Johnny Soap Mactavish X Reader - Blog Posts

Switch!Reader 🤝 Switch!Johnny where he sucks the strap and calls you daddy when you're topping and he edges you relentlessly until you cum so hard you pass out when he's topping

Soaf

Office worker Soap who almost poops his pants everyday, because you bring him non decaf coffee and he can't bear to tell you that he can't have dairy products.

strip poker (pt. 1)

Task Force 141 (and Los Vaqueros) x fem!reader

Summary: It started simply. An invitation out to the base for just a night of drinking since some of Soap’s buddies from Mexico were in the U.K. for a visit. You had just planned to tag along as his plus one for the night and enjoy some drinks with his old military buddies.

But then Soap’s CO, Price, brought out some cards.

Tags: afab reader/fem pronouns/anatomy, unprotected PIV sex, riding that vaquero, naked reader, clothed male, voyeurism, EVENTUAL ORGY I PROMMIE, 18+ smut beyong this point

Word Count: 1.5k

A/N: hellooooooo the long awaited fic of strip poker that was all started from this ask. this is just a part one (of 2 parts bc y'all wanted the orgy....sigh) and i thought i'd give rudy some love bc he doesn't seem to get a whole lot <3

find it on ao3 here!

next part

It started simply. An invitation out to the base for just a night of drinking since some of Soap’s buddies from Mexico were in the U.K. for a visit. You had just planned to tag along as his plus one for the night and enjoy some drinks with his old military buddies.

But then Soap’s CO, Price, brought out some cards, a twinkle in his eye as he looked at you and suggested a round of poker. You then confessed that you didn’t know how to play poker, much to everyone’s apparent amusement. Soap’s friend, Gaz, sat next to you and offered to help teach you the basics of poker. But after a disastrous first three games, in which you were beaten royally by everyone else at the table, you were ready to give up, before Soap declared he wanted to up the ante, a dangerous glint in his eye, and suggested they switch to strip poker. You just rolled your eyes at Soap’s suggestion, but the other men in the room nodded with a few chuckles, overruling you.

“I feel like this is a setup,” you grumbled, pulling in your new cards as Price dealt them.

“Just an incentive to win, hen,” Soap said, his teasing grin giving away his true motivation.

After a few starting rounds of the new game mode with you soundly losing, they made a deal with you; they got to pick which article of clothing you took off if they won, you got to pick who stripped if you won. You agreed, though at that point, you were down to your shirt, pants, and everything underneath, having exhausted your “shoes and socks count as one article of clothing” argument.

Not that it helped you, as you seemed to be losing consistently. Though Soap seemed to be the second worst player, so you got him down to his pants at least. Ghost, Soap’s L.t., was winning and had all of his clothes, while the rest had lost just a couple of pieces.

You finally folded when they got you down to your bra and panties, now just resigning to sit back and watch. But then they argued that whoever wins got to tell you what to take off. You just rolled your eyes, but went along with it.

When Ghost won, again, he told you to take the bra off. you did, but you kept an arm over your breasts, so they were still sort of covered. They all groaned at that, tired of the teasing.

“C'mon, hen, let us see,” Soap whined.

You rolled your eyes at him, but you removed your arm. But when they all moaned appreciatively and Gaz, nearest to you, tried to make a move, you swatted him away. “New rules, boys: you can look, but you can’t touch yet.”

So, it was back to more whining and groaning.

But soon, Price won the next hand, and his eyes drilled into you. “Panties off, love,” he ordered, every bit of the captain, then patted his lap. “C'mere.”

You stood and shucked off your panties, tossing them to Rudy who was on your other side. Somehow you managed to evade Alejandro's hands and on your way to Price's lap. His hands were around your waist as soon as you sat down, possessive and low.

“New rules,” he growled out against your neck. “Whoever wins gets to fuck her while the rest watch. Got it?”

You gasped as he started to play with your nipples, while the rest nodded eagerly. Gaz dealt the next hand, his gaze barely getting ripped away as you squirmed on Price’s lap as he teased you. You vaguely looked at the cards in Price’s hand--nothing too terribly round-winning--but you couldn’t pay too much attention with the way that his talented fingers plucked at the sensitive parts of your body.

