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mintfullyyours · 15 days ago

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I live and breathe meanie!simon

Shades of Cool

or: you get jealous after seeing Simon with another girl.

cw: 4.1k wrds, 18+ mdni, smut with plot, meanie!simon (hes a little toxic), no use of y/n, situationship turned relationship, jealous!reader, quickie in the parking lot, protected sex, age gap, blackcat!reader, daddy kink, age gap (simon mid 30s, reader mid-late 20s)

“and when he calls, he calls for me and not for you.”

a/n: reuploading cause someone asked! Also I interpreted Shades of Cool by Lana (the inspo) different (cause I thought some of the lyrics were something else) so bear with me. Other inspo, Needy by Ariana Grande

At a certain point, you were convinced— Ghost was fucking other people.

There was a girl who was a friend of a friend, of an acquaintance you didn’t like, who could not shut the fuck up about a particular six foot four, muscular, tattooed, blue eyed, skull mask wearing military man.

Your six foot four, muscular, tattooed, blue eyed, skull mask wearing military man.

She just kept smacking her fucking gums together about how big his dick was, how hot he looked with the mask and without a shirt on, and something else about how good her pussy was, blah, blah, a fuckin lie, blah— you’d concluded she didn’t know what the man really looked like, as she should since Ghost had a face only you should be looking at.

Which was alllll the evidence you needed to prove to the grand jury that he was yours.

Yours in theory.

Maybe you were ditzy because you loved that man’s attention above all else, and it simply didn’t feel right that said attention didn’t belong to just you whenever he was free.

He was already a quiet guy, it didn’t help much that he was a little harsh and blunt and declined calls and ignored messages to keep a distance with any of the other women he kept around. You’d asked about that, he gave blunt answers. But that was in the past, at least, that's what Simon decided in his mind. He didn’t tell you that.

He always misses a few important words.

C’est la vie.

You were at your best with Simon despite the mess of it all.

It just felt so good to be in his arms, big fingers trailing from the bottom of your spine up your back, sending shivers through your body, to yhe back of your head. Holding you still while he slipping his tongue into your mouth and exploring it, molding your lips together until you both were out of breath, lost in each others eyes.

So hot—

Whatever, point is, you were Simons and he was yours. You were the first he called when he got off work, when he got back from a mission, the first to call when he wanted to see you.

Not that girl who talked too fucking much.

You didn’t think much of it.

Long as you got that call, long as he called you, his.

Well, up until you saw him laughing it up in some cafe with some girl as you passed by. Shouldn’t he be at work right now? And shouldn’t that girl be at work too? It was lunch-ish. A late lunch, you’d be having one too. But to have his eyes shining like that— it irritated something inside you.

You clicked your tongue. Nodding, don’t make a scene [+]. There's no reason to make a scene [+]. You just go about your day, go home, ask Simon about what happened in a very calm manner.

Something along the lines of, “what the fuck were you doing with a woman at xx cafe at 1:07 pm today?”

No. That’s definitely too much. You’d confront that man while the sun was out. He had to be fucking other people besides you. You’d be straight forward, polite, calm— like Simon taught you. Speak your mind like he knew you could.

You walked in the cafe, head held high, passing through the customers and finally, just barley passing the booth he was in, as if you were there for some other reason. Glancing over your shoulder and catching a certain someone’s eyes.

“Long time no see Simon~” You spoke in a sing-song voice. Enough to sound happy but it’s sharp.

Your eyes found the girl, pretty- no- stunning. You couldn’t deny it. A serious business woman for sure but she could’ve modeled if a scout saw her on the street.

“I’m sorry! I didn’t see you there! Nice to meet you, I’m [+].” You were leering, drawing a line in the sand, daring her to cross it. The woman, all but confused, takes the hand that you stuck out. Shaking it with a genuine smile. Yours? Not so much.

“Georgina this is [+], who I’ve told you about. [+] this is Georgina. A friend.”

Simon deepened the line you made in the sand but yet, you're still hissing like a cat at a human who’s crossed too many boundaries. Not directly at her alone though, at the brute looking at you oh-so-casually with those pretty mocha brown eyes. A small glint in them.

“Well,” she gives an uncomfortable smile and clears her throat, “I’ll be seeing you Simon. Nice to meet you too [+].” He gave her a nod and she slips out of the booth, you taking her spot.

You looked out the window, an uncomfortable silence filling the space between the two of you, and that fucking pout on your lined lips.

Simon scuffed into a laugh, typical.

A look of distaste formed on you, like something bitter was on your tongue, “You fuckin her?”

Clock work. Even more laughter.

“I’m bein serious Simon.” You never take me serious, you wanted to add but you settled with looking the other way, into the cafe. College students, office workers and the latter bustling in line. The sound of steam from the expresso machine and clanging of objects, generic indie pop. So happy-go-fucking lucky— straight out of a movie— compared to how shit you felt at the moment.

You crossed your arms, your knee bouncing in annoyance, how cute.

“You don’t think I hear you?” Ghost doesn’t even want to acknowledge the question. Why?

He knows how you get. You like to build your anger up so you have all the more reason to throw a tantrum, try to run off, claw at the leash he’d so carefully tightened so you couldn’t get out. It’d only lead to you hurting yourself.

Simon takes a sip of his tea.

