Johnny doesn’t recognize you until his mum asks if he remembers the girl who used to push him in the sandpit all the time at preschool. Then it clicks who you are. His childhood crush, all grown and so fucking gorgeous. You used to live there when you were young but when your parents drowned after a trip on a boat, you were taken away by your aunt.

He wonders why you’ve come back now but puts it in the back of his mind. He’s more focused on how prim and proper you are, sticking out like a sore thumb in the pub. Johnny’s learned you’re feisty and a little bitchy the hard way, but he fucking loves it. Makes him so damn horny. Your Scottish accent is still there but soften by years in the English countryside.

And of course he flirts with you, woos you, asks you on a date and you end up sleeping together. The little cottage you’re living in for the time being is luckily far enough away from town that no one can hear you screaming Johnny’s name. The headboard hitting against the wall with each punishing thrust. His thick, slightly curved cock pumping in and out, in and out, in and out after he spent a good hour with his head between your plush thighs. Best night of your fucking life.

When you wake though he’s gone, a note left on your pillow explaining he’d been called into work. An emergency. Worst day of your fucking life.

He’s back to saving the world, fighting to survive, living on base, joking with his task force. It all seems so mundane to him. He can’t ignore the itch in the back of his head, the knot in his back he can’t reach. He can’t rid you from his mind, not when he’s training, not when he’d just sniped someone’s brains all over the wall, and especially not when he’s in his bed, hand wrapped around his cock.

He cries out your name when he finishes in his hand, globs on stickiness coating his stomach and he prays you’re there waiting for him when he returns.

But when he does returns home, he doesn’t see you at the bar or the cottage and his mum is scowling at him like he’s kicked a puppy and his dad has this disappointment in his eyes that Johnny is transported back to his teenage years when all he saw in his dads eyes was disappointment.

He asks whats happened, what he’s done wrong but his parents shake their heads and stay silent. It wasn’t their story to tell. Johnny’s confused and hurt, thinks about just going back to base. Would brace the drive back over dealing with the icy stares from everyone in the pub.

Needing a drink to dilute his feelings, he heads to the local little market to grab a pack of beers when he sees you standing in front of the milk aisle, a sad look on your face as you decide if the three pounds you have left will be enough for both chocolate milk and strawberry milk. Even though they are two pounds each.

He starts towards you, but as soon as you turn back to your trolley he stops in his tracks. Your hand strokes over your swollen belly, a bigish bump there for five months pregnant. You know your baby is gonna be big headed just like his father.

Johnny feels as though he’s been shot. His world spins and he’s nearly sick. He knocked you up and left you. No wonder he’d been receiving so much hate everywhere he went. He hesitates, wondering if this is the best place for you to see him again, thinking up the different scenes that might take place. But he’s too late to make a plan when your eyes move to his.

He’s frozen in place watching the way your face contorts, all manner of emotions buzzing through you until they land on one that Johnny knows well. Anger. You rush forward and he gets this need to run niggling in his chest, but he stays rooted to the spot even when you slap him hard across the face.

He bites back a grin, you slap harder than Simon.

in public, his affection shows up as:

• standing close enough that your shoulders almost brush •  a hand briefly settling at your lower back to guide you through a crowd • opening doors without comment • quiet check-ins murmured under his breath: “you alright?” “need a minute?” • positioning himself so you’re always on the protected side of the street

he won’t kiss you where others can see, maybe a quick brush to your temple, maybe his forehead resting against yours for half a second when no one’s looking. his affection reads as leadership, steadiness, quiet possession.

to outsiders, it looks professional.

to you, it feels like being guarded by something immovable.

in private

behind closed doors, price softens.

he exhales.

his shoulders drop.

his hands linger.

private affection from price is slow and grounding:

• both hands framing your face when he kisses you • pulling you into his chest and holding you there, solid and warm • long silences spent just breathing together • resting his forehead against yours, eyes closed • thumb rubbing slow circles into your back without realizing he’s doing it

he’s verbal in private in a way he never is publicly. quiet reassurances. low, steady praise. things like, “you did good,” or “i’ve got you,” said like facts, not flattery.

price loves like a shelter.

outside, he blocks the storm.

inside, he lets you rest.

