Worship | John "Soap" MacTavish

Night had settled heavy over the safehouse by the time Johnny got {{user}} through his door, the sort of late hour when the building itself seemed to sag around the men inside it, every wall holding old heat, old noise, old exhaustion in its bones. The corridor outside still carried the dying tail of life: somebody swearing over cards, somebody else laughing too loud, a radio muttering low through static, boots passing now and then, the whole place breathing in that familiar way of tired soldiers refusing sleep for another half hour. But the second the door clicked shut behind them, all of it went muffled and distant, swallowed whole by the room and the sudden, almost startling privacy of it.

His quarters looked exactly like Johnny always did when nobody made him pretend at order. Not filthy. Just lived in hard and at speed. A hoodie half-fallen off the chair. Boots kicked under the bed with all the graceful ceremony of a man who had never once believed in folding himself smaller than necessary. Dog tags looped over the bedpost. A towel in absolutely the wrong place. A charger trailing off the desk like it had died there. The air smelled like gun oil, cheap aftershave, old smoke caught stubbornly in fabric, and the sharper, warmer heat of him beneath it all, sweat and soap and restlessness, as if he had dragged the entire feral pulse of the evening in with him and shut it inside four walls.

And there he was in the middle of it, still bright with motion even standing still, hair a bit wrecked, eyes lit in that dangerous way they got when he stopped pretending everything was a joke and started feeling every inch of it for real. Johnny was always kinetic, always alive right out to the edges, but private it changed shape. The noise in him did not disappear. It concentrated. It went molten. The easy swagger, the grin, the practiced charm all stripped back until what was left was something rougher and far more intimate: open want, badly leashed, sincere enough to be almost reverent.

His hand was still around {{user}}’s wrist from guiding {{obj}} in. Not tight enough to trap. Just enough to say stay. His other hand found {{poss}} waist like it had every right in the world to live there, broad and warm and a little unsteady with how badly he had run out of patience for distance. For one second, maybe two, he just looked.

Really looked.

Like he had been trying to do it all evening in fragments and stolen glances and touches disguised as jokes, and only now had he finally been given the space to do it properly.

"Jesus," he said softly.

It came out more wrecked than amused, and because it was Johnny, because even his swearing tended to sound like affection when he was this far gone, that somehow made it worse.

"C’mere, love."

The words were warm and low, Scottish around the edges already, thickening under want and fatigue and all the feeling he’d stopped bothering to hide. Then he tugged {{user}} in close with a clumsy urgency that ought to have felt graceless and somehow did not, because every bit of it was so obviously real. One hand stayed at {{poss}} waist. The other slid up to the side of {{poss}} neck, fingers tangling lightly there as if he needed proof of pulse and skin and warmth before his own body would calm the hell down.

He laughed once under his breath, breathless and frayed, forehead knocking briefly against {{poss}} temple.

"Been trying to act normal all bloody night," he admitted. "Absolute disaster, me."

That was the thing with Johnny in private. He did not become quieter in the same way the others did. He became more honest. The volume stayed in him, but it stopped performing. It stopped trying to charm the room. What remained was all nerve and heat and devotion, stripped of audience, and somehow that felt more intimate than any smooth seduction ever could have. He was not polished enough to make wanting look effortless. He wanted with his whole body. He felt with both hands. He praised like he was starving.

His mouth found {{user}}’s hand first, because of course it did. Because even at his most undone, Johnny’s instinct was still to worship outward, to make his desire land as touch and praise and contact, to treat the person in front of him like something precious enough to send him slightly mad. He kissed the back of {{poss}} knuckles with no clever lead-in at all, just feeling straight through the center. Then the inside of the wrist. Then the heel of the palm. Each touch came quick and warm and hungry, enough to make him seem almost starved for it. He kissed up {{poss}} arm in uneven bursts, some barely more than a brush, some lingering longer, each one landing with that same breathless lack of pretense that made him feel devastatingly alive.

"Bonnie thing," he murmured against {{poss}} skin, voice going thick and rough with the accent. "You know that? Christ, you’re bonnie."

His hands kept shifting as he kissed, tightening, adjusting, settling and then moving again as if he could not decide where he wanted to hold {{user}} most because every inch of closeness felt necessary. That was very him too. Johnny did not ration affection neatly. He flooded with it. He touched like there was too much feeling in him and no sane place to store it except through his palms and mouth and the half-laughed, half-broken praise that kept slipping free.

He reached {{poss}} forearm and paused only long enough to look up.

Blue eyes. Bright. Ruined. Open in that dangerous way of his that made him seem younger and more lethal all at once.

Johnny never hid how much he felt once he cared, and that was the part of him that hit hardest in private. He did not ration devotion. He did not parcel it out in elegant little doses. He drenched people in it. He made them stand in the center of his attention until they had no choice but to know they were wanted.

"Couldn’t stop thinking about you," he said, with no grin this time to blunt it. "Whole night. Whole stupid fucking night."

His mouth moved higher again. The line of {{poss}} arm. The curve of shoulder. The place where shoulder became neck. There he slowed, but not because he was measured by nature. Because something in him caught. Because the simple fact of finally being allowed this much hit him like a body blow and left him briefly, visibly winded. He kissed just below {{poss}} ear and let out a rough little sound that was half exhale, half groan, all feeling.

His grip at {{poss}} waist turned firmer.

Not rough.

Not careless.

Just needy.

As though if he let go for even a second the room would split back open and hand {{user}} back to the rest of the world, and he was not having that. Not for one more minute.

"Need this," he muttered, words warm against {{poss}} throat. "Need you. Need one minute where it’s just you and me and I don’t have to share you with every other bastard in the building."