“I think you’re fuckin her. No need to hide it, she’s pretty. Straight hair too, very neat.” You spoke tightly. The woman looked so well put together in her office attire, black pointed pumps, a loose long sleeve, lilac blouse, short French tipped nails, black slacks, a shaggy yet perfectly styled blonde cut like Cameron Diaz in the 90s— Opposite of you.

Curly dark brown hair pushed back by a black headband, open denim fury coat, black mini skirt, tight white top, vintage denim healed boots to match, gold necklaces sitting pretty on your chest, ears full of peircings, a pair of black shades sitting low on your nose and long red acrylic nails adorned with gold jewels.

People saw you as just a good time, people like her ended up with the ring, the house and the loving family— the loving spouse.

What you should have. What you wanted from Ghost.

“So what? You think she’s better than you?”

You roll your eyes, “You see how I didn’t fucking say that?”

“But you're acting like it doll,” Simon simply hummed nonchalantly, “and what for?”

Your eyes snapped over to the brute, eyes squinting. As if he hadn’t given you the reason to act like this— jealous. Needy— greedy for something. Someone. Him. Ghost taught you to want him, his gaze, his time, his touch— everything. So why weren’t you the center of his attention?

It made your stomach flip. This wasn’t like you. But you’d try this one time, tug at the leash one more time.

“I don’t need to fuckin look like her for you to want me. Never changed for anyone, I’m not gonna start now.”

“Look at you, smart kitten. You puttin two and two together now?” A snickered condescendingly, you know that damn smirk is under his mask.

“Yeah I get,” you spit, sitting up straight, “You’re not fuckin her but you’re fuckin other people. I got it perfectly.”

And there’s a pause, just for a moment, and he looks at you like you’d said something so crude, so blasphemous— his jaw locks. You’d completely jumped ship instead of settling. Not what he wanted. And then he remembers— you're a kid- his to take care of. His kitten to set straight. His nose flare, gently taps the table with his finger, twice. “You’re bein fuckin daft [+].”

“For sayin the truth?” You cock an eyebrow.

“For talking out of that pretty arse ‘f yours!” Before you can refute, both of you notice the older woman a table or so away from you two, looking at you two as if you’re disgraceful for cursing in public. You both give her a look that gets her out of her seat in a shock. Probably because of Simons mask but it doesn’t matter anymore, she’s gone. Back to conversation, “Did you want me stop talking to women all together because you’ve got your bloody underwear in a fuckin bunch?”

Yes!

No. No you didn’t— you wanted him to tell you directly— show you he was yours. Only yours.

“Women come ‘nd go sweet ‘art. They get to your head too fuckin much? Ignore ‘em.”

“As if I can fuckin ignore shit when you’ve got bitches blabbering from their fuckin lips!— Ooooh, you know what!? Fuck you. Go fuck as many girls as you want for all I care!” You shove at the table, barely doing anything, and storm off. And then he says his parting words, says it almost perfectly so you can hear it before you touch the door a bell chimes while you open it—

“I will.” And he sips down the rest of his now stale tea.

You almost whip around and smack him, but your hands too shaky with angry nerves already, and the feel of your stomach recoiling at his words.

It hurt.

You’d went back to your crummy apartment that you hadn’t been back to in months.

Soaking in the loneliness and anger just like you used to.

‿̩͙⊱༒︎༻♱༺༒︎⊰‿̩͙

The first to call when Ghost gets called for a mission.

There’s no warning, or anything. No message between the week you’ve both been radio silent to each other. And maybe he’d intended on telling you a week ago, but you’ll never know now.

Simon called you the day— sorry— the night he was leaving. He got called in early to take care of some things.

Now that he had you, he wouldn’t leave without seeing you. Didn’t matter if you were angry. He would come see you, even if it was just for you to wave down from your apartment.

But you came down when the blonde called, curls covering your face, in a pair of oversized jeans, sneakers and cropped hoodie. You had two of your own duffles already packed, and threw them in the trunk.

You’d been so used to routine since you two got together. Watch the house, look after the dog, Slugger, take care of yourself, wash the car, water the flowers, wait for your Daddy to get back.

And you were good at it. Consistency kept you at your best, your happiest. The opposite of what you were now— tired, slightly stressed, quiet.

The drive is silent except of the 80s rock playing low, the turn signals blinking, and the engine of the truck roaring. Your eyes are out the window, toward the rolling hills and woods as you make the drive towards the base.

Ghost takes a glance at you, his left hand on the steering wheel, “You don’t have anything t’say?”

‘You gonna miss me?’

Your tongue pokes out of the inside of your cheek, holding whatever curse words you really want to say, settling with, “Nothin you haven’t heard before.”

Usually, you’d give him that sweet pout, smooshing yourself onto him with your back, curling your legs in the seat, huffing and looking out the passenger window, ‘Don’t want you to go though.’

The words wouldn’t leave his mouth, but he’d think ‘Don’t wanna go either.’ Oh, this must’ve been proof of him growing— aging. You were the anchor, a reason for himself to work to live and not live to work. Instead, his hand would meet your thigh, gently rubbing itthem, give your knee a light kiss just before you’d squeal and tell him to watch the road. The words unsaid, letting you know he was right there with you. Hanging off of every word you said.

He’d heard the ‘I’m gonna miss you’ or ‘I want to see you’— the longing, a thousand times over from his fair share of women whenever he got sent off somewhere. But had to hear it or something close to it at least once from your perfect lips before he left. Had to. Like an unspoken ritual, you a safe guard that he’d gotten used to that would always be there. You’d plopped yourself smack dab in the middle of his life. Though, he’s the one who put you inside the space there, you’re the one who decided to prance your way to the center. He preferred it this way. Thankful for your stubbornness.

