Deployment

ghost x reader x soap smut | +18/mdni!

making out with soap on simon's dick... like literally on his dick.

fuckin' hell, the two of you have driven the man to a sweating, tense mass of muscle as you snog johnny with wet, swollen lips against simon's leaking tip. the head is a ranging red and shines with a mixture of spit and slick that johnny laps up with a heavy lick before enveloping it with another deep kiss.

simon's mind goes completely numb when you twirl your tongue, snaking it in a long drag to meet soap's. his head rolls back in a lull, only gaining enough consciousness to mumble out a mouthful of groans low curses.

the sounds rock from somewhere low in his chest to mix with wet sounds of you lapping together along his thickness.

"jus' like tha'. good–ah. ah, shit, yeah–good fuckin' pets gettin' my dick nice 'n wet. god, look at you two. can't get enough, huh?"

he grins a little at the desperate shake of the head you send him, pulling back for the tiniest second to suck in a quick breath. the man next to you steals the moment, using your break to sink onto simon, tongue dragging out against the underside as he works his way down.

"stop hogging, johnny," you whine, a soft pout on your face when soap flinches with a wet gag that has simon entire body jerking. ignoring you, johnny continues his warm sucks before a rough pat to his face finally forces him to retreat. he slips off simon with a loud pop to wink at you.

"sorry, hen." soap grins, a grunt leaving him with he smashes your face into his. simon watches with greedy eyes at the way your lips glide together easy, tongues dancing to share the lingering taste of simon's cock. his gaze only darkens when you and johnny part with one last peck. "tastes too good."

simon huffs a little laugh, hand snaking to rest at the back of your neck. he pulls you into a brief kiss, thumb rubbing gently at the skin of your cheek, johnny watching a enamored tilt of his head.

"s'alright, pretty," simon coos. "i'll spank him later for it."

© 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐯𝐚

me waiting on yall to make these sinner fics 😭🧍🏾‍♀️

disappointing lack of delta slim thirst on the fuck that old man website

So I’ve been staying at a hotel lately and running out of clean clothes, so I’ve been sleeping in the hotel robe, which inevitably doesn’t stay closed and exposes my tits at some point in the night.

Anyways. Imagine sharing a room with Soap.

The whole time he’s been playing up how normal it is. Sleeping in the same room. Leaving the bathroom door open. Seeing each other’s weird habits. Cause you’re best mates, so it’s not weird. You’re one of the guys, a member of the team— you’ve been together through thick and thin. You’ve slept in closer quarters than this on deployment.

Until you’re sleeping and your robe opens up, and suddenly he’s reminded that you’re his best mate with the soft, inviting body of a girl.

And he’s just a man, bonnie. Cannae be blamed for what happens next, y’ken?

Hi there! Which until dawn characters do u think that are soft moaners and which ones u think are loud moaners?

Ooooo, this is a good one! 👀

Soft moaners: Sam, Ashley, Beth, Matt, Hannah

Loud moaners: Emily, Jess, Chris

Depends on the timing or the mood they are in: Mike, Josh

original pic:

Concept: John Price has a lovely little wife at home, that he shares with his boys when the going gets tough…

John Price x Simon Ghost Riley x Mrs Price (You)

Shameless smut. Threesome. Squirting. Bit of Price x Riley action. Little bit angsty (blame Simon)

Masterlist

Simon is a special case. You and John don’t acknowledge that, but it’s true all the same. It started when John asked one year if Simon could come for Christmas. You’d agreed, faintly irritated that your peaceful noel with your often absent husband was going to be interrupted.

Then the man had skulked into your bright, festive home, riddled with silent self loathing well concealed under a veneer of indifference, and you’d forgotten about being angry.

Simon adored your soft coddling, the endless rounds of tea you made him and the small tasks he carried out that made you beam up at his thawing onyx eyes. It didn’t take long for him to start trailing around the house after you while John read the paper, then to sit as close to you as possible during firelight warmed nights watching the old sitcom reruns they play over the Christmas period.

From what little John had told you, Simon had a rough upbringing. He’s important to John, as all his boys are. But with Simon there’s a layer of understanding between the two men that runs deep.

If anything happens to John abroad, it’s Simon that’s written into his will to stand beside you through the agony of it. Simon who has access to John’s offshore accounts so they can’t be traced back to you in the event it all goes south. In essence, Simon’s so thoroughly invested that at times he feels like he took the same vows to you John did, no wedding band upon his finger needed.

Simon was the first person you both let into your marital bed. More than that though he became a part of your marriage, the silent third in the relationship, never asking anything of either you or John, but gratefully included all the same. It’s not official, Simon visits sporadically like an alleycat with several homes that feed it.

But you enjoy the intimacy and so does John. It isn’t unusual for him to visit without your husband at his shoulder, and John is always quietly thrilled when he comes home to Simon’s boots neatly resting next to your smaller shoes on the rack. You invite him for Christmas every year, and Simon always comes home with John a few days beforehand to maximise the time you all have together.

No one else on base has a clue, and though Simon would never admit it, he loves you both entirely. His loyalty to John is unwavering, a steadfast commitment made years ago in the wreckage of his old life, the one that came before Ghost or skulls reeking of gunpowder.

The adoration of you came unexpectedly, from a place of intense jealousy that John had love in someone else and the home comforts he had always failed to find. At first Simon resented John’s insistence that he should meet you, stay in your shared house filled to the brim with simple domesticity.

But after that first taste, Simon knew he’d found a place for himself, lying between you both in the long hours of the night, his head on your chest and John’s broad hand at the nape of his neck.

Perhaps that’s why he takes it so very personally when he feels a spare part. A cuckoo finally recognised and flung from the nest. Jealousy has no place in this arrangement, Simon acknowledges that, though he still feels it regardless of whether he’s allowed to or not.

“Come on, out with it then.”

“What?”

“You’ve been in a foul mood lately. At least do me tha’ curtesy of tellin me why.”

“Not in a mood, dunno watcha mean.”

“Simon.” Price leans back in his creaking desk chair, arms resolutely folded and leaving no room for argument. “You knocked a blokes teeth out for lookin at ya the wrong way last week.”