It was perhaps the most tense game of poker that night, now that you were part of the reward for winning. Alejandro cursed and threw down his hand as he folded during the second round. Price folded more calmly after him, satisfied enough with teasing you.

Rudy ended up winning the final round, leaning back with a smug grin while everyone else cursed and threw their cards at the table. His eyes were dark and lidded as he turned his gaze to you, patting his lap.

“C’mere, cariño,” he purred.

You stood on shaky legs, supporting yourself with Price’s arm he offered out. You could feel six pairs of eyes on you as you made your way over to Rudy. He held out his arms to you as you slid into his lap, one leg on either side of his legs. He hummed, his hands wandering over your naked skin to cup your breasts and press his face between them. He rubbed his thumbs over your nipples, staring up at you with his dark eyes when you gasped and wriggled in his grasp.

“So sensitive, cariño,” he murmured, drawing a nipple into his mouth, lathing his tongue over the sensitive nub.

You moaned, rubbing your cunt over the steadily growing bulge in his pants. “Mm, Rudy…”

He popped off of your nipple, snaking a hand down between your bodies to rub at your clit. “Gonna be a good girl for me? Mi chula buena?”

You nodded, biting your lip as sparks of pleasure rocketed up through your body. “Mm, yes, Rudy, please.” He inserted a finger into your slowly soaking cunt and you moaned, throwing your head back, as he soon reached that spongy spot inside of you that you could never reach with your own fingers. “Oh, Rudy, please! Please, please fuck me.”

He chuckled, a low, growly sound, removing his hand from inside you to unzip his pants, covering his leaking cock with your slick. “Shh, cariño, you’ll get what you want, prometo.” He rubbed the head of his cock against your clit, then slowly pushed into your cunt.

You let out a high pitched moan as Rudy’s cock slowly filled you. He groaned into your neck, hips hitching into your tight heat as he buried himself to the hilt. “Fuck, cariño, you’re so fucking tight, fucking squeezing me.” He cut off with another groan when you clenched around him at his words.

Someone whined behind you, but you could hardly pay any attention to anything else but Rudy’s thick cock slowly rearranging your insides. You clutched at his shoulders, nails digging into the taut muscles there. Your thighs quivered as you lifted your hips and then sank back down with a whine. Rudy gripped your hips in a bruising hold, helping you bounce on his cock.

“Oh, fu-uck, Rudy!”

He groaned, drawing your nipple into his mouth once again, drawing out high-pitched moans from you as he did. “Fuck, so good, cariño, so, so good for me. Fuck, feel so good, taking me like this.”

You whined and bounced faster on his cock, tossing your head back as the thrill and pleasure coursed through your body. Rudy’s talented mouth switched back and forth between your nipples while one hand remained on your hip to guide you, the other buried in the space between your bodies, rubbing your clit in smooth, consistent circles.

“Ohh, Rudy--please!”

“Shh, just keep going, cariño,” Rudy growled against your tits, gaze dark and intense as he stared up at you. “You’re being so good for me, mi chula buena--fuck--I’m so close.”

Your fingers gripped the hair at the base of his scalp, holding his head flush against your breasts so his mouth could continue its ministrations. You bounced even faster on his cock, angling your hips so the head brushed over that sensitive spot deep inside you with each thrust.

“Oh, fuck, Rudy, I’m gonna cum!”

He groaned against your skin, hands holding your hips with a bruising grip as he thrust up into you. “Fu-uck, I’m close, too, cariño. C’mon, cum for me, so, so good.”

You gasped and moaned sweetly as his words tipped you over the edge, melting into his embrace as you rode out your high. Rudy groaned, hips hitching into your tight warmth as his orgasm followed soon after yours.

He ran a hand up your spine to cup the back of your head, holding it for support as he scooted his chair away from the table. Then, he stood, making you gasp as his cock shifted inside of you, before he laid you on the table. All the men around you groaned as you were laid out on display for them, while Gaz and Ghost took the opportunity to hold your legs open as Rudy pulled out, moaning at the sight of his cum dripping out of your soaking cunt.