But not right now.

You wouldn’t budge, what right did Simon have to push your further when he’s the one who got you like this in the first place? His jaw ticks, hand clenching at the wheel. He’s no irritated at you, but at himself.

You pulled up to the parking lot of the base soon enough, sooner than expected, Ghost cut the engine and let go of the steering wheel. He takes a beat before speaking.

“Your laundry is in the room, it’s not folded but it’s done. Slugger is in his cage, know you don’t like f’me put him in there cause you trained him well but- I didn’t think-“

“—yeah.” Cut him off. You didn’t think you’d be here either. But you still wanted to see him, see those scars that painted his face beautifully in your eyes, hear that deep and rugged voice, maybe even see the smallest smile before he left.

His hand slowly creeps from your shoulder to the nape of your neck, rubbing the baby hairs at the bottom of your neck. You can’t help but lean into him, closing your eyes at the gentleness.

Simon presses his lips to your forehead, firm, like he wants it to last. And then he pulls away, pulling that classic skull mask down the rest of his face. He gets out the car with a slam of the door and you immediately squeeze your eyes shut against the headboard.

You should’ve said something, anything. Soften the blow of the whole thing that already hurt. Get out with a scrape. But every time you opened your mouth, nothing came out. The rummaging in the trunk stops, and Simon circled around the car to your side. Your eyes never leaving him. You rolled down the window and Simon pointed to your shoulders, shivering and low from the cold air.

“Best if you put on a jacket, don’t wanna hear you got a cold.”

You wave him off, one side of your lips just barely curving up, “yeah, yeah. I won’t get sick. Swear it.”

“ ‘Nd drive straight home, it’s late.” Just a second more, just a little bit more.

You give him a thumbs up, eyes darting in the opposite direction, “Got it. See you later.”

There’s a deep sigh and then you hear his boots hit the pavement. You roll up the window with shaky breath.

As soon as you see Simons large form is 30 paces away it’s like everything you’ve been holding in crumbles. Boo-hoo tears falling down your face and dripping onto the dashboard you’d rested your head on. Why did it always have to go like this? Why did Simon always have to be so mean? Why did Simon have to leave before you properly made up? Why were you so hardheaded? And when did you become so- docile? So needy for him?

That bastard had your mind skewed. Dependent.

You were moaning as if you were in physical pain, sobs from the back of your throat pouring out, repeated mumbles of ‘Daddy’ and ‘come back’ stuck on your lips.

The passenger for clicks open, and you shoot up, Ghost standing right there, there’s a weak smile on his lips, “Look at you, didn’t think you’d be a fuckin cry baby.”

The man doesn’t say another word though, just manoeuvres you so you’re sat in his lap facing him in the passenger side before he shuts the door and locks it.

You were trembling, trying to contain the tears that were still warming your face.

His poor baby. Sweet girl.

“Made a mistake lovie. I’m sorry.” You look up at him with those big doe eyes, ‘for?’ So damn adorable.

He cups your face, wiping your tears with his thumb pads, “Should've told you sooner that I’m all yours doll. Only made sense you got jealous like that, yeah? I brushed you off when I should’ve talked to you properly. Ha, Gotta work on communicating more, because-“

I love you. The words almost stumbled out. Almost. Not yet.

His fingers brush your two tone lips, continuing, “—I care about you more than anything. You’re my precious baby. Shouldn’t be so mean to you. There’s no one else I’d rather be with than you. I’m sorry.”

Your heart melts completely, filling up all the way to the top in relief. You shake your head, heat building in your face. “I should’ve told you- h-how I felt, I was wrong for yelling. I was frustrated.”

Simon softly pecks your cheek, “Thank you for apologizing, didn’t have to,” another, “You forgive me?” Another. He continues till he leaves a nibble down to your jaw, leaving a hickey right under your chin.

“I-I guess this one time, it’s fine.” You moan but pull away. You turn your head, looking toward the security guard who’s a fair distance away, but Ghost turns you head back to look him with two fingers. His eyes low and dark. Tantalizing, drawing you near.

“It’s late doll, they’re probably sleep.” His face hovers over yours, his pink lips grazing yours that you could feel each others breath, “We’re makin up aren’t we?” You feel him grind up into you making your breath hitches.

“Once.” You mumble and he opens the middle console, pulling out a condom.

“Like we have a choice.” He scuffs, planting a fiery kiss on your awaiting lips. It’s sloppy, desperate, like you’ve been waiting decades to feel him on you, you can’t help but grab at the collar of his uniform. Trying to pull him closer to you.

It’s quick after that, both rushing to get as close as possible. Ghost grumbles something about you wearing stupid fucking pants while kissing your neck. “Mmph, fuck off— s-shit.” You moan while getting one pants leg off over your shoe (an accomplishment in your book). The blonde easily slid the condom on his hardening dick and your face makes a sour expression, dissatisfied. In the way, it’s in the way.

Simon snickers, fingers finding your swollen clit and rubbing it, rubbing his tip through your leaking folds, “Don’t make that face pretty, you know how it is.” Simon never likes his car messed up. Never. Almost never, there was this one time- “Earth to [+]? Gonna fuck me or am I boring you?”