“He fuckin had it comin.” Replies Simon darkly, scowling so his eyeblack creases around the bottomless darkness of his eyes. John raises a brow, cerulean gaze meeting a suddenly contrite mahogany one ringed by ash coloured lashes. “And I said I was sorry for tha’.”

“Know somethin’s wrong, even if you won’t spit it out.” John pinches the bridge of his nose like he’s getting a headache.

Simon scoffs, rocking back on his heels. There’s a pause where he seriously considers being honest with his Captain, but that entails emotional vulnerability which Simon abhors. It’s a stranger to him, something that doesn’t feel safe unless he’s at home with the people he cares about, balaclava off and softness allowed to seep into his chest.

“Can I go? Said I’d spar with Johnny before I finish up that paperwork.”

“By all means.” John gestures sweepingly to the door with unnecessary flamboyance, still looking searchingly at the man towering opposite him, the embodiment of death dressed from head to toe in black.

Before he can stop himself, Simon lets something slip that suddenly throws his viciously sharp mood into high relief.

“Tha’s if he’s not fuckin playin with that scrap of fabric your missus calls knickers again.”

It’s spoken under Simon’s breath, mulish and uncharacteristically bitter. While Simon is prone to fits of quiet displeasure, it’s rare for him to snap his maw at John, rare enough that the older man takes notice immediately.

“Green isn’t a good colour on you Simon. Stick to black.”

Simon slams the door a little harder than intended, dragging his heels while he curses internally. That was petty, he knows it was.

It isn’t like he minds Johnny having his way with you, hell, it isn’t like you belong to Simon either. But he can’t help the elements of possessiveness in his nature, they are inbuilt and unavoidable. You and John are his little family, the three of you coexisting in perfect harmony while Simon eats up anything you cook and nods off to sleep against John’s shoulder on the sofa.

Actually it’s anxiety that’s currently eating away at him, though Simon isn’t prepared to acknowledge it yet. Johnny is far more easy going, a sunnier personality, better company than Simon could ever be. The Scot is fun to talk to, Simon knows first hand how disarmingly enjoyable it is spending time with him.

People laugh easily with Johnny, whereas Simon carries a potent aura of sullenness, black orbs full of heavy energy and mistrust of most social interactions.

At it’s root Simon wonders whether you might prefer Johnny in your bed, or if Price might find it more uplifting to have him at his side when tackling DIY projects around the house and garden. Simon loves Johnny too, but also envies him slightly, bold and brave, a heart worn on his sleeve rather than one guarded close to his chest. Instead of talking about his fears, Simon hides in them.

Back in his office, John presses his mobile to his ear, waiting for the dial tone to connect him with your soft voice. It still gives him a surge of adrenaline when he hears you speak, the same as it did when you both met.

Giddy and grinning from ear to ear, John tells you a soft hullo down the phone every time he calls. It makes you laugh, a little routine built on a fundamental adoration and understanding of each other.

“Hiya darlin, you having a good day?”

The light of his life and Simon’s too by all accounts, John listens to you talk, any irritation at Simon’s temper tantrum soothed.

“Listen, Simon’s ‘avin a bit of a wobble, think we might need to give him some TLC this weekend love.”

“Have you upset him Jonathan? What have you done?!”

Your voice is teasing, with the barest edge of a telling off hidden in the crackle down the line. You know them both so well, one a husband in name and both a husbands in your mind. John is sure you’ll have a remedy for it, bash their heads together until your shared coupling is balanced again.

“It is my fault actually, sometimes I don’t appreciate Simon like I should. Don’t appreciate how sensitive he is underneath.” John sighs heavily. You read between the lines, sensing the issue at hand.

“You better both come home to me then.”

Simon deliberately works late that night, burning the midnight oil, eyes strained as he completes reams of tedious paperwork, dotting his signature out with the pen clutched tight in his fist. By the time he makes it back to your house, John’s car has a thin sheet of ice covering the windshield and only a few glowing lamps have been kept on in the sitting room.

It looks so warm and soft inside, amber coloured windows and a short stream of steam flowing out into the chill where the heating has been put on. Simon almost aches with it, until he remembers he’s supposed to be in a bad mood, giving himself a shake and mulishly slotting his key into the lock.

“Dinners in the microwave Si.” You call out as he steps over the threshold. No fanfare, no drama from his spat with John earlier. He slumps into the kitchen and starts heating the plate you set aside for him. He hears you enter behind him, two arms wrapping tight around his middle as you burrow into the back of his hoodie.

“Hi.” Voice muffled, you rub your face against the muscles woven beneath the fabric.

“Hi.” He replies wearily, covering your linked hands on his stomach with his big, calloused paws. “Where’s the Cap?”

“Out for a run, s’just you and me for a bit.”

Simon frowns, you tug off his balaclava ready for the washing machine tomorrow morning, smoothing his ruffled blonde strands and pressing a hand to his forehead.

He sighs, leaning into it, the warmth of your palm, the smell of a tea you’ve spent all day cooking up for him and John. Perceptive as ever you sit with him while he eats, letting him play with your fingers, then you make him a cuppa and a slice of cake for pudding.

The silence between you is golden, every now and then you rub his knuckles, smile in that mellow way that quietly reassures him.

“Will you be here on Sunday? I’m doing a roast.”

For a split second, Simon considers being bluntly honest, asking you to tell him if his company is truly wanted around the table, if the happy way you phrase that question comes from a place of love that mirrors how he feels. A lump rises and gets caught in his throat. Greedy, he’s always been the same. Resource guarding as a stray does over a full dinner bowl.

He swallows the emotion barely, it catches, chokes on the way down his throat.

“Sounds good.”

“It will be good!” You pet his head while the plates are cleared. If you notice the way his jaw is clenched, dark eyes burning over bright with something akin to devotion, you don’t mention it.

Full and placid, Simon rests with his head on your lap in front of the TV. You’re no fool, aware that Simon finds it impossible to be moody when he’s eaten a good meal and that your husband is always relaxed and mellow when he’s worked up a sweat pounding the roads around your house.