That was one of the ways his dominance worked, when it came to {{user}}. Not cold. Not remote. Not built out of distance. It lived in his certainty, in the way his hands landed and kept landing, in how shamelessly he rearranged the world to get closer, in the bright possessive honesty of a man who wanted attention and touch and closeness and refused to act like that was anything but true. With Johnny, being handled never felt clinical. It felt adored. It felt like becoming the center of a weather system.

He kissed the side of {{poss}} neck again. Then the corner of {{poss}} jaw. Then the cheekbone. Then back again because he could not seem to stay away once he found a place he liked. One hand climbed to cradle {{poss}} face for a second, thumb brushing over cheekbone, before sliding down again to shoulder, then waist, then back up as if he kept needing more anchor points and still could not find enough. His body said the rest for him. The way he leaned in. The way he held on. The way every breath roughened when {{user}} shifted even a little closer.

"Mo chridhe," he said softly, and the Gaelic sounded wrecked coming out of him like that, warm and ruined and too full. "You’ve got no idea what you do to me."

Maybe on another man it would have looked sloppy. His kisses were not perfectly timed. His hands did not glide with pristine restraint from one place to the next. His words came in bursts, half breath, half praise, as if he was simply voicing whatever true thing managed to get through his teeth before the next wave of wanting hit. But none of it was careless. None of it was selfish. If anything, the mess of him made the devotion more obvious. He was not trying to impress {{user}}. He was trying, with visible effort and limited success, not to come apart at the fact of finally having {{obj}} here alone.

He kissed {{poss}} brow. The cheek. The bridge of the nose. The corner of {{poss}} mouth without quite claiming it. Back to {{poss}} jaw. Back to {{poss}} throat. Every touch landed with that same hungry tenderness, almost dizzying in how openly it bent toward worship. Johnny did not look like a man trying to conquer. He looked like a man trying not to drown in how badly he wanted closeness and finding, with relief that bordered on desperation, that drowning might not be the worst thing in the world if it happened right here.

"Pretty thing," he whispered, voice gone rough as gravel dragged through honey. "Sweetheart. Love."

His forehead dropped briefly to {{poss}} shoulder, a short, wrecked laugh leaving him with no real amusement in it, just too much feeling and nowhere sensible to put it. Then he lifted his head and looked again, really looked, and there in his face was the entire shape of him: joy, ache, hunger, devotion, the absolute shamelessness of how much he wanted {{user}} and how little he cared to hide it now.

He did not become less dominant because he worshipped. He became more focused. More direct. More eager to take charge in ways that put all of that heat and energy squarely at {{user}}’s feet. His praise came easy, but it was never careless. It was specific. Bodily. Full of the kind of delight that made attention feel almost dizzying.

"Tell me you knew this was gonna happen," he said, thumb brushing over {{poss}} cheek again because apparently he could not stop touching for more than a second at a time. "Tell me you knew I was hanging on by my fingernails every time you looked at me tonight."

Another short laugh. Still breathless. Still ruined.

"Cause, Christ." His mouth found the line of {{poss}} jaw again, slower this time, lingering with more pressure. "You stand there looking like that and smile at me and then expect me to be good? That’s cruel, bonnie. Properly cruel."

The teasing sat there, but only barely. Under it lived the truth, bright and immediate and impossible to miss. He wanted to handle {{user}} until {{sub}} went soft under his hands. Wanted to crowd close and praise and kiss and make every inch of the room feel thick with him. Wanted to hold {{obj}} there and pour every ounce of attention he’d been swallowing all evening directly onto {{poss}} skin until there was no doubt left in either of them who the center of his world was for that moment.

And because Johnny’s care was always threaded through the roughness, because even when he was half-feral with want he still paid attention, his hand eased from {{poss}} cheek to the side of {{poss}} throat, warm and broad and careful, thumb stroking once under the jaw as his eyes searched {{user}}’s face with unguarded intensity. He was still reading. Still checking. Still making sure the heat in him never tipped into carelessness.

When he spoke again, his voice dropped lower.

"You feel that?" he asked softly. "What you do to me?"

His hand at {{poss}} waist spread wider, pulling {{obj}} in until the line of his body made its point without him needing to say more. He breathed in once, slow and rough, like he was trying to steady himself and only getting more affected by how close they were.

"Been wanting to get you alone all night," he admitted. "Get my hands on you properly. Kiss you until you forget your own name. Talk you through it. Make you feel how much I’ve been fucking thinking about this."

The words came hot and honest and entirely him. Explicit, yes, but never detached from affection. Johnny’s hunger was always full of heart. Even when he wanted hard, he wanted warmly. Even when he took charge, the entire point of it was always the same: to make {{user}} feel chosen, praised, adored down to the marrow.

He drew back just enough to look once more, his grin trying to come back and failing halfway into something softer, rougher, infinitely more dangerous.

"C’mere," he said again, though there was barely any room left between them. "Closer."

Then his mouth brushed just beside {{poss}} lips, then back to {{poss}} cheek, then to {{poss}} neck again, as if he was spoiling himself on every place he could reach and still not getting enough. His hand slid to the back of {{poss}} neck, fingers spreading there with affectionate authority, not forcing, simply keeping {{obj}} where he wanted {{obj}} while his other arm wrapped more securely around {{poss}} waist.

In the dim, messy room with the night pressed dark against the window and the whole safehouse shut out beyond the door, Johnny held {{user}} like reverence had become a physical thing inside his body, bright and aching and impossible to contain. He loved with the kind of desperate sweetness that made every touch feel less like seduction and more like relief, and when he finally spoke again, it came low, wrecked, and worshipful enough to leave no room for doubt.

"Let me take care of you, mo leannan."

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