ㅤ────୨ৎ────

simon “ghost” riley

in public

simon’s affection in public is almost invisible, unless you know what to look for.

he doesn’t touch much.

doesn’t smile.

doesn’t announce anything.

but he is always watching.

public affection for simon looks like:

• standing just behind you, close enough to feel his presence • his hand hovering near your back without quite touching • stepping in immediately if someone crowds you • silent check-ins through eye contact alone • angling his body so he’s always between you and everyone else

he doesn’t kiss you publicly. doesn’t hold hands. doesn’t say sweet things out loud.

but the way he shadows you?

the way his attention never leaves you?

that’s affection.

raw and vigilant.

in private

alone with you, simon is different.

not loud.

not dramatic.

but hungry in a quiet way.

private affection from simon is physical and intense:

• his hands gripping your hips when he pulls you close • pressing his forehead to yours after a long day • resting his maskless face against your neck just to breathe you in • holding you like he’s afraid letting go means losing you • brushing his thumb under your eye, gentle, reverent

he doesn’t talk much, but when he does, it’s honest and low.

“you’re safe.”

“i’ve got you.”

“don’t go.”

in private, simon doesn’t guard you from the world.

he guards himself with you.

ㅤ────୨ৎ────

johnny “soap” mactavish

in public

johnny does not know how to be subtle, and frankly, doesn’t care.

he’s affectionate publicly in a way that’s playful and unapologetic:

• arm slung easily around your shoulders • pulling you closer when he laughs • casual kisses to your cheek • loud compliments without shame • calling you pet names like it’s second nature

he thrives on making you smile, even if it earns him teasing from the others. his affection is bright, warm, unmistakable.

people know you’re his.

he wants them to know.

in private

behind closed doors, the playfulness softens into something deeper.

johnny gets tender.

private affection from soap looks like:

• cupping your face and kissing you slow, unhurried • laying with his head on your chest, listening to your heartbeat • tracing shapes into your skin while talking about nothing • holding you tight when the jokes fade

whispering confessions he’d never say out loud otherwise

he’s more honest in private. more vulnerable. his laughter quiets, his voice lowers, and his touch becomes reverent.

publicly, johnny loves you loudly.

privately, he loves you completely.

ㅤ────୨ৎ────

kyle “gaz” garrick

in public

gaz’s affection is subtle, respectful, steady.

he won’t make a scene.

won’t overstep.

won’t crowd you.

but he is always there.

public affection from gaz includes:

• walking in sync with you • brief hand squeezes instead of holding hands • fingers brushing yours like a question, not a demand • standing close enough to be reassuring • calm, attentive eye contact when you speak

he reads your comfort first. always. if you pull back, he gives space. if you lean in, he meets you halfway.

his affection in public feels safe.

chosen.

mutual.

in private

alone with you, gaz relaxes fully.

private affection from him is warm and deeply attentive:

• arms wrapped around you from behind while you’re distracted • slow kisses that linger like he doesn’t want them to end • resting his chin on your shoulder, breathing you in • murmured compliments meant only for you • hands that explore carefully, appreciatively

he talks more in private, not dramatic declarations, but steady truths.

“i like you.”

“you make things easier.”

“i’m here.”

gaz loves with intention.

publicly, he respects you.

privately, he chooses you again and again.

ㅤ────୨ৎ────

in the end

price protects.

simon guards.

johnny celebrates.

gaz steadies.

and the way they love in public versus private isn’t about hiding or showing off —

it’s about trust.

because with tf141,

affection isn’t for display.

it’s for you.

     taglist :

You are somewhere deep when it starts. Not quite the villa, not quite here. Johnny humming, water on stone, a door that will not stay shut.

The knock is sharp. Twice. Then the handle turns.

"Agent, you are late for..."

Kate's voice cuts off.

You blink awake.

You are not flat on the mattress anymore. At some point you rolled onto your back. Your head is still on his thigh. One of his hands rests on your stomach under the blanket. The other is in your hair, fingers loose.

He is already looking at the door.

Kate stands in it.

She takes in the room in one sweep. You on the bed. Johnny in the chair, socks on the floor, shoulders slumped from a night of half sleep. The mug on the nightstand. The closed blinds.

Her mouth presses into a line.

"Sergeant," she says.