That’s why you all work so well together, you are the equilibrium keeping both stern personalities combined and harmonious.

Gently, you tug Simon into a sitting position, reclining and stretching your legs out so he can settle beside you. Chest to his back, the drone of some innocuous sitcom blurring in the atmosphere, he sinks into the embrace, lets you wrap around him. Warm and fuzzy, a hand sneaks underneath the hem of his T-shirt, fingers teasing the rough hair on his lower belly.

But he catches them before you can hook one beneath his waistband, holds them firm and links his digits against your own.

“What do you need Si?” You ask him quietly.

He doesn’t know how to say it, what to verbalise when the only thought in his mind revolves around vanquishing the turgid anxiety forming within his chest. Simon wants you to touch him like you cherish his very marrow, make believe he’s truly accepted in this space he occupies made originally for two but now squeezed for three.

“Dunno.” He grunts roughly, tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth when your lips nuzzle into the soft skin of his neck.

The kisses you press beneath the cropped hair on his nape make him breathless. John’s shadow hangs heavily over the spectacle of you both spooning on the sofa, almost as if Simon needs the older man’s permission.

Instantly regret floods him for his earlier outburst. John’s been nothing but generous, welcomed Simon into his team and then his home, while the jaws he fed snapped ravenously for more.

John and you are the only people who have ever seen his soft underbelly, the sole humans he’s rolled submissively over for and offered that bitter, black heart to.

You hum in response to him, and he thinks there and then he might break with it. Your nose nuzzling his flesh softly while a few kisses linger there.

“I put clean sheets on the bed.”

A short pause follows that, he waits, listening intently.

“I’m gonna have a shower…then I want to cuddle up with you in them.”

Simon shifts a little.

“That okay?”

“Had a row with John today.” Simon speaks quietly, shame drenching each syllable. “Overstepped myself.”

He takes a short breath, the tension across the big shoulders you’re resting your chin on could be cut with a blunt knife.

“Don’t reckon he’ll be up for tha’ tonight.”

“If that’s what you think…why are you here?”

He has to consider that for a second. In truth he’s in your house because it feels like his too. The place Simon can be himself for brief periods until the longing for permanence becomes too much.

“Because…”

“Because it’s where you want to be, where you should be and you know that.” You finish the words for him, giving Simon an out from saying the things too difficult to give a voice to. “We want you here too.”

Sliding off the couch, you get to your feet.

“Come on.” One smaller hand beckons to him.

Hours later, he’s dozing. Your head curled within the crook of his arm when he hears John’s key turn in the latch. Simon listens intently, the sound of heavy, grumbling movements on the stairs, the bathroom door shutting with a snap.

After a few moments the shower starts running and it’s then he makes his decision. Placing you carefully on the pillow, fast asleep, Simon makes his way slowly to the source of rushing water, moving silently as a panther would through tall grasses.

He doesn’t knock, there’s no need to. Simon has no intention of ruining the moment with announcements. John’s broad back is to him, the steam curling over the sun damaged and freckled muscles lining it, his dark hair drenched in the moisture. His head turns very slightly, the only indication he knows someone is in there with him.

It takes Simon less than a heartbeat to shed his clothes, to climb in behind John. In the same way you did, he moulds himself to fit, forcing his big body close. His forehead rubs lightly against the beads of water caught on John’s flesh, backwards and forwards. Repetitive, self soothing.

“M’sorry.” He mumbles and John knows that doesn’t come lightly. “Was out of order weren’t I.”

John doesn’t immediately reply. Simon stands there, feeling more unwanted by the minute, wondering if he should disappear entirely from both of your lives. That would hurt, but he’s lived through worse. Hasn’t he?

Before the spiral completes itself, John has turned, grabbed him by the back of his neck and dragged his mouth forwards. The kiss that follows is layered with unspoken things, quiet and silent emotions only two men like Simon and John could understand.

The stubble of John’s beard scratches, firm hands cradling him in a way that leaves no room for doubt in his head. His tongue pushes, probes the line of Simon’s lips as a grunt leaves him at the response he receives.

“Listen to me.” Nose to nose they stand, azure pupils boring into the darkness fighting within Simon’s own eyes. “Ain’t nothin to apologise for. The missus likes the boys, but they ain’t the ones she wants to wake up with every mornin. You and I are.”

Simon chokes, held together purely by the force of that statement and John’s presence alone.

When they kiss again, it’s softer, far more content and comfortable. They linger there for awhile, surrounded by artificial rain, lost in it’s rhythmic pattern.

You wake groggy, the lights off, only the low blur of the alarm clock on the sideboard. Your sleep addled brain takes time to compute that you’re surrounded by two hulking forms. John lies on one side, Simon curled on the other.

Quietly you stroke the curve of John’s face, letting the pads of your digits brush against the strong jawline under his beard. He opens an eye, resting it lovingly on you. When you smile he does too.

Simon stirs, one of his hands looking for yours, but when he locates it you only get a brief squeeze, before it moves upwards to sneak beneath your pyjama top. His callouses catch on the budded skin of your nipple, while it rises to a peak at his touch.

The resolution soars and falls with each beat of your heart, a steady pulse that becomes clearer.

Slowly, you reach for John, moving his palm to twine against Simon’s on your breast. They both rest there, the three of you sighing in sync. Then John shares a look over your shoulder, one you can’t see returned. But you feel Simon move.

You’re rolled into him, face pressed against his chest and tugged to straddle his body, while John adjusts too. John runs one finger along the curve of your form spread over his lieutenant, it ignites, makes warmth spread from your crown down to your toes.

Simon moves your face to his, several long and slightly urgent kisses pressed against your lips. Then he makes a low sound in the back of his throat, hoarse and bitten off. The rustle of fabric behind you, but he won’t let you turn, grasping your chin harshly and nipping at your mouth when you try and move.

Without vision, your imagination starts to flourish, blooms fantasies that make your pussy clench. Fuelled entirely by desire, Simon refuses to allow you an inch of room, as John’s rough hands make short work of your panties, ripping them clean in two.