You panted as six pairs of hands roamed over your body, sparks of lust slowly rekindling deep in your core despite the fact that you had just cum. You leaned up on your elbows, giving the six men a shaky grin.

“So who’s ready for round two?”

One of my favs

LOW COUNTRY | HIGH NOON

johnny mactavish x reader

[PREV] [NEXT] [AO3] [MLIST]

yearning—they're both so dumb.

Two weeks fly by and Johnny proves himself in ways you weren’t prepared for.

The first two days after he arrived, you’d spent hours showing him the ropes, expecting some level of difficulty, some struggle once he got down to actually doing the dirty work. Sure, he could listen and memorize to his heart's content, but if he couldn’t do the work, he wasn’t useful to you. 

But goddamn, could he do the work. 

The day after he arrived, you had him shadow you as you worked. You narrated everything you did for the livestock and important things to remember. Shimmer was on a diet and needed a little less hay in her stall. The water in every barn had to stay cool to keep the animals from overheating. The sheep’s bedding came from cornstalks harvested straight from the fields, and the barn doors had to stay open during the day for ventilation. Dixie had to be fed alongside the sheep—otherwise, she'd get jealous. The cows ate soybeans, and their barn fans had to run non-stop to keep the heat at bay.

On the second day, you let him take the reins. He remembered everything, every miniscule detail, down to a T. You were there if he needed help, but he never did. He fed the animals—hell, he did it all like he's been doing it his whole life, like he could do it blindfolded. 

It was almost jealousy-inducing how easy it comes to him. You’ve spent years building up the strength needed to handle farm work. You’ve got muscle, no doubt about that. Every long day under the sun has carved power into your body, earned through a lot of sweat and double the tears.

It’s unfair. It’s painfully distracting. He’s painfully distracting.

Regardless, you shove your pride to the side. This is what he’s here for, after all.

The division of labor falls into place easier than you expect.  He takes over livestock care and you handle the crops and the house. But together, everyday, you both fix the fences, riding out in the afternoons with supplies in tow, patching up the weak spots before they become real problems.

You don’t speak to Johnny much during the day—mainly during meal times. He spends most of his day to the left of the house at the livestock pastures and barns. The main pastures are all sprawled out, home to about fifteen cows and sheep, respectively. You spend most of your time at the crop fields, which stretch to the right of the house, along with the old barn your family stopped using years ago. Too much upkeep for what it was worth. The cornfields are there too, easy to reach on horseback. 

The stables sit in between both, a ways behind the house. The whole farm isn’t a big operation, not by most standards, but it definitely needs more than one person to run it. With Johnny proving himself capable, you both fell into an easy routine rather quickly.

Johnny's up at 7 a.m., like clockwork. He takes the biggest horse, Scout, and makes his rounds, feeding the animals breakfast, checking the water troughs and filling them up when needed. He lets the livestock graze before the sun gets too high. 

By 9, Johnny finally gets a moment to breathe while you’re awake and already in the kitchen cooking breakfast. You found that if you time it right, you can get an eyeful of Johnny from the kitchen window. You’ve unintentionally made it part of your morning, standing by the window, mug of coffee in hand, watching him. You repeatedly tell yourself it's to make sure he’s getting the job done, but the more you watch, the more you find yourself thinking about him in ways that grow exceedingly inappropriate for a boss-employer relationship. 

You should stop watching. If he were to ever catch you, he’d probably think you were some kind of freak. Maybe you should focus on the eggs in the pan, the bread in the toaster, but it’s hard to follow your better judgement with Johnny around. Pa’s been on your ass for how much toast you’re burning these days. 

Breakfast is never fancy, but it’s solid. Eggs, grits, fried potatoes, sausage, bacon. Sometimes fresh fruit if you’ve got it, a pitcher of orange juice on the table alongside the coffee. Variations of the same spread every morning, something hearty and filling to start the day.

Johnny’s damn near worshipful over your cooking. It brings a flush to your cheeks each time he comments on it, considering Pa’s never had too much to say about it. The way Johnny reacts, closing his eyes when he takes the first bite, letting out a quiet “Christ, that’s good”- or he groans under his breath, making it hard not to feel at least a little smug.