“Noooo! I want- need it!” You whine, slowly sinking down on his length. Licking your lips, you slowly start to roll your hips, taking more and more of his hardened cock with each bounce. But it’s not enough, faster- more!

He grips your hips with one hand, harsher, “Take your fuckin time baby, Jesus, you want to hurt yourself?”

“You’re just so big Daddy, so much.” You mewl, full to the brim. You can feel him in your stomach, just grazing your cervix. Your head falls on his shoulder, taking a sharp breath before sliding up and then slamming yourself down on his cock. You let out a strangled moan with every movement, the car starting to rock as you move.

You eyes flicker down you where Ghosts cock was meeting your heat, your cunt greedily sucking him in to the point you can hear the schlick, schlick, schlick as he split you open with every thrust. Then you’d look back up to him, then back down, then back to him.

“What?” And the man doesn’t stop, pulling you closer and fondling one of your tits through your clothes. Teasing your hardened nipple the more you cry.

“No-“ you gasp, shoving at his clothed chest.

“—You’ve clearly got somethin t’say. Say it.” He grunts, giving your ass touch slap before fucking up into you.

“Augh- Daddy, Daddy I-“ you can’t think, it’s too much for you to form words, nothing but moans coming out. But you are thinking, about another girl, being in this exact position. It’s like a needle pricking the heart. You can’t help it. Simon let’s put a breath before kissing your scalp, he notices how your brain scrambles. That pained look you give, not physical, emotional. You’d be stuck in your head all night if he didn’t get it out of you. He’d have to force the reassurance into you.

“Don’t tell me your still on that sweet’art.” His voice right in your ear, sending shivers down your spine. Ghosts thrusts slow, but they’re consistent and you feel every ridge, every vein through the thin condom, rocking against him.

“I- but Si-“ you huffed, your lips pursing.

“Jealously’s got your cunny squeezin the life out ‘f me. ‘Nd- fuuuck me baby- ‘M supposed to be in someone else when you can barely lettin me go? Huh?”

“I just- I wanna be your first option Simon.” You hiccup. No, you wanted to be the only option. And maybe you were ruining the mood, letting your big brain get in the way of fucking Simon one last time before he went for god knows how long. But this had been on your mind since that bitch kept squawking about Simon, and he told you he was you. But what if? You let out a frustrated sigh, this was pointless—

“You’re my pretty girl, aren’t you?” Simon sits you up to look at him, his look stern, “Need an answer baby.”

“Yes sir.” You sniffle.

“You think I’m lettin anyone run around ‘ere, put their shit in my house? Hm?” And he takes the globes of your ass in his cold hands, slamming you down at the right angle to hit your g-spot.

You eyes roll to the back of you head, thighs trembling as he manhandles you to take all of his cock, forming a ring of cream at the bottom of his dick from how good you felt, “Letting you follow me all bright eyed and bushy tailed, just because you’re anyone? Buying you everything because you deserve everything.”

You keen, his fingers finding your sopping wet clit once again, tugging at it before rubbing it fast, “Too much Daddy! I can’t!”

“Too much? You’re the only one who can take it like this baby’s. It’s only you, princess. Only you I take care ‘f like this, only you that’s on my mind all hours of the day. Always you, no one else. Never been so happy to be yours [+]. I’m kittens loving Daddy aren’t I?”

Your back arches against him, his lips finding your neck and nibbling down as your writhe, legs trembling as you cum, hard.

Your walls squeeze him for what he’s worth, making his aching red tip twitch while he fucks you through your orgasm, his thrusts frantic. The blonde presses down on your lower tummy. Right where he can feel his cock with every move between your sticky pink walls “Come on, cum again kitty. Need it, So fuckin perfect, feel so good around me, god-“

Your walls practically mold around him, pulsing around him when your orgasm slams into you a second time just as Simons balls clench. Once, twice, filling the condom to full capacity. His chest quickly rises and falls against yours.

His tongue swipes from your jaw and into your agape mouth. Tasting and pulling away with a smack of your lips, “Made Daddy proud, good job baby.”

Simon loved you like beautiful shade of cool. It seemed so cold but it was so sweet, so soft despite the rough edges of it. Full of depth, always reliable— that’s what he was. And he’d give you that always.

“You alright?” He asks after cleaning up the mess you two made. Just a little mess, you’d clean it up later. Simon got you on the drivers side so you could get home.

You huff, “you’re leavin.” Your eyes take him in, one good time. Trying to remember every inch, every curse by memory. Thankful for the few pictures that sat in his office. You’d have to photo copy them before he noticed.

“I’ll be back,” He pats your head, leaving one last tender kiss on your lips, “Be good for me.”

“You got it.”

a/n: me and this have a love hate relationship. Lmk what you guys think, ily.

most recent more meanie!simon masterlist.

#facts #like he can do no wrong to me #ghost

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mintfullyyours · 15 days ago

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simon points out the final girl getting chased by the slasher in the horror film you’re watching together and sighs out a dreamy little “that’s us” and then just doesn’t elaborate at all

#hes so freaky #I love him #ghost

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mintfullyyours · 15 days ago

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My man my man my man

Just walked out of the shower with a funny idea. The 141 men wanting to join in the shower, but maybe jumping out or smth cause the water is TOO hot, feeling like it could easily burn their skin down.

Soap is diving into that shower without a second thought because he takes any chance to see you naked/touch you he can. He yelps, swears in Scots, and nearly slips and falls (taking the shower curtain with him if there is one) as he attempts to escape the hot water.