A small noise leaves your throat when the coarse hair of John’s beard brushes the soft skin of your thighs. Simon places one heavy palm against your lower back, forcing you to arch, putting you on display for your husband.

The air is cold, legs moved further apart so you’re entirely exposed.

“Fuckin gorgeous.”

That’s the only warning you get before John’s tongue lathes against the exposed seam of your cunt.

You jerk, twitching as Simon keeps you rooted in your position, John taking his time, painting gentle motions backwards and forwards. He catches your clit and you keen, try and wriggle to escape the intensity until Simon knots his fingers against your scalp.

The blunt head of John’s cock nudges at you, spreads the layer of arousal his roused alongside his spit until he’s soaked. Your teeth nip into the meat of Simon’s pec, his hand still caging you there, deliciously restrained.

The first thrust of John into you sends a simultaneous grunt from both men. You’re jolted harder into Simon, strands pulled taut and painful, his other fingers reaching between you both to tease the apex of your pussy until you hiss.

John holds your hips, surging inside your cunt red hot until the fierceness of taking him blends into a fever. There’s nowhere to run between them, John’s thick cock stretching you tight, Simon bullying your clit, not gifting you an inch of reprieve. Shuddering, you can feel the crest of a burning orgasm hovering.

Simon spits on his fingers, increasing the pace of his movements against your nerves until you shudder, whimpering with overstimulation that borders on intoxication because your brain might well melt out of your ears.

The pull on your hair sends the muscles of your neck recoiling, leaves your throat open for more kisses. Simon layers them there meanly, swipes his tongue along the column of your windpipe and leaves you gasping. Unable to utter a word, only breathy slugs of air are sucked inwards, the soft slick of flesh meeting flesh filling the room obscenely.

It hits, crashing over you until your toes curl, pussy filled to the brim and fluttering around John as it’s his turn to groan. Warmth flows over, his spend seeping out onto the covers.

There’s no time to collapse, even catch your breath. The small movement Simon allows is only used to angle your pelvis, seat himself inside your aching cunt to the hilt. The lubrication of John’s cum helps, Simon is bigger, almost as thick at his base.

For a moment, Simon’s fingers cup your cheek, caressing feather light in a way that hints at unrestrained adoration, pieces of hair tucked off your face. He’s so hard it’s almost impossible, you can feel him in your throat and you sob with it. Simon shushes you gently, John kissing the small of your back lightly as he moves around the bed.

Simon rocks up into you, trying to ease the pressure and you cling to him. John settles next to you, pulls you upwards so you’re tilted snuggly, drags your mouth to his. It helps, the safety of his body, emboldened you start to move.

Simon’s hands at your waist, John pressed close and grounding you. It’s right where you should be. Each gyration nudges your clit teasingly and Simon huffs at the sensation of you taking him deeper.

“M’close.” He murmurs. “Fuck! I’m so close!”

“Not until she cums.” Growls John and Simon nods urgently in response.

When you start to quiver, John takes you by the throat, adds just enough pressure to make you gulp, to remind you of his raw authority. It makes your head swim, eyes searching for his, because the sight of that grim determination in his face will make you burst over the banks of another climax.

Simon powers into you from below, his grip now harsh, struggling to keep himself from following. He’s rewarded when you cry out, a thin stream of arousal drenching his balls until his cock swells with need. Simon moans hoarsely, drags you to grind harder against him until you shake.

Finally, with a nod from John, Simon spills deep, tears beading at the corners of both onyx eyes with the pleasure of it. Combined they coddle you, Simon whispering moans and aching thoughts. John’s presence steadies you both, pieces you back together brick by brick.

The sight of your husband putting Simon on his knees, sinking inside him with relish while Si drags your cunt to his mouth by one ankle, isn’t one you’ll forget.

You add it to the catalog of cherished memories you’re keeping. The way Simon eats you out, tastes the remnants of himself and his Captain their with relish speaks of deep feeling. Even if he won’t vocalise that.

Simon keeps the panties you wore that night. But never lets Johnny catch a hint of them.

bro. bro you are romantisizing the secret history. bro you are enamored with the greek class just like richard. bro you are ignoring the bad things and creating aesthetics based on a book telling a murder of a young man. brother.

tbh i need more freaky johnny like whatever you got …. im obsessed 😌

You know I was thinking about this in the shower. I think that if you were to ever jokingly say you’d considered a type of plastic surgery to “fix” something you’re insecure about he’s the type of dude who would actually wrestle you to the floor and put you in a headlock growling at you to take it back 🥴

G’mornin, bonnie. | john soap mactavish

You wake up from a one night stand — ready to gather your shit and run just like you always do after a night of bad decisions — but turns out, Johnny has other plans for you.

cw: 18+ mdni. smut. slight dark themes ie. stalking. john price has a kid and is a great wingman apparently. reader afab. teacher!reader. morning after a hookup. domestically menacing johnny with a permanent shit-eating grin. first time attempting to write his accent so i’m sorry in advance. piv. voyuerism!kink. rip to johnny’s neighbours. creampie.

for the absolutely lovely @spurbleu. thank you for offering me this challenge. i hope i did him justice 🤍 i’m so sorry i’m so late ilysm

You wake to something warm.

It washes over you slowly — spring streams pouring into fragmented consciousness, urging you from the depths of slumber with a gentle lull. Coaxing. Warm like summer sun internalized, flowing through your hair — hazing the room in a golden film as your eyes peel open with rapid blinks, and confusion hastily nullifies it.

You shift, becoming aware of what your body is subconsciously telling you. Warmth. All of it adding to the growing discombobulation. The lingering heat between your thighs. The cocooning comfort of sheets that aren’t yours. The odd familiarity of a room that’s too bare to be recognized. The grace of a bed that’s glaringly empty save for dark sheets wrapped around bare, aching legs.

It takes you a minute, but your memory eventually resurfaces — gasping for air at the smell of coffee and the hum of movement from the other room.

Johnny.