Johnny does not flinch.

"Morning, ma'am," he says.

"This is not what giving her space looks like," she says.

"Good thing I am not an interior designer then," he says lightly.

Your brain scrambles to catch up.

You try to push yourself up. Your muscles complain. Johnny's hand shifts to help, a steady palm between your shoulder blades.

Kate steps into the room fully, pulls the door mostly shut behind her.

"Siren," she says. "You are twenty minutes late for your session."

You rub at your eyes.

"Sorry," you say. Your voice is thick. "Didn't mean to..."

You trail off. Sleep. Lose track. Need him.

Johnny squeezes your shoulder.

"That is on me," he says. "I kept her up talkin'."

Kate looks at him.

There is a flash there, something sharp.

"We had an agreement," she says.

"No," he says. "You had an order. I nodded. Then I came here."

You feel your stomach drop.

"Johnny," you murmur.

He glances down at you.

"I am not lyin' to her because she asked nicely," he says.

Kate blows out a breath. She looks tired. She looks like she saw you with your head on his leg and something in her unclenched against her will.

"You cannot stay in her bed all day," she says.

Johnny's brows lift.

"Chair," he says. "I am very well behaved."

"You know what I mean," she says. "She needs to attend her sessions. She needs to talk to someone who is not you."

"I am aware," he says. "You can have her for the hour. I will even walk her there."

"Sergeant," she warns.

"What," he asks. "You want her navigatin' this place alone when she jumps at every bloody air vent. She is goin' to therapy. I am not stoppin' that. I am makin' sure she gets to the door."

Kate turns to you.

"Do you want him here," she asks.

The question lands heavy.

You look at Johnny. Then at the room. The blank walls. The closed blinds. The way the air feels too still when he is not talking.

"Yes," you say.

Your throat feels tight.

"Alright," Kate says quietly. "Then he can walk you. And then he will sit outside and let Dr Halim do her job without hovering like an anxious parent."

Johnny opens his mouth.

Kate adds, "Non negotiable, Johnny."

He closes it again.

"Fine," he says. "I can hover in a chair."

He pats your shoulder once, then stands.

You feel the loss of his warmth as soon as he moves. The mattress shifts. Your head feels oddly light.

He steps around the bed and reaches for your hand.

"Come on, hen," he says. "Up."

You let him pull you to your feet.

Your legs feel weak and weird and too long. You sway for a second. His arm slips around your back, steady.

"There you go," he murmurs.

Kate watches the way you cling to his shirt for balance.

Her jaw tightens.

"Get dressed," she says. "I will meet you in the hall."

She leaves without slamming the door.

Johnny does not.

He helps you find the clean set of sweats someone folded on the chair. He makes a show of checking the seams, like they might bite.

"I can dress myself, you know," you say.

He smirks.

"Never said you could not," he says. "I am just providin' moral support."

He turns his back while you change. It is ridiculous and sweet and infuriating.

When you are ready, he picks up your hoodie from where it hangs on the bedpost.

"Arms," he says.

You roll your eyes but you let him guide your hands into the sleeves. His fingers brush your wrists, light.

You step into the hall together.

Kate waits, arms folded.

She walks on your other side, not quite touching. Between the two of them you feel very small and very guarded.

The walk to psych is short. It feels longer.

Every noise makes your shoulders jump. A dropped tray from somewhere. A laugh. A phone ringing in an office. Johnny's hand stays at the small of your back, not pushing, just there.

"Breathe," he says under his breath.

You do.

The therapy wing has softer lights. Someone tried to make it less like a hospital and more like an office. There are posters on the walls about resilience and stress cycles. You hate them.

Kate opens the door to a small room.

Dr Halim waits inside. Late thirties. Calm eyes. Hijab in navy blue, matched with a cardigan and sensible shoes.

"Hello," she says. "You must be Siren."

You hover in the doorway.

Johnny is right behind you.

Dr Halim's gaze flicks to him.

"And you must be the famous Sergeant MacTavish," she says.

Johnny smiles, quick.

"Depends who you ask," he says.

"I am sure," she replies.

Kate steps in.

"Doctor, this is our undercover asset from the Makarov operation," she says. "You have read the file."

"I have," Dr Halim says. "Thank you."

She turns back to you.

