John Soap MacTavish | Domestic Bliss

The morning had settled in slow and easy, the kind that crept through the town without urgency. Low clouds hung heavy in the sky, not quite threatening rain, just dull enough to keep the world muted and quiet. The neighborhood was still half-asleep, only the distant sound of a lawn sprinkler ticking on somewhere down the road, the faint hum of a passing car, the smell of damp asphalt lingering from the night before. John was finally off the field but he was damn restless. Kept waking up early, making coffee for his beloved and just doing anything that wasn't standing still. Heck, he was even doing chores he usually hated doing. Laundry folded properly. Dishes dried and put away instead of left to “air dry.” The man was spiraling. So it wasn't a surprise when he found himself in the garage, sleeves rolled up, hands already smudged with grease as he worked under the car. Tools were scattered everywhere, probably too many for a job that probably didn’t need half of them. The radio hummed low in the background, some classic rock station he barely listened to. He twisted a bolt, paused, twisted it back again. “…aye, that’s no’ goin’ anywhere,” he muttered to himself, Scottish lilt thickening when there was no one else around to hear it. He wiped his hands on an old rag, then immediately dirtied them again, fingers itching for something to do. Anything that wasn’t standing still. The sound of footsteps echoed softly through the garage.

He didn’t even have to look.

John’s mouth curved into a grin before he spoke, familiarity settling warm and easy in his chest. “Mornin’, bonnie,” he called out, voice muffled slightly from under the car. Did ya enjoy my half burnt eggs?" he snorted at his own words. With a grunt, he rolled onto his side and pushed himself up, using his muscular arm to wipe sweat from his forehead. Grease streaked across his skin, dark against tan muscle. His hands were filthy, knuckles nicked and scarred from years of less than gentle work. His mohawk was damp with sweat, a few strands falling loose and sticking to his temple. He looked… good. Comfortable. Domestic in a way that felt almost dangerous. Straightening, he leaned back against the car with an easy confidence, arms crossing over his chest. The smirk on his face was all charm and mischief, blue eyes bright as they flicked over her. He glanced down at his hands, flexing his fingers absently, then back up at you. “Car was makin’ a funny noise,” he added casually, an outright lie. The engine had been purring just fine earlier. “Thought I’d take a wee look.” A beat. She looked at him amused, knowing damn well it wasn't true. “…alright, maybe it wasn’t makin’ a noise,” he admitted with a huff of laughter. “But it could’ve. Best tae stay ahead of it, aye?” He pushed himself off the car and stepped closer, close enough that she could smell oil and that faint hint of coffee still clinging to him. He smirked, before one greasy finger reached out, tapping lightly on her face, purposefully dirtying her face. "So," he murmured softly, "are you just going tae stand there looking pretty, or are you going to help me?" he asked. "I'm not gonna complain either way" he smirked, kissing the top of her head, then her cheek. He was getting a bit carried away, smothering her face with kisses all over, reaching down to her throat. He loved his wife dearly and he could never keep his hands off of her. No matter what. Unless she told him so, of course.

He chuckled against her skin, breath warm as his lips brushed along her cheek, then her jaw. An indulgent touch, like he finally had the time to linger. One grease stained hand came up to cradle her face, thumb brushing just beneath her eye, leaving another faint smudge he absolutely noticed.

“…sorry,” he said, not sounding sorry at all. His accent softened, vowels stretching lazy and affectionate. “Been cooped up wi’ my own thoughts all mornin’. Dangerous thing, that.”

He pulled back just enough to look at her properly, eyes scanning her expression like he was memorizing it. There was something quieter in his gaze now, something steadier beneath the teasing. Being home did that to him, made everything feel sharper. Brighter. More terrifying, if he was honest.

“You’ve nae idea how weird it is,” he went on, thumb still tracing idle patterns against her cheek, “tae wake up and know I don’t have tae bolt out the door. No kit to check. No orders barked at me before I’ve had my first cup o’ coffee.” He stepped back then, not wanting to be too much of a mopey bastard. “Oops,” he said, unapologetic, noticing the mark of grease he left on her skin and smirked. “Guess we’re both dirty now.”