Hard to forget that name after you’d spent the night screaming it. Your body knows before your mind does, muscles humming with the memory of hands that held too tight, a mouth that took its time. You inhale. Coffee again. A lure. A leash. It tugs at something instinctual, something inside you domesticated — until you glance at the clock sitting on an empty nightstand and realize it’s almost 9 am.

Shit. You should have been long, long gone by now.

You exhale, cursing your constant stupidity as you drag yourself out of his bed and up to your feet — fogged vision scanning the floor, brows creasing as you realize you’re wearing nothing save for a long white shirt that surely isn’t yours — and your clothes are no where to be found.

Oh. Right.

Your clothes barely made it past the front fucking door.

Another exhale, forced from shaking lungs. You’ll have to go out there. You’ll have to face him, grab your clothes and change. It’ll be awkward, but it’s not like you haven’t been here before. Not like you haven’t been through this with past vices. It’ll be fine. It’ll be easy — you all but convince yourself. And within seconds, you’re halfway down the hall, practising your fake smile and empty thank you’s when the smell grows stronger.

Your stomach grumbles with the force of it as you step into the kitchen and —

Fuck.

Johnny stands at the stove, shirtless in grey sweats, bathed golden by the early morning light. It clings to his skin, drapes over the planes of his back, the ridges of his spine. His hair is a mess, wrecked and mussed — a souvenir from your hands as he fiddles with something in a pan, humming hypnotic under his breath.

And it’s then that you forget what you were supposed to be doing.

Because this? This is wrong. This is not how this goes. You don’t wake up like this, wrapped in the scent of coffee and breakfast, staring at a man who should’ve already been nothing more than a memory.

Your breath sticks in your throat, limbs made of cement as he turns. Catches you standing there.

And grins. “G’mornin’, bonnie.”

You blink, the exertion of it painful. You should leave.

Instead, you exhale. “You’re making breakfast.”

His lips twitch, amusement and archaism synchronized swimming in his ocean eyes. “Aye. Tha’s usually what it’s called.”

He is so at ease here, it’s unnerving. You can feel it, see it in the way he moves. Unfettered. Relaxed. It makes a knot of tension bindle between your shoulder blades — because this is familiar to him, but not to you.

Two plates. Two cups of coffee. You should leave.

“You—you don’t have to do that.”

Johnny just shrugs, turning that canvas of a back to you — red parallel lines catching under karat coated rays. Your own painting on display — you find yourself admiring it as if it wasn’t created by last nights drunken fingers.

“Ye thought I’d jus’ kick ye out?” He flips eggs in the pan. Your chest aches. “Ye were tryen t’sneak off first then?”

Your lips press into a thin line — indignant as you force your eyes to the floor. “Admittedly, that was the plan, yes.”

He tsks, shaking his head like that’s the most disappointing sentence he’s heard all week before he glances over his shoulder at you again — all beaming blue eyes and grins.

“Shame. Poor things nae used te bein taken care of, is she?”

That indignation spreads, grows a vine around your throat. Twists your tongue. “Well, I mean—I don’t—“

Johnny cuts you off with a hum. Or, more like you cut yourself off, because you have absolutely nothing to say to that and what you did offer seems to be more than enough of an answer for him.

“Ye think too much, bonnie.” Something sizzles in the pan — you watch the veins in his arms shift against whiskey skin as he lifts it off the element. “All tha’ time plotting yer escape, ye coulda’ been enjoying breakfast.”

Christ. You really should leave. You should slip back into the skin of someone who doesn’t stick around for things like this. But it’s like your feet have grown roots, burrowed beneath his floorboards. You blame it on the smell of coffee, the warmth of the kitchen. The way his fucking muscles flex as he moves.

It’s all nurture to something long rotted in your soul.

“It’s not like I was expecting breakfast.” You mutter, tugging his shirt down your thighs before crossing your arms across your chest. “Wasn’t expecting any of this, really.”

Could you be anymore fucking awkward about this?

“Tha’ right?”

You can’t see it, but you can hear the grin on his mouth. It should scare you that you are beginning to predict him — expecting something smart to come out of him next.

“Didnae expect the shag either, but ye still took it real well.”

Perhaps it should scare you more that you were right.

You clear your throat, but the heat is already rushing down your spine. Settling somewhere inconvenient. He just gives you a quick glance, lopsided leisure tilting his lips as he turns with a plate and coffee cup in hand, gesturing with his head toward the table.

“Come o’nae, I won’t bite ye.”

————————-

Turns out, Johnny MacTavish is real easy to talk to. Too easy.

Mostly because he doesn’t stop talking, but nonetheless, it whiplashes you. You came here expecting the usual routine — get in, get out, leave nothing behind but the scent of mingled sweat on strange sheets — but the one-night stand has somehow stretched into morning and now you’re sitting at his kitchen table, fork scraping against porcelain, coffee steaming — actually talking like this isn’t just borrowed time.

He tells you about Scotland. About real pubs, the kind where the floors stick to your boots and old men sing ballads in voices ruined by smoke. He talks with his hands. His shoulders. His fucking eyes — restless and full of movement, always wandering. Blue. Though that hardly cuts it — the colour of a storm sky split by lightening. Cool in the shallows and rich in the depths.

They hold contradiction well. Like they’ve seen enough of the world to be cynical but still manage to burn bright enough to keep that warmth kindling under your skin.

Perplexing.

That’s the word that sits on the tip of your tongue as you stare at him. Wondering if he was truly just another notch on your bedpost, would you still be here, trying to make sense of what you missed in the dark last night.

“So,” he says, ripping a piece of butter soaked toast in half. “Ye always bolt after?”

You pause mid-bite. Then your mouth moves dumbly. “After what?”

Johnny smirks. “After ye ride a bloke like yer life depends on it, scream his name loud enough tae wake the dead, and wake up wearen’ his shirt.”

“Jesus—“ you choke, grateful you at least swallowed your food prior to him starting that sentence, otherwise he’d be halfway to giving you the heimlich right about now. “You don’t do subtle, do you?”

“Aye.” That grin grows over the rim of his mug. “Subtlety’s a waste on a woman like ye.”

