John (37) : I've got ten years on you, sweetheart. You comfortable with that?

Yeah. And we're hitting it off. I'm glad I put thought into my age limit settings.

John (37) : You calling me old?

You insert a little laughing emoji.

Just showing you I don't have an age fetish! That I didn't match with you just because of the number.

John (37) : Somehow still managing to call me old here.

So, if you waited until he was very much dressed up to his "scariest" and went and loved on him, the man would combust.

König comes home from base, full-gear on, still on the phone with Krueger over some annoying, post-mission shit, throwing himself down on the couch.

Before he can begin to wonder where you are, you pad softly across the floor, wearing nothing but his cotton pajama shirt, and sit yourself right down in his lap, wiggling your hips to persuade his thighs apart.

The sight of your bare feet pressed so neatly together on the floor between his giant boots, has him adjusting himself against your ass.

You lean back against his chest, picking his free hand up to press gentle kisses against the back of it.

Nearly naked and purring in complete comfort and trust, laid up against the deadliest looking version of him, on his couch, in his home that you choose to share with him, makes him cum in his pants.

"Yer goin' to let some kid fumble around with your high-maintenance pussy. That it?"

"Kid? He's 25 years old, John."

He doesn't snap. He doesn't pounce. And he certainly doesn't yell.

John backs you into your kitchen with the slow, intense practice of a large cat when it hunts, until your back kisses the island counter.

Then he drops to his knees and messes up the hem of your little date night outfit with his big, calloused fingers- and looks up at you.

"I need you to pay attention, okay, sweetheart? And stay upright."

"What do you think you're do-"

When Johnny came back from deployment, even more bright-eyed and ruddy-cheeked than usual, and told you he'd found himself a boyfriend, you figured it as good a time as any to confess your 15 years of unrequited love. Lie it to rest.

Your best friend can enjoy his newfound happiness from a respectful, knowing distance- and you can move on.

It was tough, at first. The way he gawked at you. New, horrible territory. Things between you had never been awkward.

But, the tension was short lived before he got another call. Your ever-loyal dog of a man, answering to his new whistle. You did not watch him go.

Then, it was somewhat easier to breathe. Somewhat easier to bawl on your couch to your comfort movies and mope around the grocers without fear of his pitying, puppy dog eyes.

What you had not accounted for, in this whole healing process, was his banging at your front door the same night he got home.

Only a season had passed. Not long enough to mourn 15 years. You figured he'd give you more time. He's a caring person, your best friend.

But, only Johnny's knock sounded like that. And only Johnny would turn up at this hour, theatrics and all hell.

He's soaked to the bone, eyes twinkling with something offensively alive.

"Do you know what time it is?"

"'course not. Thoughtless fucker, I am."

His jokes always made you laugh. Now, you only keep frowning. Briefly, he considers sitting down at your slipper-clad feet and begging.

"What do you want, MacTavish?"

You try to look angry. 10 feet tall. Not in love with him, anymore.

"None of that. I'm yer Johnny."

Your eyes widen, stinging wet.

"I could slap you. Do you have any idea h-"

"Simon wants to meet my girl."

The rain falls hard and messy on your awning, a clatter of confusing reality, made louder with the door open and him in it.

You lose your bite in the sadness.

"I-" you whisper, "I'm not sure I'm ready to meet him."

You take your nail between your teeth, shuffling your feet.

"Don't you think this is a little mean, John? That you're being mean to me right now?"

He slides down the side of your door, pooling at your feet as you yelp in surprise.

Big, gray eyes, pleading.

"Mean he wants to know you. Told him everything. Our life together as wean. How bonnie yah are. How I still feel about yah. 's how I feel about him."

"How you... still feel about me?"

He kisses your ankle. Big, warm hands on the skin of your calves. You gasp, but don't draw back.

"Never didn't love yah back, bonnie."

And he looks so ridiculous, this virile, burly mass of man, on the ground, in your tiny doorway, in the middle of the night, that you really start to cry.

"I don't understand, Johnny." Four months of heartbreak, fat tears and snot. "Why wouldn't he be jealous of me, then?"

medically discharged!johnny jumps unhappily from job to job after the head injury. if not fired within a few months, he finds some bullshit reason to quit. and when the pint money gets low, he finds a new one.

he does his job with all the passion and integrity of a man who does not want to be alive. johnny had a job, and he was good at it. he was exceptional at what was taken from him. it was his whole life. then, it wasn't.

the sun in the sky goes unfelt by his skin. big feet barley lifted when he walks, shuffling loudly everywhere, like a pouting child. a massive amount of devotion, scorned. a life of stand-up work ethic, discarded. people whisper about his head, he knows, but it's his heart he really lost.