You’re used to running the cooking and cleaning on your own: the dishes, wiping down the counters, making sure everything’s in order. Pa never offered much help in that regard. He’s traditional in the sense that ‘it’s a woman’s job’ to take care of the home, with all of its chores and domesticities. He’s stuck in his ways but he’s got a kind soul.

But Johnny does it all with you. Doesn’t even ask.

He waits till everyone’s finished eating, then rolls up his sleeves and helps clear the table like it’s second nature, like it’s part of the job description. He stands beside you at the sink, drying dishes as you wash, putting them away without needing to be told where anything goes. He just remembers.

Most times, you both wash in silence. The only sounds are the clink of dishes, the rush of water, the occasional scrape of a sponge against a pan. But you can feel his eyes on you, watching as you scrub a pot or rinse off a pan. He never says anything—just waits for you patiently.

But it does something to you. Makes you feel small in a way you can’t quite explain. Not insignificant, but exposed. Like he sees too much, like he notices things you don’t even realize you’re giving away. It sets your nerves on edge, tightens something low in your stomach, makes your hands move a little quicker even though you don’t want to give yourself away. It’s ridiculous, really. It’s just dishes. Just a quiet kitchen. But under the weight of his gaze, it feels like something else entirely.

His arm brushes yours sometimes—subtle and fleeting but often enough that it doesn’t feel like an accident. Like maybe he’s finding excuses to touch you, even if it’s barely there. And it’s nothing, really. Just the briefest press of skin, the softest graze. But it burns and it lingers. It sinks into your skin like a brand, like something your body wants more of, wants to memorize. You keep your face neutral in the moment, your hands steady. Inside? Your pulse stutters, your breath feels too shallow, and your mind won’t stop spinning in circles. It’s ridiculous, how something so small can unravel you like this. But god help you, it does.

You try to brush it off. He’s just being kind, just paying attention. That’s all. Nothing more.

You remind yourself to be grateful for the extra set of hands, for the way his quiet presence makes the work easier. It’s a small thing, really—his help. But somehow, it takes the edge off the mornings, makes them feel a little lighter.

Johnny’s makes everything feel lighter, now that you really think about it.

Mornings used to be a race against the rising temperatures outside—shoveling down breakfast just to sprint outside and make sure the livestock were moved to the shaded pastures before the sun got too brutal. But with Johnny around, you don’t have to worry about that anymore. He’s got it covered. 

After breakfast, usually around 11, Johnny heads back out to do just that, while you get ready for your day’s work. You throw on something you don’t mind getting dirty—some overalls and a tank top, old boots, maybe one of Pa’s loose flannels if there’s a breeze.

You head to the stables and grab Shimmer, heading out to the crop fields. You pass the time, watering, weeding, checking for pests, making sure everything is growing the way it should. It’s tedious work, but at least now, you can actually focus on it. In a way, it’s calmer than dealing with the animals. 

By 3 p.m., you've made your final rounds around the fields, harvesting some cucumbers and tomatoes if they’re ready, checking on the other plants to make sure everything’s in place. The heat nears oppressive, and you’re already looking forward to heading inside.

As you ride back toward the stalls to put Shimmer away, your eyes find Johnny by the sheep pen. He’s herding them inside, guiding them with an easy patience, keeping them out of the harsh afternoon sun. Even from a distance, you can tell he’s got a good handle on them.

Your gaze drifts past him to Scout, tied to a fence post nearby. Shimmer must notice him too, judging by the way she whinnies, ears pricking forward with interest. They’ve been sticking close lately, choosing to graze together in the mornings and evenings, grooming each other like they’ve suddenly decided they’re inseparable. It’s odd, considering they’ve never paid each other much mind before—at least, not until two weeks ago.

It’s still August. Scout’s still in heat. You make a mental note to keep an eye on him.

Your gaze flickers back to Johnny—jeans slung low on his hips, a plain wife-beater stretched across his broad chest—and as always, you try not to stare.

But Johnny has a habit and it’s downright cruel. When the sun reaches its peak and the heat settles thick over the land, he peels off his shirt without a second thought. Like it’s nothing. Like he doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing.

And maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he’s just trying to keep cool. But sometimes—when he catches you looking, when the corner of his mouth quirks up just slightly—it feels like he’s doing it on purpose. Like he enjoys watching you struggle not to let your eyes linger on him too long, not to let your thoughts wander somewhere they shouldn’t.

You’ve never been so thankful for the relentless southern sun.

It clings to him, highlighting every sharp line and defined edge. His skin glistens with sweat, the golden light catching on the broad curve of his shoulders, the sinew of his arms as they flex with every movement. Thick and strong. 

The first time you saw him shirtless, you stared. You couldn’t help it.

And of course, Johnny caught you.

His gaze locked onto yours, sharp and amused, and in that split second of distraction, you didn’t even realize you were sliding right off Shimmer’s back—not until you hit the ground with a graceless thud, landing in a fresh patch of mud.

His laugh had boomed across the fields, full and unrestrained, carrying all the way to your burning ears. You barely had time to process the sheer humiliation of it before you wordlessly climbed right back onto Shimmer like nothing happened, like you weren’t covered in mud, like you hadn’t just been caught drooling over him.

Played it cool. At least, you had tried to.

You shake your head, forcing your thoughts away from Johnny, and focus on putting Shimmer away. It’s easier said than done, but you manage, leading her into her stall and giving her a quick brush-down before heading back toward the house.

Lunch won’t make itself, and you figure you might as well get a head start—assuming you’re not completely covered in dirt from standing around, too busy staring at him to notice the dust clinging to your clothes. Which, if you’re being honest, happens more often than you’d like to admit these days.

At least he has the decency to put a shirt on before stepping inside. Small mercies.

You always whip up something light—sandwiches and a salad, maybe. You’re never in the mood to make anything too heavy. Pa skips out on lunch as usual, though. He always does, opting to head out to visit your Ma. She’s buried alongside a 200-year-old willow tree at the far edge of the property, the place that was always her favorite. Lunch used to be between you and a farm catalogue. Now, it’s between you and Johnny.

He never comments on how Pa slips away; he’s gotten used to the routine of it by now. It didn’t take long for him to piece it all together—Ma’s absence, the way Pa goes to kneel by the tree each day. He notices something in your eyes, too. He’s seen it in his own—loss. Grief.

When the aching sound of silence settles over the house—when the scrape of forks against plates is the only thing filling the empty space, when Pa’s vacant seat feels heavier than it should, Johnny’s hand inches toward yours.

It’s subtle, barely there. His fingertips just skim against your own, light and careful, like he’s offering something without asking. Like he’s reminding you, in the quietest way possible, that he’s here.

The first time he does it, you flinch and pull away before the warmth can settle, before the weight of it can mean something. But the next day, and the one after that, he does it again. Always the same way, always patient.

Day after day, you stop avoiding it.

It’s unspoken, something steady. A silent offering. He never asks for more, never demands, just open to  let you take what you need.

Today, your hand creeps to meet his. Your fingers slide to hold his own so easily—so naturally. Your fingertips graze over his knuckles before slipping between his fingers, not gripping, just resting. His other hand stills mid-stab of a piece of fruit, the fork hovering in place before a slow, knowing smile tugs at his lips—soft, easy, like he’s careful not to startle you. He doesn't tighten his hold, doesn't rush, just lets his thumb brush along your skin, as if memorizing the feel of it. His consistency is comforting. 

And day after day, without meaning to, you realize just how much you’ve come to rely on it.

Today, Johnny checks on the livestock one last time after lunch, but not before pitching in to help clean up. He’s quick about it, helping you get everything in order before heading out to make his rounds. He moves through the pastures, checking the water troughs, topping them off, and making sure the animals get their feed. It’s a rhythm by now—one that’s almost as natural to him as breathing.

You, on the other hand, head upstairs. The heat of the day still lingers in the air as you peel off your dirt-smeared clothes and step into the shower. The water hits your skin, hot and soothing, washing away the sweat, the dust, the weight of everything. For a few minutes, it’s just you and the steam, curling around you like a fog that keeps the world at bay. Thanks to Johnny, you can take more time for yourself, allowing for a few moments of peace.