Before you can’t think better of it, you find yourself grinning back.

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

His eyes flick away to catch the sunlight.

“Ye dinnae’ strike me as the half-measures type, bonnie.” Then they wander back to yours. “Means ye like a man tha’ says what he’s really thinken, tha’s all.”

That makes you pause, and you try to tell yourself you’re not blushing. It’s the warm sun at your back, or the coffee sitting thick in your belly. It’s certainly not those eyes — still on you, unashamedly, taking in whatever it is they see behind your own.

“You think you know me?” You try to make it sound as casual as possible. You know you don’t accomplish it.

“Aye.” A lazy nod. “I do.”

And that — that makes you squirm. Makes you drop your eyes to his hands as they sit against the sides of his coffee mug. Capable fingers calloused with strength, a few bruised knuckles. Your gaze drifts up to the veins on his forearm, and you stop yourself before you stare too long.

“Why?”

You hadn’t even realized you’d asked it out loud until his lips quirk like he was waiting for it.

“Wha happened te all yer self-preservation?”

You blink. Your tongue is heavy, but you make yourself use it.

“...self-preservation?”

He leans forward, arms on the table between you.

“All it took te keep ye here was a little forward hospitality. Ye got no blasted clue who I even am — yet yer still here, asken questions ye shouldnae be asken in a voice tha doesnae belong te someone looken te run.”

And you don’t know what to say to that, because admittedly it knocks everything off kilter. Leaves you wrong-footed. Lands a little too close to being right. There is safety in one-night stands and running before the sun breaks. There is safety in not learning anything about the man you share a bed with for a night if you don’t have to. You’ve been good at it. Practiced it like a bad habit.

You didn’t realize, until now, just how easy it’d been for Johnny to make you break it.

“I said I know ye,” he whispers. “Because I do m’research on who I share m’bed with.”

He leans back in his chair after that — and your eyes follow. Milliseconds stretch to seconds which stretch thin to what feels like minutes before you find some sort of wherewithal to move. You don’t want to know what he means by that, and you don’t want to look too deep to find the answers — the incrimination dunked just beneath the ocean tides in his irises.

“You are so bloody full of it.” You surprise yourself by not stuttering, staying steady as you stand. “I—I have to go.”

He throws his head back and laughs. “Aye, I am.”

His eyes find yours again before you head for your clothes still scattered all over his living room floor. You swear to all kinds of unholy things that you feel the heat against the back of your skull as the flashes of last night flood your memory — his tongue on your cunt, your nails in his skin, his name on your lips—

“Ye’ll be back though, aye?”

You pause somewhere by the window, turning to note the morning light painting his hair a hundred different shades of gold. There’s an easy smile on his mouth, no trace of last night’s drunken humour in his expression.

“What?”

His smile stretches to something devilish, and you are so not used to the feeling it elicits. Not used to being charmed. Being disarmed.

“Y’like a man who says what he’s thinken.” He wets his lips. You can’t look away. “And what I’m thinken, bonnie, is tha this willnae be just a one time thing.”

He rises, then, and you get the unsettling, stomach-punching feeling that he knows. That he can see the words spinning up and dying on your tongue, can see the flush rising up your neck knowing it’s something he put there.

“Ye want te leave, go right ahead.” Your pulse thrums as he draws closer. “Just know tha when ye come back. I’ll be starven.”

Asinine, you tell yourself, but your heart is in your throat — that suffocating something licking up your spine and curling beneath your sternum. Your eyes dart to the clock on the wall. Time. Work. Reality. The real world standing just beyond the exit of whatever the hell this currently is.

You decide, then, that you actually do want answers.

“You—you researched me,” you find your voice, though it doesn’t come easily. Drags itself up from the pit of your throat, scraped raw by the claws of confusion . “I don’t—”

Glass touches your back through the thin veil of his t-shirt as you take a step back, snow white fabric still lazily draping the curves you let this man get well acquainted with last night. A stranger who wasn’t all that estranged, you realize.

“Relax, lass,” his voice drops to a soothing pitch. Something suiting for the cornered animal you currently feel like you are, as he steps closer again. “I didnae run a background check on yer whole bloodline, if tha’s what’s got ye hackles up.”

You clear your throat, sun beating at your back through the glass. Suffocating.

“Then tell me. What you meant.”

Tongue over teeth, he nods, palms going up. Playful as a puppy, if the puppy was rabid.

“I jus’ know who ye are. What ye do.” A pause, glimpsing down at the way your chest is rapid firing, before flicking back up. “Know someone whose kid ye teach. Speaks real highly of ye, actually.”

There’s no amount of blinks that can make those words make sense, yet you hope 10 might do it.

A parent of one of your students is talking about you. To Johnny MacTavish.

“I’m s-sorry?” You’re stuttering, now. Goddamnit. “Who? What’d they say?”

He exhales, props an arm on the glass beside your head and crosses his ankles as his body brackets yours — watching the silence drag. Watching you ruminate in it.

“S’nothin bad, bonnie. Quite the opposite.”

You’re staring at his mouth. “Johnny, who was it?”

He makes you wait, the bastard. And then—

“Price.”

The name punches the air from your lungs. “What?”

Johnny’s smile turns smug. “Captain’s kid. Ye teach ’em, aye?”

It hits you somewhere between the grin and the way he leans in. Captain.

“Price,” you repeat softly, the name tilting sideways in your mouth. “John Price?”

He stills. Just slightly.

“Aye, Captain John Price.”

You blink once, twice, brain whirring. He’s referring to him like an official superior. Routine. That means he’s either a cop. Or detective. Or FBI. or Military—

“You work with him,” you murmur.

“Work, kill, drink. Depends on the day,” he says, that thick Glaswegian accent wrapping around the truth like it’s not heavy. Military. “Didnae put it together, did ye? All tha time I was sittin’ across from ye. Ye never asked what I did. No idea I had credentials.”

You huff, stunned. Unsure what to say. Less unsure what to feel. “Christ.”