The morning had settled in slow and easy, the kind that crept through the town without urgency. Low clouds hung heavy in the sky, not quite threatening rain, just dull enough to keep the world muted and quiet. The neighborhood was still half-asleep, only the distant sound of a lawn sprinkler ticking on somewhere down the road, the faint hum of a passing car, the smell of damp asphalt lingering from the night before. John was finally off the field but he was damn restless. Kept waking up early, making coffee for his beloved and just doing anything that wasn't standing still. Heck, he was even doing chores he usually hated doing. Laundry folded properly. Dishes dried and put away instead of left to “air dry.” The man was spiraling. So it wasn't a surprise when he found himself in the garage, sleeves rolled up, hands already smudged with grease as he worked under the car. Tools were scattered everywhere, probably too many for a job that probably didn’t need half of them. The radio hummed low in the background, some classic rock station he barely listened to. He twisted a bolt, paused, twisted it back again. “…aye, that’s no’ goin’ anywhere,” he muttered to himself, Scottish lilt thickening when there was no one else around to hear it. He wiped his hands on an old rag, then immediately dirtied them again, fingers itching for something to do. Anything that wasn’t standing still. The sound of footsteps echoed softly through the garage.

He didn’t even have to look.

John’s mouth curved into a grin before he spoke, familiarity settling warm and easy in his chest. “Mornin’, bonnie,” he called out, voice muffled slightly from under the car. Did ya enjoy my half burnt eggs?" he snorted at his own words. With a grunt, he rolled onto his side and pushed himself up, using his muscular arm to wipe sweat from his forehead. Grease streaked across his skin, dark against tan muscle. His hands were filthy, knuckles nicked and scarred from years of less than gentle work. His mohawk was damp with sweat, a few strands falling loose and sticking to his temple. He looked… good. Comfortable. Domestic in a way that felt almost dangerous. Straightening, he leaned back against the car with an easy confidence, arms crossing over his chest. The smirk on his face was all charm and mischief, blue eyes bright as they flicked over him. He glanced down at his hands, flexing his fingers absently, then back up at him. “Car was makin’ a funny noise,” he added casually, an outright lie. The engine had been purring just fine earlier. “Thought I’d take a wee look.” A beat. He looked at him amused, knowing damn well it wasn't true. “…alright, maybe it wasn’t makin’ a noise,” he admitted with a huff of laughter. “But it could’ve. Best tae stay ahead of it, aye?” He pushed himself off the car and stepped closer, close enough that he could smell oil and that faint hint of coffee still clinging to him. He smirked, before one greasy finger reached out, tapping lightly on his face, purposefully dirtying his face. "So," he murmured softly, "are you just going tae stand there looking pretty, or are you going to help me?" he asked. "I'm not gonna complain either way" he smirked, kissing the top of his head, then his cheek. He was getting a bit carried away, smothering his face with kisses all over, reaching down to his throat. He loved his husband dearly and he could never keep his hands off of him. No matter what. Unless he told him so, of course.

He chuckled against his skin, breath warm as his lips brushed along his cheek, then his jaw. An indulgent touch, like he finally had the time to linger. One grease stained hand came up to cradle his face, thumb brushing just beneath his eye, leaving another faint smudge he absolutely noticed.

“…sorry,” he said, not sounding sorry at all. His accent softened, vowels stretching lazy and affectionate. “Been cooped up wi’ my own thoughts all mornin’. Dangerous thing, that.”

He pulled back just enough to look at him properly, eyes scanning his expression like he was memorizing it. There was something quieter in his gaze now, something steadier beneath the teasing. Being home did that to him, made everything feel sharper. Brighter. More terrifying, if he was honest.

“You’ve nae idea how weird it is,” he went on, thumb still tracing idle patterns against his cheek, “tae wake up and know I don’t have tae bolt out the door. No kit to check. No orders barked at me before I’ve had my first cup o’ coffee.” He stepped back then, not wanting to be too much of a mopey bastard. “Oops,” he said, unapologetic, noticing the mark of grease he left on his skin and smirked. “Guess we’re both dirty now.”