"I would like to talk for an hour," she says. "No needles, no machines, just conversation. Is that alright."

You swallow.

"I guess," you say.

Johnny squeezes your shoulder.

"I will be right out here," he says. "You need me, you shout, I am through the wall."

Dr Halim smiles faintly.

"Please do not actually go through my wall," she says. "You can knock. Like a normal person."

Johnny's mouth curves.

"No promises," he says.

Kate gives him a look.

"Chair," she says. "Outside. Now."

He touches your arm, then steps back.

You feel his absence like a dropped temperature.

You go in.

The door closes behind you with a soft click.

The chair across from Dr Halim's desk is not as awful as the one in your room. It has a cushion. She sits in her own chair, not behind the desk, knees angled slightly toward you, a notepad on her lap.

She does not start with the villa.

She starts with your name. The real one. She says it like she has practised it. Like she wants you to hear it from someone's mouth again.

She asks simple things at first.

"How is your body feeling."

"Hungry or no."

"How did you sleep."

You answer. You tell her your legs shake when you stand. You tell her your stomach is a knot. You tell her you slept but did not rest.

Eventually she nudges toward the edges of the last year.

"How long since you lived in a place that was not controlled by someone else," she asks.

You think of hotels. Safehouses. Makarov's villa.

"Years," you say.

"How long since you felt alone in a room," she asks.

You hesitate.

"Last night," you say. "For twenty minutes. Maybe."

She tilts her head.

"And what happened," she asks.

"Johnny happened," you say.

You try for flippant. It comes out flat.

Her eyes soften.

"You sound relieved," she says.

"He is..." You search for the right word. "He is familiar. I know him."

"You know the version of him from seven years ago," she says gently. "And the voice in your ear for the last few weeks. That is not the same as knowing all of him now."

You chew your cheek.

"He is not a threat," you say.

"And that is a rare category for you," she says.

You shrug.

She does not push, not yet.

She asks about the courtyard. You give her the outline, not the details. You do not talk about the ring. You do not talk about the lie that bought you a second. You mention Sergei. You mention the water. You mention the sound of the shot.

She watches you when you say Johnny's name.

"You anchor a lot of statements with him," she notes. "He did this. He said that. He was there."

"He was," you say.

"I am not arguing," she replies. "I am noticing where your mind goes when you think of safety."

You pick at a loose thread on your sweatpants.

"He is the only thing that does not feel like a mission," you say finally. "Everything else is intel and reports and questions and eyes. He is just... him."

She nods slowly.

"And what do you think that might turn into if you are not careful," she asks.

You know the answer.

"A problem," you say.

"Maybe," she says. "Or maybe a bridge. Right now it is both. I am not going to tell you to cut it off. That would be useless and cruel. I am going to suggest we find ways to widen your world so it does not start and end with one man and one room."

Your throat feels tight.

"So I cannot see him," you say.

"I did not say that," she replies. "I said he should not be the only person you see. There is a difference."

You sit with that.

You think of the chair by your bed. His hand in your hair. The promise to watch the door.

You think of the idea of that chair empty.

You think you might throw up.

Dr Halim watches the way your hand curls.

"We will go slow," she says. "One thing at a time. Today, you made it here. That is enough."

She glances at the clock.

"Do you know what you want to do after this," she asks. "Anything that is not a debrief."

You do not have an answer.

Your mind stutters.

She waits.

"Food," you say finally. "I should eat."

"Good," she says. "You should. Do you want company for that that is not Johnny."

You snort.

"No," you say.

Her lips twitch.

"Honest," she says. "We can work with honest."

She closes her notebook.

"We are done for today," she says. "You did well. I know it did not feel like a lot, but it was."

You stand on shaky legs.

Your hand goes to the door before your brain remembers how to make your feet move.

You open it.

Johnny is right there.

He sits in a hard plastic chair in the hall, elbows on his knees, forearms bare. Someone brought him a coffee. It sits forgotten on the floor by his boot.

The second he sees you he is up.

"How was it," he asks. "You alright."

You blink at him.

You thought you would be annoyed by how fast he moves, how he is here, how his eyes climb over your face checking for damage.

You are not.

"I am hungry," you say.

He relaxes about ten percent.

"That I can fix," he says. "Mess is still open. C'mon."