“Oh, now yer sayin’ His name,” that smile is back. Rankles you in a way you never knew until him. “Where was tha earlier when I had ye on yer knees—“

“Johnny,” you warn. “Keep talking or I’m leaving.”

He laughs, easy, leaning in until all the air feels like it’s his.

“Didnae have te dig deep, bonnie. Prefer te do all the dirty work m’self.” Eyes narrow, at that. He just keeps going. “Capn’s kid. Jamie. Talks bout ye like yer some kinda’ fairytale. Real sweet. Price said he’s never seen the kid so bright-eyed about school.”

The name finds your ears with a soft ache chained to it. Jamie Price — broad-shouldered for a ten-year-old, barely spoke unless coaxed, drew galaxies on the backs of worksheets when he thought no one was watching.

Gentle kid. Brilliant, too.

Johnny shrugs, that easy, terrible shrug like it’s all nothing. “Price asked me if I knew ye. Ranted on about how ye treat ‘em. Said he overheard ye talken to someone about the bar ye frequent. Said ye had a backbone, a kind heart, and the sort of stare tha makes grown men straighten up like schoolboys.” Blue eyes glimpse your lips, again. “But ye ain’t ever been treated right.”

Heat crawls up your neck. You’re still pressed against the glass, still unsure if you’re more flattered or frightened.

“He said that?”

The amusement falls off his face, something stern replacing it, and nods.

“There’s some things tha just stay with a man.” He shifts closer. Doesn’t touch you, though. Doesn’t need to. “He said it. Like he was tellen me not te fuck it up.”

You try to laugh, but it comes out as a weak exhale, like your body doesn’t trust relief just yet. He swallows, continues.

“I just cannae figure it out. Pretty thing like yerself. Real good with kids.” He breathes the last part thick, like it curls in his throat and tugs. Like it does things to him. “Bit of a wild ride, clearly. And somehow — yer alone. Settlen’ for quick fucks instead.”

You don’t answer immediately. You can’t. You just peer up at him, breathing made heavy by everything you’ve learned and everything he is.

“Choice, Johnny.” You whisper. “It’s by choice.”

“Aye. Choice.” He whispers back, other hand finding the glass beside your head, knees knocking as he leans in impossibly closer. “But all those men who let ye walk. Who didnae fight for ye, they’re fools.” He’s close enough your lips almost brush. No grin on them, now. Just gravity. “I’m no fool, love.”

It’s all hitting you at once, in the same place you’re pressed — against the cool pane of the balcony door. It was all set up. Johnny pulled the entire night from the ether thanks to a man you hardly know. Captain John Price. You’d only ever thought of him as John — the friendly, albeit quiet man who showed up to parent-teacher meetings with stories in his eyes. Said little. Watched everything. A ghost in your mind until now — until Johnny pieced it all together with soldiers determination and an easy tongue.

Sat beside you at the bar. Didn’t come on too strong. Didn’t press or sound too rehearsed. Made it real easy to believe it was all a coincidence.

How foolish you had been to not see through the performance.

But now, the shows over — there’s no final act. No audience to entertain. The masks have come off, and you hear it. The sincerity in the way he says I’m no fool. Like it’s not just about last night but about tomorrow and the one after that. Like he’s telling you he’ll fight for you and he’ll mean it. That this isn’t just a night. That he doesn’t want it to be.

And you’re still reeling from it when your hands find the heat of his chest. Curling around his neck without ceremony, pulling him in the final inch.

He’s kissing you.

Not like he earned it, but like he means it — and you’re kissing him back, hard, moaning as his teeth find your bottom lip and tug. He pulls back before you’re ready for him to, and your head slumps back against the glass. Breathing. Trying to will the ground back into place beneath you as he traces your jawline with his thumb.

“What else,” you croak out as he drops his head into the crook of your shoulder and exhales. “Do you know about me?”

He hums, pressing closer, hips pinning your ass to the glass as you drag your digits down his chest, tracing scars like braille.

“Enough,” he answers, fervent fingers dragging the fabric of his shirt up your hips, torso. “Enough te drive me insane.”

You feel the moment your heart stutters — mouth parted with nothing to fill it but a gasp as your bare ass is exposed against his glass balcony door — giving neighbours and street dwellers a goddamn good view should they be glimpsing up—

“Wait. J-johnny.” He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even blink as you catch his wrists, pleading for reason. “Your neighbours—“

“Donnae care.” He mutters, tugging the fabric up over your head. “Let the bloody bastards watch.”

You don’t want to know what sound slips from your throat at that, but you’re sure it’s some ugly, gorgeous thing. Torn somewhere between lust and indignity as he moves — one hand bracing against the glass beside your head while the other wrestles with the waistband of his sweats, shifting until you can feel him — hot, heavy, throbbing — pressing low against your stomach.

And maybe there’s a moment where you think you should tell him you can’t do this. Something because of the neighbours or the noise or the glass sticking to your back. But his hand finds your face, eyes flooding you like atlantic as he leans in to kiss you before lifting you up, legs curling around him— teasing with false thrusts, dragging his tip slow and sinful over your clit just to swallow the noises pulled from your throat. He doesn’t need words to silence your protest but manages all the same as you’re rocking against his shaft in tandem — one hand holding his lips to yours and the other gripping his back until you’re slick and half out of your goddamn mind with need.

And if you thought he’d be gentle — well.

He doesn’t ease you down. Doesn’t waste time. Just slides into you in one heavy thrust until you’re stretched to your edges and his name is caught on a sound you don’t recognize.

“Johnny! Ohf-fuck!”

He curses, teeth grazing your jaw, hips driving forward like he’s punishing you. Or maybe himself. Probably a little of both. Regardless, there’s nothing easy or soft about this — the kind of frenzied effort that takes you apart and leaves you hoping he’ll stitch you back together. Makes you realize you needed this — the pressure, the friction, the drive deeper into your belly with every excruciating inch as you choke on the sounds he’s drawing out.