Gaz, knowing that you take showers that are hotter than hell, politely watches from inside the bathroom, acting like he’s brushing his teeth or styling his hair. Will risk his hand to touch your butt.

Ghost braves the hot water and the reddened skin afterward because nothing is stopping him from having some quality shower (naked) time with you. It’s straight-faced, thousand-yard stare, and a silent scream on the inside, but Ghost is right there with you.

Price wants to join and knows better. He’s reaching in, yanking the temperature knob to “cold” to startle you, giving him an opening to hop in before turning the water temp back to an appropriate temperature. He’ll give promises of “I’ll keep you warm” instead of suffering under a scorching deluge.

CoD Headcanons / AUs / Quick Writes Masterlist

#the chokehold good bf gaz has on me #soap #gaz #ghost #price

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mintfullyyours · 23 days ago

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Imma need a full fic of this right now pls and thank u

your friend was dared to do it and then she made you do it.

you know how crazy college friends are. they get bored, they find something either stupid or dangerous or both just to occupy themselves from the soul crushing depression caused by their academic studies and somehow you get dragged into it.

and now you're here. putting a little sticky note on some rando's windshield and scurrying off while your friends film the entire thing because they want said rando to end up arguing with his partner.

what did the note say?

i'm pregnant. call me when you get this since you blocked my number.

little did you know, Soap saw you stick the note on his car and that little joke is about to become reality.

he's been keeping track of you ever since he spotted you. watching, waiting for the right moment to corner you. prowling in the grass like a predator hunting his prey. he studies your schedule, your routes, your hangout spots, your friend group, everything. then maps out a plan of how he’s going to fill you up with his baby once he’s caught you in his jaws. and you don't even realize it until it's too fucking late to do anything about it.

but that's your fault. you can't just offer yourself up to a hungry wolf and not expect him to take a bite.

#soap #GIMME #I BEG

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mintfullyyours · 24 days ago

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Accurate lmfao

Shower thoughts about 141's phones…

#soap #price #ghost #gaz

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mintfullyyours · 25 days ago

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I’d fold so fast

ok i’ve thought about this for so long but i honestly think drunk confessions with soap would happen when both of you are equally as sloshed. like a full drunken horny spiral where neither of you can shut the fuck up - all of your filter is gone, and suddenly it’s turning into a game of who can confess the nastier thought first. mutual destruction type shit. just a casual descent into unhinged oversharing and both of you realizing - oh no. we’re the same type of feral.

like the bottle is almost empty. you don’t know who had the last shot. doesn’t matter. you’re both on your asses against a wall in some dim corridor, not even trying to get up anymore. your legs are stretched out and tangled, shoulders slumped together, heads bumping every so often when one of you snorts too hard.

you’re both cackling like lunatics.

soap just made a joke about ghost looking like the kind of bloke who asks for ketchup in a steakhouse, and you’re crying. actual tears.

everything feels warm. blurry. easy.

way too fucking easy.

“you’re insane,” you laugh in between trying to catch your breath. “fulllyyy fucking insane, johnny.”

johnny sways toward you. “aye. but yer the same. same fucken’ breed.”

you know you can’t deny that. you and the scot do nothing but cause shit everywhere you go. it’s effortless, with johnny. you two feed off eachother.

and so you smirk, lifting your cup in admission. “idiots with a loaded weapon and terrible judgment? yeah. we’re practically twins.”

he snorts. “aye, but you’re the hot one.”

you turn your head slowly. “did you just call me hot?”

he doesn’t even blink.

“donnae act like ye don’t know it.”

your pulse stutters, but you’re too drunk to even notice. “no, johnny, shut up - you’re the hot one-“

“ye dinnae wanne start this with me lass.” he says, cutting you off with a shake of his head. “ye’ll lose.”

you swat at him. “i won’t lose shit- i’ve thought about how hot you are for months. like months. i dream about it.”

there’s a pause, at that. one that tells you that might’ve actually surprised him and is proven by the way he opens his mouth then closes it. even drunk you see it, the gears that start turning behind his eyes as he exhales a ragged breath.

“ye dinnae even know what i dream of.” he whispers with the type of slurred inflection that surfaces when he’s long past the point of reason. “ive thought about shaggin’ ye in every storage closet on this base.”

you choke.

“johnny-“

“none o’that- listen proper. i mean every. closet.” he lifts a finger like he’s testifying in court. “the one near the gym? bent over the bench. one near the barracks? legs around my waist, beggen pretty in my ear.”

your jaw drops. because holy fuck.

“you’re just saying that?!”

he grins some clueless little grin that is so signature johnny it hurts. “we're bein’ honest now, aye?”

you squint at him, trying to find the bullshit. trying to find the lie or the twitch in his brow that tells you he’s only buttering you up in hopes to get laid. but you don’t find it - you don’t see anything except for the wild in his eyes, the flush in his cheeks that tells you - fucken hell. this might just be the most honest he’s ever been, and it’s exhilarating.

so just like you always do, you match him. this time in your honesty. because it’s always like this with you two. the dance of devils - yours and his.

you shift, head buzzing wild. “alright then. ive thought about you fucking me on the shooting range.”

he blinks. “…ye what.”

you shrug, chewing on your lip. “from behind. pants halfway down while you’re tellin me to shoot it straight.”

his face twists, eyes blaring. “tha’s fucken evil.”

you giggle, nose scrunching. “you started it.”