Once you're clean, you retreat to your room for a bit, letting the quiet settle around you. The heat from the shower still clings to your skin, steam curling lazily in the air, and for a little while, you allow yourself the luxury of doing nothing. Just breathing. Just being.

But duty calls, as it always does. 

With a sigh, you pull on something comfortable—old jeans, soft and faded in all the right places, a loose tank top that drapes over your shoulders, and a pair of boots worn supple from years of hard use. You leave your hair down, still damp, cool against the nape of your neck as you step into the hallway. The air meets you in a soft contrast, brushing against your skin as you shake off the last remnants of stillness and head downstairs.

Pa’s sitting in his armchair, the low hum of the 5 o’clock news filling the first floor. His eyes are glued to the screen, but you don’t disturb him, slipping into the kitchen to prep dinner. The knives feel familiar in your hands as you chop the vegetables you harvested earlier, the scent of fresh tomatoes, onions, and herbs filling the air. You sprinkle salt over the meat, massaging it in gently, knowing it’ll make the roast tender for tonight.

The clock ticks past 5:30, and at 6, the last task of the day is waiting. Fence checks.

You and Johnny do it together every day. At first, it was purely for convenience—two hands are always better than one. But now, you look forward to it—to seeing him again.

You grab your jacket from the hook by the door, the familiar weight of it settling over your shoulders, and step outside. The evening air is cool against your skin, the sky beginning to soften into a wash of purples, pinks, and golds, the colors mixing together like paint on a canvas. The breeze picks up, gentle at first, but carrying with it the earthy scent of grass and soil. 

You make your way toward the stables, the gravel crunching under your boots in a steady rhythm. The evening air is cooler now, carrying the scent of hay and earth.

As you near the stables, you spot Johnny already there. He’s inside, leaning against Scout’s stall door, his back to you, speaking in a low murmur meant only for the horse. His fingers move through Scout’s mane with an absentminded gentleness.

There’s something different about him in moments like these—when he thinks no one’s watching. He softens. It’s endearing in a way you don’t quite have words for. And for a moment, you hesitate, just watching, before finally stepping forward.

You hum a soft, "Hey," and Johnny turns from Scout, a small smile tugging at his lips like he can’t help it, and he steps toward you with his hands tucked into his pockets.

For a moment, neither of you speak. You just stand there, caught in some strange pause, like you’re both waiting for something. His head tilts slightly, eyes scanning your face with quiet curiosity, and the longer the silence stretches, the more unbearable it gets.

“You talk to the sheep like that too, or just Scout?” you ask, blurting out the first thing that comes to mind.

He stills, processing your outburst before he huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “Only th’ ones that listen.”

Before he can say anything else, you turn away—too quickly, probably—and busy yourself with Shimmer, running a hand through her mane like she suddenly requires all of your attention. Anything to ignore the way your chest feels too tight, your pulse too loud in your ears.

Johnny doesn’t move right away. You can feel him still standing there, watching, like he knows exactly why you turned so fast but isn’t going to call you on it. 

“She givin’ ye trouble?”  he finally asks, nodding toward Shimmer as you stroke her mane.

“Always,”  you mutter, scratching behind her ears and she whinnies. “She thinks she owns the place.”

“Cannae blame ‘er. She’s got ye wrapped ‘round her hoof.”

You roll your eyes, but your lips twitch despite yourself. He’s not wrong. Shimmer huffs softly, nudging at your shoulder like she knows you’re talking about her. You softly push her nose away, shaking your head.

Johnny steps next to you, leaning his arms over the stall door, softly scratching the base of her neck. “That why ye bolted over here, hmm? Needed an excuse tae hide?" His voice is light, teasing—but there’s something underneath it. Something careful.

Your hand stills for just a second before you scoff, shaking your head. “Please.”  You turn, meeting his blue eyes with a practiced ease you’re not sure you actually feel. “If I wanted to hide from you, I’d pick a better spot.” You’re almost teasing when you say it, but you do know the property better than him, afterall.

“Dinnae have tae hide from me, hen,” he hums, the corner of his mouth quirks..