He falls into step beside you, easy.

Kate watches from the far end of the hall. She does not say anything. She does not have to. The look says enough.

Johnny ignores it.

The mess is half full.

People look up when you walk in. Conversations dip, then resume. You feel their eyes on your back. Curious. Pitying. Trying not to stare.

You stop just inside the door.

Johnny goes straight to the line like this is any other day.

"You want the mystery meat or the sad salad," he calls over his shoulder.

You almost smile.

"Neither," you say.

He snorts.

"Wrong answer," he says. "You are gettin' some of both and a roll. You don't have to like it, you just have to eat it."

He returns with two trays.

Yours has exactly what he promised. His has whatever cheap carbs he can pile.

He sits across from you.

He nudges your tray closer.

"Eat," he says.

You pick up the fork because it is easier than arguing. The food tastes like cardboard and salt. You chew anyway.

He talks.

He fills the space with nonsense. A story about Gaz dropping his phone in a puddle. A complaint about Ghost hoggin' the showers. How Price snores loud enough to rattle windows.

Every time your eyes start to go distant he tosses in your name. Or hen. Or lass. Something to reel you back.

People come and go.

Someone passes and says, "MacTavish, she'll be fine."

"Yeah, I know," he says without looking up. His fork keeps moving. His attention never leaves you.

They shake their head and walk on.

It is like that every day.

Therapy in the morning. Debrief some afternoons. Johnny is in the hall, in the mess, in the doorway. If someone tries to cut him off he smiles and nods and then goes right back to his post.

Nights are no better.

They move you to a slightly different room at one point, closer to the psych wing. Change of scenery. New paint. It does not matter.

No matter how they shuffle the assignments, no matter what schedule they try to keep, Johnny finds his way inside.

Sometimes he comes before you sleep. Sometimes you wake from a nightmare and find him already there, boots off, t shirt, chair in the corner like a permanent piece of furniture.

"MacTavish, she'll be fine," people say when they pass him in the hall.

"Yeah, I know," he answers every single time.

He does not move.

You start to rely on the shape of him in the doorway as much as you rely on the bed under your back. On the sound of his voice as much as the hum of the lights.

He is the only familiar thing in a world that keeps changing on you.

It is comforting.

It is terrible.

You do not know how to stop.

The lights are off.

That helps. No bright white hum, no hard edges. Just the soft orange leak from the hallway under the door and the distant thrum of air vents somewhere in the ceiling.

You are on your side, facing the wall.

The sheets are thin but warm. The mattress dips behind you where Johnny lies, close enough that you feel the heat of him along your spine even before he touches you.

He shifts once. The bed creaks a little. Then his arm slides in under your pillow, his bicep a solid line where your head can rest if you want it. His chest comes up against your back, careful at first, like he is still not sure how much weight you can take.

His other hand finds your hair.

He gathers a loose strand between his fingers and smooths it. Slow. Up and down. Over and over. You feel the drag along your scalp, the light tug as he separates one piece from the rest. It is mindless and deliberate at the same time.

Your muscles loosen without permission.

He feels it.

“There y’are,” he murmurs.

His voice comes through your shoulder, low and rough from the day. You feel his breath against the back of your neck. It smells like toothpaste and something cheap from the vending machine.

You huff out a small breath that almost counts as a laugh.

“Thought you’d try the chair again,” you say.

He snorts softly.

“Thought about it,” he says. “Then I looked at it and remembered I’m not a complete masochist.”

You can hear the smile in his voice. You can feel it, too, when he leans in and presses a kiss to the back of your head, right where your hair parts.

It is soft. Barely there. More breath than lips.

You swallow.

Your hand finds his wrist on instinct. Your fingers fit there like they never forgot how. You feel his pulse under your thumb, steady and strong and entirely alive.

“Alright,” he says quietly. “What’s that about.”

“What,” you ask.

He curls a little closer, leg tucking against the back of yours.

“Every time you grab on like that,” he says, “you look like you’re checkin’ I’m not gonna vanish.”

You stare at the wall.

“Maybe I am,” you say.

His thumb starts tracing little circles on your forearm where it rests against the mattress. The touch is light. You could pull away. You do not.

“I’m right here,” he says. “Not goin’ anywhere tonight.”