“nah - nah nah,” he waves a hand, scrambling to face you better. “ye donnae get te drop that and just move on. ive thought about ye - fucken hell - riding me in the armoury. tools clatterin’ everywhere. no’ a care in the bloody world.”

you gasp, pretending to be oh so very scandalized. “in the armoury?! johnny!”

“right on the table. my hands on yer throat te keep ye quiet.”

you’re breathless. flushed. completely fucked but never more alive in your entire life. “oh my god.”

“aye. oh my god is right.” he leans in closer, breath hot, accent slurred and taunting. “top that. i dare ye.”

you’ve never been one to back down a dare, especially when you’re this drunk, so you lick your lips. “you, in the showers, still half-dressed. water running. me down on my knees suckin’ you off while you lean on the wall grunting my name into your fist.”

his eyes roll back and he groans - actually fucking groans like you’ve just stabbed him and slumps back against the wall. something in you begs and your thighs twitch for it.

it’s one of your favourite fantasies to date.

“jesus fucken’ christ.” he grits after a moment of attempted recomposing.

“keep up, mactavish,” you purr, all smug now. “or you tapping out?”

“no’ a fucken’ chance,” he growls, shifting up again. “i think about benden ye over the mess table while everyone else’s sleepen’. pissin myself tryen te keep ye quiet while you’re so fucken wet fer me it’s drippin.’”

every word from his mouth is like fire, scorching your nerves alight. you’re certain you’ve never been more unholy in your life, but all you do is nod like you’re not losing your fucking mind.

then you lean closer. “ive imagined you pulling me into a closet just to put your fingers in me and tell me you ‘just needed to check something.’”

he gapes. fullstop. “oh you’re proper fucked, aren’t ye?”

you’re both hysterical now, half-laughing, half-melting, cheeks burning, equally breathing heavy like the airs gone thin and its burning between you.

“you,” you manage to recollect yourself, pointing a finger in his face, “you’d be the type to say some sick shit like ‘don’t cum until i say so.’”

“aye.” soap blinks slow. “tha’s ‘cause you’d fucken’ listen.”

you freeze, eyes locked. you don’t even realize that you’ve both gone quiet until he speaks again.

“…ye would, wouldnt ye?”

“course i would.” you breathe out, jagged and cracking now until you manage to snap yourself out of it with another laugh. “christ, you’re filthy.”

he flashes you that goddamn grin again. cocky and teasing and totally fucking evil. “ye love it.”

“unfortunate,” you mutter, smiling. “makes me wanna jump you for it.”

he hums. “mm. full offence, i’d let ye kill me with your thighs.”

you blink, then almost choke on your saliva. “you’d what?”

“dead serious.” he gestures at your legs, slurring slightly. “wrap ‘em around my head, cut off the blood flow, lights out. best fucken way te go.”

“well fuck.” you shake your head, but your grin is splitting your face. “i’d let you fuck my throat til i’m cryin. full tears. no air. fingernails bleeding my scalp.”

johnny leans his head back and groans again. “im gonna combust. gonna catch fucken fire.”

you wheeze, face buried in your sleeve. “we're disgusting.”

“we’re perfect.”

and then, quiet.

not awkward. not scared. just two people hovering over the edge of something they both know they can’t fall into.

you feel his shoulder still pressed to yours. feel his breath go slow and controlled like he’s thinking about all the ways this is wrong, and all the ways you both wish it wasn’t.

“im no gonna kiss ye,” he mutters.

you don’t look at him, just whisper back, “good.”

another long beat. then-

“…but if i grabbed ye by the waist right now and dragged ye toward my room-“

“id let you.”

another pause.

“…we shouldn’t,” he whispers.

“i know.”

“ye’d fucken end me,” he adds.

you smile. “right back at you.”

you sit like that for an unknown amount of time. taut, burning, wrecked. he tilts his head toward yours again. nose brushing your temple.

“ye tell anyone about this,” he breathes into your hair, “and ill deny every word.”

you snort. “we both go down with the ship, mactavish.”

he grins, and neither of you move.

you just sit there.

emotionally edged. spiritually wrecked. cockblocked by the entire universe and metaphorically blue-balled by your own drunken stupidity.

#soap

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mintfullyyours · 27 days ago

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Oh to be on a deserted island with Johnny

Have recently started Lost and can't stop thinking about a scenario in which Johnny lands on a deserted island after a plane crash, with seemingly no survivors other than himself. He's disoriented, confused - his ears are ringing, and the scar on the side of his head from where Makarov shot him is starting to pound again-

And then he sees you.

You, who miraculously survived the plane crash alongside him. Who sees the burnt corpses surrounding the crashed plane and freaks out. Who approaches Johnny and tells him that there must be other survivors, that something must be done to somehow call for help.

But Johnny is barely even listening to you, the pounding in his head ceasing at the sight of you. Bonnie little thing, all alone on an island with him - this has to be fate, right? Because what are the odds that the only survivors to a plane crash are himself and the prettiest sight he's seen in years?

Maybe God has finally decided to give him a gift, after all the years of service and pain. Maybe God wanted that plane to crash on this island full of beauty, this island that must be his Garden of Eden-

And if it truly is like that, then you must be his Eve, right?

#soap

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mintfullyyours · 28 days ago

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Margaritaville

For days now, you’ve been seeing the same broad-shouldered man lounging around the resort. Or: the knocked up on vacation au Part 1 masterlist

A familiar voice rouses you from a daydream that was just getting good. “Are you going to spend our entire vacation by the pool?”

