hai i really like your writing! i was just wondering if you could do a short drabble on soap with a plus sized reader? i can hardly find any fics with him :,3
Hi there! Thank you so much for the kind words. This was my first time writing for a plus-size reader, apologies if I didn’t do well. I did my best through research and reading, but I’m always open to learning and improving. I hope you enjoy reading this though (´▽｀)
Farmer MacTavish’s Prized fruits
Johnny soap mactavish x fem! Plus sized reader, pure fluff.
Somewhere between cleaning his rifle and daydreaming about runaway goats, Johnny MacTavish got that look in his eye again—that dumb, dreamy one that made Ghost sigh and walk away without a word.
It was the same face every time: crooked grin, eyes twinkling like a cartoon star, like someone had just whispered “free whiskey” into the wind. And you knew. The second you rounded the corner, he was already on his feet, arms flung open like he’d just spotted his prized fluffy sheep after a week lost in the glen.
He had two hands—and he wasn’t wastin’ either of them.
Not when your cheeks—round, plush, and tragically squishable like freshly risen bread—were within reach. Warm like morning rolls left on a windowsill. And, unfortunately for your dignity, irresistibly soft.
The rest of you matched. Soft in all the right places, with curves so generous he swore you were sculpted by a god who just really loved holding things.
He could be mid-briefing, half-dressed, scratching his butt, chewing a protein bar, or deep into reassembling a rifle and he'd still reach over and gently pinch, prod, or smoosh your cheeks together like he was at a Saturday market inspecting peaches for ripeness.
“Aye, there ye are, ma lass!” he beamed, practically bouncing toward you like a golden retriever in combat boots.
“Hold still, love. Need tae check firmness. See if yer fresh.”
You didn’t even get a proper “hello” out before—schwump—both his hands were on your cheeks. Warm, calloused palms, rough from gun oil and poor life choices, cradled your face like it was divine fruit. He gave a testing squish.
“Hmmm,” he hummed, rocking your head side to side thoughtfully. “Look at this one. Plump. Juicy. Full of secrets. perfectly ripe, just like I like ‘em. Soft but springy. Ya been watered properly, hen?”
“Every mornin’,” you deadpanned, lips smushed together like a sad fish. “Filtered. Organic. Grew myself in a clay pot. Buy one, get one forehead slap.”
He grinned, delighted. “Ha! Knew it. These cheeks are blue ribbon quality. I’m tellin’ ye, I’d win medals at the Highland Games for cheeks like these. Best in show. Cheek du jour.”
You squinted at him. “Why are you talking to my face again?”
He blinked, like the answer was obvious. “Quality control. Yer a melon. I’m a humble Scottish farmer, searchin’ the land for only the finest fruit. Can’t sell subpar produce at market, now can I?” he said seriously-too seriously. Like he was giving a TED Talk on facial fruit.
You arched a brow. "How much am I going for, then?"
He stroked his chin dramatically, still squishing your cheeks into shapes no human expression should ever achieve.
Then tugged your cheeks gently left, right, gave them a bounce like he was testing gravity. He huffed through his nose.
“For these wee beauties?” he muttered, leaning in close like a bartering merchant. “Two sheep, a jug o’ cider, and me best goat. The one that screams at Gary every Sunday.”
You sighed, long-suffering but amused. “That’s extortionate. Sounds like I’m the one robbing you.”
He grinned wider. “And I’d hand it all over gladly.”
“That’s stupid. You’ll bankrupt yourself dry.”
“…And your goat has IBS.”
“Oi! Don’t talk about Margaret like that! She’s sensitive!”
Then, of course, he broke into what he thought was your voice—offensive, ridiculous, and weirdly high-pitched.
“‘Ooo, Mister sexy Johnny, I’m just a wee humble melon! Don’t sell me off, I’m full o’ hopes and dreams—’”
“I do not sound like that.”
“You do when yer cheeks’re like this.”
He shook your face lightly in his hands like a bowl of jelly for emphasis. You made a muffled “mmpf,” like a sentient stress ball. He leaned in and kissed your temple—warm and scratchy from stubble, like a cat tongue with better aim.
And God help you, sometimes… you joined in.
“’Scuse me, missy,” he’d start again, full dramatic flair.In the thickest farmer accent you’d ever heard (which wasn’t saying much, since he already sounded like a Glaswegian goat herder). “How much for these cheek-fruits?”
You barely blinked. “Twelve-fifty per squeeze and the rest of your dignity. No refunds. Market closes in five.”
“Twelve-fifty?!” he gasped. “What do I get for two euros then—just a sniff? A sample?”
“None. Inflation,” you mumbled through the squish.
“…Maybe a pity pat on the head. And a slap if you squeeze any harder.”
He kissed the top of your head like you were his prize pumpkin, he raised from childhood, “Worth every penny, ye are.”
And the thing was—he meant it.
