you. You were so good for him. He was nearly drooling as your tight hole swallowed him inch by stimulating inch. Just when he thought he couldnât possibly fit another centimeter inside you, he was buried completely. He was gentle, most of the time. He knew he had to be and he didnât want to hurt you. Other times, however, heâd lose himself and get so wrapped up inside you that he couldnât contain himself. Heâd bury himself to the hilt over and over again, the tip of his length brushing up against that sensitive spot over and over again.Â
Heâd apologize profusely when he saw you wincing as you rose from bed. He wasnât a monster, and beneath his rough exterior, he cared for you. Itâd gnaw at him for ages afterward, and heâd be terrified to touch you. Youâd coax him back into your bed when you were ready and convince him that youâd speak up if you were hurting.Â
In your not-so-rare moments of boldness, he loved when you rode him. He couldnât keep his eyes off of you as you slowly sunk down his cock, bottom lip tucked between your teeth as you focused on taking every single inch of him. Large hands palmed your breasts as you began bouncing up and down on his cock. When your thrusts became sloppy or you slowed down, he was quick to grab your hips and rut into you from below. He loved seeing you become a whining, cockdrunk mess as he took what he needed. If he was feeling particularly nice, heâd grab the globes of your ass and help guide you up and down on his cock. He loved watching your tits bounce as you leaned back and let him move your body how he wanted.Â
He loved it when you jerked him off, your small hand barely wrapping around his length as you stroked him. You quickly made up for it by using both hands to milk his cock or using one hand to stroke what your mouth couldnât reach. Fuck, he loved that mouth of yours. He loved the way you gagged around him when you tried to take all of him. Trying to be so good for him.Â
You were always good for him, in any way he could get you. He thanked whatever omnipotent being was out there that he was lucky enough to spend even a second with you. He loved enveloping you in his arms when he held you at night. He loved the way it felt like he was keeping you safe in a world that was hell-bent on killing you at any waking moment. He loved that he could provide that solace for you.
256 notes
¡
View notes