“…Isn’t that what we’re supposed to be doing?”

You lift your sunglasses to meet your friend’s eyes, no need to squint against the sun because the way she’d stood in front of you blocks it from blinding you with your sunglasses off, inadvertently blocking the one thing you’d been hoping to keep your eyes on.

Irritation prickles at the base of your spine, but you resist the urge to snap no matter how tempting it is. You’ve been getting away with murder these past couple days and throwing a fit won’t get you anywhere but in more hot water.

“You’re supposed to be spending time with your friends,” she says, emphasizing the last word to communicate that you’ve been slipping in your duties.

“Oh, sorry,” you apologize begrudgingly, leaning up on your elbows. “Were you, um…do we have plans that I’m forgetting about?”

“We’re taking the shuttle down to the beach,” she says, gesturing over her shoulder to where the rest of your friends are waiting with their flip flops and tote bags by the archway leading into the resort, the shuttle just through the double doors at the other end of the main building. “Are you coming?”

If you give yourself any time to deliberate, you’re worried that you’ll end up saying no, so instead you sigh, pushing yourself up from your elbows onto your hands. “Alright, give me a sec. I’ll catch up in a minute.”

She nods, appeased, heading back to the rest of the group with a thumbs up.

Leaning over the side of the chair, you gather up your belongings, stuffing everything into your tote apart from the greasy, half-finished bottle of sunscreen that you keep in your hand, conscious of how it keeps leaking from where the lid broke the other day.

It takes you a second to muster up the willpower to stand up and join them, your id screaming at you to turn around and plant yourself back in that pool chair to keep admiring the view. You have to be strong though. No breaking now after you just gave her your word that you’d come.

One last surreptitious glance over your shoulder is all you allow yourself, biting your lower lip when you catch him stretching his arms over his head to grab the back of his pool chair, hairy pits on full display and lats stretching with the movement of his arms.

Fuck, you nearly whimper, teeth pressing deeper into your lip. He slings one leg over the edge of the chair so his foot is planted on the floor, making his shorts pull tight across the thick bulge of his crotch.

Fuck.

For days now, you’ve been seeing the same broad-shouldered man lounging around the resort in various states of undress, your stomach a mess of both butterflies and knots every time you see him on the treadmill when you pass by the fitness centre or getting breakfast at the buffet in the morning.

Typically though, you can find him lounging on one of the poolside canopy beds with his boonie hat pulled down over his eyes, hands folded just under his pecs, clearly using his vacation to actually relax instead of running all over the resort like you and your friends. It affords you ample opportunity to stare unabashedly, eyelids going heavy the longer you stare at his strong chest and legs, thigh muscles making his swim trunks seem almost a size too small.

Your friend wasn’t wrong to call you out for being less than attentive. You’ve been a lost cause since you first laid eyes on him, your thoughts a thick slurry of pent up horniness, tongue all but swollen in your mouth from how little you’ve been using it this trip.

(if only you could pull down those shorts of his and use your tongue on him instead—)

In your defence, you haven’t been making an active effort to pick him up because you know that you're supposed to be enjoying your vacation with your friends. You’re well aware of how shitty it would be of you to try and hook up with another guest when you’re supposed to be spending time with them.

But you also can’t help but linger when you realize that the same man (the one that has to be a decade your senior—the one that's built like a man, hirsute and tall, always a head above anyone else in the room) is nearby. It’s like he has some kind of magnetic pull on you.

You’re not proud of it, but at least part of your attention has gone towards figuring out whether he’s on vacation alone or with someone. No ring on his finger could mean anything. Lots of people commit without the ring; he could have a girlfriend and two kids back in his hotel room and you’d be none the wiser.

Then two days become three and you’re almost positive that he hasn’t come with anyone else. He eats alone and poolsides alone and you’ve never seen him so much as smile at someone who wasn’t wearing a resort uniform. The false hope that thought imbues you with is downright delusional.

Your daydreams become increasingly oriented around following him back to his hotel room and slipping inside after him. You’ve never had a vacation fling before, but you think he’d make it good. Something about the way he walks like it’s heavy between his legs makes you think that he’d treat you right.

You sit up and wipe the corner of your mouth, catching yourself drooling again.

There are plenty of other things to do besides ogling the hot guy trying to enjoy his vacation alone though, so you force yourself to do things with your friends before one of them finally lays into you for zoning out the whole trip. Beach excursions and karaoke after dinner; you spend two hours dancing with two of your friends at the silent disco while your other friend goes upstairs for a shower and nap. Anything to show up and be present with your friends instead of languishingly in daydreamsville.

Despite your best efforts though, you’re clearly not as subtle as you’d tricked yourself into believing.

Rain is coming down in buckets outside. The four of you play Uno in the hotel room to wait it out when one of your friends asks if you’d be down to go on a snorkeling tour with the rest of them when the weather clears up.

You open your mouth, about to respond, when your other friend cuts you off. “No, she’ll be busy making moon eyes at that guy with the weird hat.”

Your other friends cackle. Your cheeks flood with heat, so caught off guard that you can barely defend yourself, sputtering out something that only confirms her words.

One of the others shrugs, putting a +2 down. “I get it. He’s really hot.”

“He’s like forty.”

“So what?” you sputter.

“You two want to fuck an old man?”