You hate that it makes your stomach flip. Hate that you have to force yourself to look away, to pretend the warmth crawling up your neck is from the evening heat and not from him.

Johnny lets the silence stretch, like he’s giving you a chance to say something—anything. His gaze lingers, drifting over you. Taking in the curve of your shoulders, the way your hair catches the fading light, the way you hold yourself like you’re thinking too much but refusing to say why.

When you don’t speak, he exhales a quiet chuckle, shaking his head before pushing off the stall door. Letting it go, for now.

 He nods toward the fields, “C’mon. Fence line’s no’ gonna check itself.”

You follow without a word, slipping out of the stables with him. Long shadows stretch across the fields, swaying with the wind-blown grass, and somewhere in the distance, a few cattle call out, their distant sounds blending with the steady hum of crickets.

Neither of you rush. There’s no need. The fence line is long, stretching across acres of land, and it’s a quiet sort of work—just walking, looking, making note of any broken slats or weak posts that’ll need fixing. He walks alongside you, the toolbox rattles lightly in his grip as he carries it at his side, the sound punctuating the steady crunch of boots against dry earth.

For a while, neither of you speak.

It’s not exactly uncomfortable, but it isn’t easy either. You’re aware of him in a way that feels impossible to ignore—the way his steps fall in rhythm with yours, the occasional brush of his arm when the path narrows, the way he glances at you when he thinks you’re not looking.

“Ye always this quiet?” Johnny asks, his voice low, barely disturbing the quiet, as if it’s a part of the gentle breeze.

You snort softly, eyes fixed on the fence as you mindlessly trail your fingers along the wooden slats. “Only when there’s nothing to say.”

“That so?” His voice carries easily with a sprinkle of amusement.

“Mhm.”

You keep walking. So does he.

Every so often, you test the fence with a firm press of your palm, checking for weak spots. He does the same. Occasionally, he stops to inspect a loose post, tapping it with the toe of his boot before moving on. It’s a simple rhythm—walk, check, walk again—but the silence between you is anything but simple.

It’s thick, growing heavier as the minutes tick by.

You can feel his presence beside you like a current, something you could fall into and get swept under if you weren’t careful. And maybe he feels it too, because every now and then, his hands twitch at his side, like he wants to reach for something, but can’t. Won’t.

“Ye ever get tired o’ all this?” His voice is quieter this time, almost like he’s asking himself more than you.

Your brows pull together slightly. “Of what?”

He gestures vaguely around you with the hand that isn’t carrying the toolbox. “Th’ same land, same routine. Mornings start early, work’s never really done. That ever get to ye?”

You consider that for a moment, kicking at a stray rock with the toe of your boot. “Maybe. Some days.” You glance at him. “You?”

His mouth tugs into something like a smile, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Nah. Never.”

You don’t know what to make of that.

The two of you keep walking, keep checking the fence. The breeze picks up, stirring loose strands of your hair. Johnny exhales a slow breath, his shoulders shifting as he rolls them back, working out a stiffness from the long day. The movement draws your attention, and for a brief second, you let yourself look. Really look.

The sharp cut of his jaw, the way the light catches on his cheekbones, the way his shirt clings to the broad stretch of his shoulders, still slightly damp from the sweat of the day. The gold cross dangling from his neck and the dark, miniscule birthmark that sits just below his ear. His hair has grown a bit since he first came. Maybe you could cut it for him, like you do for Pa.

You swallow hard and snap your gaze forward before you get caught. Again.

Another long stretch of silence. Another step. Another brush of his arm against yours—so light it could be accidental.

Could be.

Johnny stops when he catches sight of a sagging section of barbed wire, his steps slowing before he finally comes to a halt. Without a word, he sets down the toolbox and crouches, running a hand over the worn wood of the post before reaching for the wire. Testing its give. Seeing how bad it really is.

You watch as he exhales through his nose, shaking his head slightly before grabbing the wire stretcher and a handful of staples. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t even complain about the extra work—just gets right to it, like it’s second nature.

Rather than hover over him, you hoist yourself up onto a sturdier section of the fence beside him, perching on the top rail with ease. The wood is solid beneath you, not like the weakened stretch he’s working on now.