You can’t control the pleasure that pours out of you, dripping like honey over his lips as you grip the back of his neck—

“Oh—f-fu—ohgod—“ you can’t find the right words, though you’re not even trying to anymore. It’s better than a dream. Better than last night when it was all alcohol and adrenaline. This is raw. Real. And you realize, through the fog, just how easy it was to get lost in him. To let yourself. Even with nothing but the sound of his voice and the skin on his back to hold onto. “J-johnny—fuckingdeep—yes—“

He sets a frantic pace, teeth sinking into his lip like he can taste the curses you’re whispering against it.

“S’good. S’tight, mmfuck.”

Feral. Best word to describe this. Gnawing you from the inside out, leaving your thighs quivering as you fight to hold onto him, back slicking against the glass as he buries himself so deep you can barely choke out an inhale.

“M’gonna—ohmygod—“

You’re going to cum. You can feel it in the way your belly knots and your thighs tense. His smile gets lost in the crook of your neck as he grunts — not daring to slow down or give you a moment to breathe. Instead, he just slips a hand around your throat, pinning your head back to glass that’s just as humid as you.

And when his eyes finally find yours, they’re a million shades darker than they were five minutes ago. All the blue eclipsed by dark, midnight hunger as he devours like you were served to him on a silver platter.

In some metaphorical way, you know you were.

“G’on. Make a mess of me, bonnie. Know ye need it.”

You want to look away. You can’t. Not when he squeezes your throat like you’re his. Not when he rocks deep and hard and your blood is singing for more. Your pulse thumps wildly and you wonder if he’s trying to slow it with his fingers as he tightens his hold.

And so you moan, because it’s all you can do — while the words you whimper as he thrusts hard enough to make you keen don’t sound like you. They sound like someone he owns.

“Ohfuck, Johnny—yesfuckyesyes—“

It hits you like the shatter of stained glass.

Your mouth falls open, soundless at first, a broken gasp caught somewhere between your throat and tongue. Your whole body tightens, back arching off the glass as you tremble, drowning in it, orgasm dragging you under like a rip current — teeth clenched, thighs shaking, fingernails digging so hard into Johnny’s shoulders you’ll leave marks. You want to leave marks.

“Christ, lass. Tha’s it. Tha’s fucken it, baby.”

He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t let you breathe. He fucks you through it, jaw clenched, hips snapping forward like he’s chasing your high to the end of the world — like your pleasure is the only map he’s following. You’re crying out now, helpless and shaking and soaked, clenching around him so tight it borders on painful — more for him, you think — as he grunts, one hand bruised into your hip and the other braced against the glass, eyes locked to yours as you fall apart for him.

“Tha’s it, bonnie—” his voice is wrecked, sweat dripping from his brow. “Jesus Christ, s’tight—fucken’ look at ye.”

And you do.

Your head falls forward, forehead against his, eyes burning with the kind of emotion you don’t dare name as you watch him drive in and out, slick coating everything flesh. You sob a noise against his mouth, some choked half-curse, and he swallows it with a kiss that’s all teeth and tongue and possession as his thrusts grow sloppy — rougher, more desperate, chasing his own breaking point.

“Can I—fuck—can I cum inside ye pretty cunt?” He pants, voice hoarse against your jaw. “Tell me no. Christ, I’ll pull out, jus’ say it—”

You don’t say it.

You just grab his face, kiss him hard, and whisper; “don’t you dare.”

That’s all it takes.

He groans — a guttural, broken sound — and slams into you once, twice more before he’s spilling inside you. Hips twitching, mouth open against your neck. And for a moment, the world goes still. Nothing but the sound of your ragged breathing. The steam on the glass. The thrum of blood in your ears.

You close your eyes. Let yourself float. You don’t know what this is — but you know it wasn’t just a fuck. Not with the way he’s still holding you. Not with the way you’re already aching to let him do it all over again.

It’s a few moments before he pulls out. Another few before you find your head.

“Christ,” you breathe, rubbing your face as he fixes himself back to modesty. “I can’t believe I—”

You cut yourself off, because what’s the point. Johnny doesn’t move, just watches you with that maddening calm — sweat still cooling along his temple, chest rising and falling slow like he’s got nowhere better to be than right here. Looking down at you the same way he did when he sat beside you at the bar.

Like he’s well acquainted with the taste of your name.

“I told myself,” you try again, “that this was a one-night thing. Just a fuck. Then breakfast. Then I leave.”

His gaze never wavers. “So why didn’ye?”

You open your mouth. Close it. Because you don’t have an answer that doesn’t make you sound like a fool. Until you give up caring.

“Maybe part of me still thinks you’re bluffing.”

“Bluffen,” he echos, leaning closer — eyes soft like snow. “Ye think I sat down beside ye at tha bar for just a fuck? You think I made ye breakfast just to be polite? Nah. I did it cause’ I already knew I wasnae’ about te let this be just once.”

You exhale — stepping back like you’re reclaiming ground, but the glass is at your back and his voice is in your blood now.

“Johnny,” you breathe. “This is mad.”

“Aye,” he agrees, extinguishing the space. “But I’m no’ lettin’ you bolt just ‘cause it scares ye.”

You blink at him. “And if I try?”

Lips at your temple, he grins.

“Go ahead. But ye best put all tha practice te good use, bonnie. Cause’ I’ll find ye.” His fingers trail up your side, electricity coursing. “And each time I’ll fuck ye harder than the last. Leave ye walkin’ funny and thinken’ of me every hour after.”

Those fingers pause, and you jolt, a shockwave behind the ribs as his words drive through you. It’s maddening and it’s sick — how fast reason betrays you. How fast you clench around nothing, aching like he’s made good on that promise. Like part of you wants to be hunted, dragged back by your hair and wrecked until all your rules blur into white noise.

It’s nonsensical. But all men before him were dull — a realization that makes your mouth dry. And all you can think about is the way his voice dragged over that sentence.

The way each time implies he’s already counted them.

“Quite the promise.” You reply.

He smiles all teeth and truce — and you know you’re already too far gone. He knows it too. Judging by the way he hums, pressing a kiss to your cheekbone.

And adds. “This wasnae’ chance. Wasnae’ luck. I came for ye because I meant te. And m’stayen’ for tha same reason.”