His thumbs pressed gently into the softness of your cheeks—flesh like sweet dough, sun-warmed and kissed by the world. There was something in the way he held you: a reverence laced with playful awe, like you were some divine peach from an orchard tended by gods, plucked at the perfect hour of morning light. The fullness of your face, the gentle curve of your jaw, the cushion that came naturally with your frame—he loved it.
It wasn’t just your face, of course.
He loved all of you—every curve, every unapologetic inch. The strength in your arms, soft but powerful, like velvet wrapped around steel. Your waist, generous and steady—a soft curve made for holding, made for settling into. The kind of softness he could bury into when the world got too loud. And your hips—God, your thighs—the way they moved with that quiet confidence, swaying with a rhythm no one taught you. Like you moved to music only you could hear. Unapologetic. Proud.
And Johnny? He adored you like a starving man shown mercy.
“I’ve decided,” he declared, slipping into that farmer drawl, “ye’re the finest crop this side o’ the River Clyde. If I were a melon farmer—”
“You’d be bankrupt. You haven’t watered a plant in three weeks.”
“Oi! I’d water ye wi’ compliments daily, woman. Don’t test me.”
“Aye,” he said solemnly. Hands still planted on your cheeks. “Yer my prize melon. The last one in the patch. Locals travel from miles away to lay eyes on ye.”
“Someday,” he muttered, cheek still in hand, “we’re buyin’ a wee farm. Just you, me, and a hundred different kinds o’ jam. I’ll wake up, squeeze yer cheeks every mornin’, check the forecast.”
“What do they say today?”
He leaned in, nose brushing yours.
“…Storm’s comin’. Cheeks’re warm.”
His hand slid to your hip, burying his face in the crook of your neck like you were made of sunshine and honeysuckle.
Then, in a softer voice, “You ever think about quittin’ wi’ me, Bonnie?”
You tilted your head just enough—his cue to go on.
“Maybe, In another life… we’d be farmers. I’d grow tatties. You’d grow peaches. I’d come tae yer stall each mornin’, flirt shamelessly while buyin’ me dinner back. You’d act like ye don’t know me. Tell me I’ve sauce on me chin. Send me packin’ wi’ a basket and a blush.”
“I’d give you the bruised ones,” you muttered. “Because you’re annoying.”
He’d pretend to clutch his pearls. “Bruised?! Me heart, woman—shattered like a dropped watermelon.”
But then he returned against your soft skin. “Can see it now. Big bonnet. Sunflowers in your apron. Arms strong from milkin’ cows. That peachy wee arse jigglin’ in the garden rows—”
“You were doing so well until the end.”
“I’m a man of vision,” he whispered, smug.
You rolled your eyes, laughing despite yourself, and reached to twist his ear. He yelped. Deserved.
He does this often — builds entire daydreams around you. He’s off in some ridiculous fantasy world now In this one, you’re wearing overalls (he insists yours would be covered in flour), and he’s got straw in his hair, slapping bread dough around and calling it “tillage.”
You snorted, letting him continue his dumb little fantasy.
And in another world, your left cheek is named “Honeybun” and the right “Lassie,” and he gave them dramatic story arcs.
“They’ve been through a drought, y’know,” he whispered against your ear one afternoon while you’re making him coffee. “But I watered ‘em with love and protein shakes. Look at ‘em now. Plump ‘n’ happy.”
You played along, always. Patient, sarcastic, gently amused in that soft, indulgent way that only makes him fall harder. You’d cheekily said things like “They don’t like to be touched without an appointment,” or “I’m sorry sir, Honeybun gone bad. Got bruised by some idiot in tactical gear.”
And He gasped in horror like it’s a real tragedy. “HONEYBUN, NO— WHO-WHO DARED?! I’ll heat the market regulation outta him!”
“Good luck,” you muttered. “He talks too much and smells like gunpowder and Lynx Africa.”
“Sounds ah sexy lad!” He whistled, cradling your face with the kind of reckless affection that made your heart warm despite your best attempts at sarcasm.
And once, after a shower, you walked out in a towel, snugged against your soft stomach and caught him on the couch, holding a peach.
“You’re the reason humanity doesn’t have flying cars.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
And sure enough, he walked over, squeezed the peach. Then your cheek. Then the peach again. Then your cheek.
Eventually he kissed your face with a wet MWAA and declared you the winner.
“Softer. Sweeter. No pit.”
“High praise,” you said dryly. “You should put that on my tombstone.”
He grinned and laid his head on your shoulder, big warm arm curling around your middle.
“Only if I get to be buried next to Honeybun.”
Once, Ghost caught him mid-squeeze and muttered, “The hell are you doin’?”
Johnny didn’t miss a beat. “Product quality control, sir.”
Now when Ghost passes by and sees him face-deep in your cheek, he just mutters, “Fruit thing again?”
“Fourth, if ye count the bread loaf metaphor!” Johnny called proudly. Chest puffed.
And Johnny? Still daydreaming about the farm. The goat named Margaret. And the legend of the finest cheeks this side of the River Clyde.