The sun is nearly gone, but there’s still enough light to bathe the fields in a golden glow, the last remnants of warmth brushing against your face. You tilt your head toward it, letting the heat sink into your skin, letting the evening breeze lift strands of your hair. It’s the kind of peace that settles deep in your bones, the kind you don’t appreciate until it’s gone.

Johnny breaks the silence first.

“If I’d’ve grown up somewhere like this…” He pauses, twisting the wire tight before driving a staple into the post. “I think things would’ve turned ou’ different for me.”

The way he says it—flat, almost absentminded—makes you hesitate. You’re not sure if he’s inviting the conversation or just thinking out loud. You don’t want to pry, but something about the way his voice lingers in the air makes you ask anyway.

“Different how?”

Johnny keeps his eyes on his work as he answers, pulling the wire taut. “Would’ve been normal, I guess. Wouldn’t have joined up. Would no’ have spent years runnin’ toward shit other people run from.” He exhales softly, a ghost of a chuckle. “Think I’d have been calmer. More settled.”

You watch him work for a moment, the way his hands move with ease, deft yet steady. He doesn’t look unsettled, per se. If anything, he seems at ease out here, like he belongs in the quiet.

“You don’t seem unsettled,” you say finally, tilting your head to him.

Johnny huffs out a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he pulls the wire one last time, before giving it a final staple to secure it. “Then ’m doin’ a great job at pretending.” His voice is light, but there’s something underneath it, something that makes you press your lips together.

You watch as he finishes up, hammering in the last staple before brushing the dirt off his hands. “If you aren’t happy here, you can always leave, y’know,” The words slip out before you can really think them through. “There’s plenty of families that need help.” It’s not a challenge, just a simple fact.

That stops him.

He straightens up, turning to you with something between bewilderment and confusion, like the idea hadn’t even crossed his mind. Like he can’t quite believe you’d think that, let alone say that. 

“Ye think I’m no’ happy here?”

You shrug, glancing out toward the fields. “I mean…” you pause, exhaling as you look toward your boots, drawing shapes in the dirt with the pointed toe. “I wouldn’t be surprised. It’s isolating.”

Johnny sets the tools down in the grass beside him, his jaw tightening as he mulls over what you just said. It sticks in his head, gnaws at something deep in his chest. He hadn’t considered that you might think that—hadn’t realized he might’ve spoken in a way that’d made you assume he wanted out.

But when he looks at you now, perched on the fence, swathed in the gold, pink, and purple swirls of  light from the sun, he understands why you would.

You’ve been here your whole life. You know the weight of isolation, watching things in your life pass by and disappear before your eyes. You probably expect people to leave.

And maybe that should be the case. Maybe he should leave—move on to bigger and better things. But when he looks at you—really looks at you—it doesn’t feel that simple. It can’t be. It’s not. 

Your very presence buzzes with life, from your hair to the ever-present flush in your cheeks—from the heat or him, he doesn’t know. You’re sat on the fence like you belong here, like the land itself was carved around you. And maybe it was. Maybe that’s why he’s so goddamn unsettled. You’re everywhere; you’re in every breeze that brushes his skin, in each rooster crow that signals the wake of a new day. 

He’s spent his whole life moving, chasing something—war, adrenaline, a sense of purpose that’s always been just out of reach. He knows the weight of isolation just as well as you do. 

His throat feels tight as he finally speaks, his voice dipping lower, rougher. “I’m no’ unsettled because o’ the job. Or the farm.”

His gaze is locked onto you, unrelenting. Waiting. Willing you to understand—like he’s been holding this in for too long, and if you don’t get it now, he’s not sure what he’ll do.

And then it all clicks.

It’s not about the farm. Not about the work, the isolation, the long days under the southern sun.

“Oh.”

The word breathes out of you before you can censor it, before you can even feel it. 

You’re the reason he carries tension in his shoulders, the reason he looks at you like he’s already lost whatever battle he’s been fighting with himself. 

All at once you can feel the sharp pull in the air between you, the way his jaw tics, his breath slows, his fingers flex like he’s stopping himself from reaching for you.

And the worst part?

You wish he wouldn’t.