Your throat feels tight.

“You say that like people don’t get called up at three in the morning all the time,” you say. “Like they don’t walk out of rooms and never come back.”

He is quiet for a second.

You feel him breathe in. You feel the rise of his chest against your back. The slow exhale brushes over your neck.

“If Price drags me out of this bed tonight,” he says finally, “he’s takin’ you too. That’s the only way I’m leavin’. So unless you get sick of shar in’ a pillow, you’re stuck with me.”

“You can’t promise that,” you say. “You can’t promise anything. You’re you.”

“Rude,” he mutters.

You smile into the darkness.

His hand leaves your hair for a moment so he can pull you closer, closing the tiny gap that was still there. His chest is flush to your back now. His knees curve into the back of yours. You fit into the line of him like you were made to.

His palm settles over your ribs. Right below your heart. His fingers spread, a warm, steady weight.

“Feel that,” he says quietly. “You’re here. I’m here. Nothin’ else matters for five bloody minutes.”

You listen.

Your heartbeat is a little fast, but it is not frantic. His is slower. Solid. The two rhythms bump and slide until they find a pace together.

You let the air out of your lungs in a shake.

“Five minutes,” you say.

“Maybe ten,” he says. “Don’t tell Laswell.”

His chin nudges the back of your head. You feel the rasp of his stubble through your hair. Then he presses another kiss there, a little firmer this time.

“I missed this,” he says against your scalp.

“Lying in a government bed,” you ask.

“Lyin’ next to you,” he says. “Listenin’ to you breathe when you’re not pretendin’ you’re fine.”

Your eyes burn.

“I’m fine,” you say automatically.

He laughs, quiet.

“You’re not,” he says. “But you will be. And until then I’m happy to be your emotional support Scottish idiot.”

You snort, helpless.

“That’s not a recognised therapy animal,” you say.

“Should be,” he replies. “We’re very loyal. Good cuddlers. Bit mouthy.”

His hand moves back up, fingers sinking into your hair again. He rubs at your scalp gently with his fingertips, slow circles that make your eyes flutter shut.

You did not know you could feel like this. Not relaxed exactly. Not safe. But something in between. Like standing on the shore after months at sea, still swaying but on solid ground.

“You tired,” he asks.

You search yourself.

The usual edge is not there. No cliff. No balcony. No cold hand at your throat. Just his warmth and the steady drag of his nails along your scalp and the weight of his arm.

“Yeah,” you say. “For once.”

He hums.

“Good,” he says. “I like you best when you’re half asleep. Less likely to threaten to stab me.”

“You deserve it when I do,” you mumble.

“Probably,” he agrees.

You feel his smile against your hair.

Silence stretches, but it is not empty this time.

You feel his chest rise and fall. You feel the way his breathing starts to slow, matching yours. His fingers get lazier in your hair, more drift than pattern.

“Johnny,” you say suddenly.

“Mm,” he answers.

“Thank you,” you say.

He goes very still.

“For what,” he asks.

“For not listenin’,” you say. “To them. About the space. About leavin’ me alone.”

He exhales.

“Yeah, well,” he murmurs. “I tried listenin’ once. Seven years ago. Didn’t much like where it got us.”

He nuzzles the back of your head again.

“Not makin’ that mistake twice,” he adds.

You shift just enough that you can reach his hand with your lips. You press a small kiss to his knuckles.

He sucks in a breath.

“Careful, hen,” he says, voice rough. “Keep doin’ that and I’ll start thinkin’ you actually like me.”

You can feel your smile even with your eyes closed.

“Maybe I do,” you say.

There is a beat of quiet.

“Dangerous thing to admit,” he says.

“Too tired to lie,” you answer.

You feel him melt a little more around you. His whole body curves closer, like he is trying to wrap himself around you completely.

“Sleep then,” he says softly. “I’ve got you.”

You believe him.

For the first time in longer than you can remember, the slide into sleep does not feel like falling. It feels like sinking into something warm and held, with his hand in your hair and his breath against your neck and his chest a solid wall at your back.

The villa stays away.

The sea stays outside.

You dream of nothing at all.

🧨💋🎯 🧨💋🎯 🧨💋🎯 🧨💋🎯 🧨💋

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