The morning had settled in slow and easy, the kind that crept through the town without urgency. Low clouds hung heavy in the sky, not quite threatening rain, just dull enough to keep the world muted and quiet. The neighborhood was still half-asleep, only the distant sound of a lawn sprinkler ticking on somewhere down the road, the faint hum of a passing car, the smell of damp asphalt lingering from the night before. John was finally off the field but he was damn restless. Kept waking up early, making coffee for their beloved and just doing anything that wasn't standing still. Heck, he was even doing chores he usually hated doing. Laundry folded properly. Dishes dried and put away instead of left to “air dry.” The man was spiraling. So it wasn't a surprise when he found himself in the garage, sleeves rolled up, hands already smudged with grease as he worked under the car. Tools were scattered everywhere, probably too many for a job that probably didn’t need half of them. The radio hummed low in the background, some classic rock station he barely listened to. He twisted a bolt, paused, twisted it back again. “…aye, that’s no’ goin’ anywhere,” he muttered to himself, Scottish lilt thickening when there was no one else around to hear it. He wiped his hands on an old rag, then immediately dirtied them again, fingers itching for something to do. Anything that wasn’t standing still. The sound of footsteps echoed softly through the garage.

He didn’t even have to look.

John’s mouth curved into a grin before he spoke, familiarity settling warm and easy in his chest. “Mornin’, bonnie,” he called out, voice muffled slightly from under the car. Did ya enjoy my half burnt eggs?" he snorted at his own words. With a grunt, he rolled onto his side and pushed himself up, using his muscular arm to wipe sweat from his forehead. Grease streaked across his skin, dark against tan muscle. His hands were filthy, knuckles nicked and scarred from years of less than gentle work. His mohawk was damp with sweat, a few strands falling loose and sticking to his temple. He looked… good. Comfortable. Domestic in a way that felt almost dangerous. Straightening, he leaned back against the car with an easy confidence, arms crossing over his chest. The smirk on his face was all charm and mischief, blue eyes bright as they flicked over them. He glanced down at his hands, flexing his fingers absently, then back up at them. “Car was makin’ a funny noise,” he added casually, an outright lie. The engine had been purring just fine earlier. “Thought I’d take a wee look.” A beat. They looked at him amused, knowing damn well it wasn't true. “…alright, maybe it wasn’t makin’ a noise,” he admitted with a huff of laughter. “But it could’ve. Best tae stay ahead of it, aye?” He pushed himself off the car and stepped closer, close enough that they could smell oil and that faint hint of coffee still clinging to him. He smirked, before one greasy finger reached out, tapping lightly on their face, purposefully dirtying their face. "So," he murmured softly, "are you just going tae stand there looking pretty, or are you going to help me?" he asked. "I'm not gonna complain either way" he smirked, kissing the top of their head, then their cheek. He was getting a bit carried away, smothering their face with kisses all over, reaching down to their throat. He loved his spouse dearly and he could never keep his hands off of them. No matter what. Unless they told him so, of course.

He chuckled against their skin, breath warm as his lips brushed along their cheek, then their jaw. An indulgent touch, like he finally had the time to linger. One grease stained hand came up to cradle their face, thumb brushing just beneath their eye, leaving another faint smudge he absolutely noticed.

“…sorry,” he said, not sounding sorry at all. His accent softened, vowels stretching lazy and affectionate. “Been cooped up wi’ my own thoughts all mornin’. Dangerous thing, that.”

He pulled back just enough to look at them properly, eyes scanning their expression like he was memorizing it. There was something quieter in his gaze now, something steadier beneath the teasing. Being home did that to him, made everything feel sharper. Brighter. More terrifying, if he was honest.

“You’ve nae idea how weird it is,” he went on, thumb still tracing idle patterns against their cheek, “tae wake up and know I don’t have tae bolt out the door. No kit to check. No orders barked at me before I’ve had my first cup o’ coffee.” He stepped back then, not wanting to be too much of a mopey bastard. “Oops,” he said, unapologetic, noticing the mark of grease he left on their skin and smirked. “Guess we’re both dirty now.”