The friend that supported you rolls her eyes. “Oh my god, grow up. Forty’s not that old. Also I only said that he’s hot. No one’s getting married to him.”

The four of you share a laugh at that. If your laughter happens to come out strained, borderline forced, no one calls you out on it.

The ribbing gets under your skin more than you’d like to admit, but instead of throwing a fit, you tap your nails impatiently against the back of your cards and roll your eyes, stacking the +2 with one of your own. “I can’t wait to get rid of you bitches and get home to the package that I’m waiting on.”

“I know what package you’d like to wait on,” someone mumbles.

“Shut up!” you shriek, mortified, snatching a pillow from the couch behind you to launch at her head and sending the others into hysterics.

The problem is that he’s just always there.

It’s a small resort—of course you’d cross paths with him every now and then, but somehow it feels like no matter where you go, he’s somehow nearby, either already there before you arrived or not long after. You’ve come to almost expect him because of that, meaning that on the rare occasion where an hour goes by without him pulling up a chair across the pool from you, your thoughts start to spiral and your mood goes sour.

Glancing around the pool for the umpteenth time elicits no new sign of him though, much to your frustration. Not that you’ve made a habit of keeping tabs on his movements or knowing where he might be at any hour of the day (your conscience whispers staaaaalker under her breath and looks pointedly away), but it’s unusual not to see him sleeping in one of the free cabanas or sitting in the pool with both arms braced behind him on the coping.

Greedy. You’ve grown so used to him always being around that it’s made you spoiled.

“I’m gonna go get a drink,” you announce to the group, already toying off your flip flops and getting ready to slip into the pool. “Anyone wanna come?”

A couple of them let you know that they’ve heard you, but no one offers to join. Makes sense; it’s somewhere between two and three in the afternoon and the sun is at its highest, the air so hot that it’s an effort to not doze off in your chair, the heat making you lethargic. Your skin reminds you when to reapply sunscreen, the last layer sloughing off with the sweat constantly dripping down your body, ever in need of replenishment. You smooth a little more into your legs and arms before throwing the bottle back onto the floor next to your sandals, skin nice and sheeny again.

The only swim-up bar is on the other side of the pool, so you float over slowly, wading through deeper and deeper waters until you almost have to cling to the side of the pool. It’s slow going, giving you ample opportunity to scan the poolside for your mystery man’s telltale red pinstripe swim trunks.

No dice. Just chairs and cabanas filled with people that you swear you’ve never seen in your life (not like you’ve been paying attention to any of the other guests).

At the bar, you order a margarita and sit on the stool welded into the bottom of your pool with your elbows planted on the damp counter, your lower half still submerged. Frustration ebbs only for a dejected mopishness to flow back in.

It might’ve been easier to push your disappointment down if any of your friends had bothered to join you for a drink, but you can’t blame them for taking advantage of the beautiful weather.

The resort is nothing short of heaven. Thick palm fronds dangle over the pool chairs and sway back and forth with the gentle breeze. Light chatter from the people on the other end of the swim-up bar is just barely discernable over the sound of the music playing from the speaker overhead.

The clientele at this resort is a mixed bag: some small groups of folks roughly your age and a multitude of families, the buffet practically a warzone with kids chasing each other around tables and through the halls, excited screeches following you all over the resort. There’s another pool a short shuttle ride away more geared towards kids though, thankfully, so this pool is relatively quiet apart from the music blaring from speakers placed strategically throughout the property, a mix of acoustic covers and lounge beats in the morning, and upbeat pop in the mid-afternoon to liven things up.

It’s nice. Definitely worth the fifteen hundred dollars and definitely worth coming back next year if your friends don’t boot you from the group chat the second you touch down back home.

That’s what you’re thinking about when you casually glance around the pool again and feel your heart nearly jump out of your chest when you spot him.

He appears from around a palm tree like the red sea parting, so sudden that all you can do is stare wide-eyed, discretion the last thing on your mind. It’s not that you don’t care if he sees you staring unabashedly, it’s just that you physically can’t look away from him.

He must have set down his stuff on one of the pool chairs nearby because he walks over barefoot, slipping into the water almost gracefully for a man his size, biceps bulging when he lowers himself from the edge into the pool. You spend so long staring at the faint pink sunburn on his shoulders and the undulating muscles of his chest that it takes a second for your eyes to meet his, a jolt going through your body when you find him staring right back at you, his gaze even heavier.

You go stock-still when he wades over to the swim-up bar where you're waiting on your drink and takes the seat directly beside you. The seats are arranged close together to fit as many as possible in front of the bar, so it’s not totally his fault that his thigh presses against yours.

But you also can’t help but notice the three empty stools beside him. All that space, free for the taking, and yet he sits so close to you that anyone swimming by would naturally assume you were here together.

The smell of his skin is like sun and salt; if you inhale too deeply, you know it'll just make you dizzy. This close, you can make out every mind-numbing detail: the dense brush of hair on his forearms, the old school anchor tattoo on his shoulder, the thick band of a watch on his right wrist. The drawstrings of his trunks floating in the water, aglet the most buoyant.

Your hands shake in your lap when he turns to the bartender and orders a drink too, the sound of his voice rolling over you, gruff in a way that almost makes you melt.

A voice that makes you look up at him all doe-eyed and dumb when he finally looks down and says something to you for the first time.

“Haven’t I seen you around?”

The shudder you manage to suppress, but the way your skin goes tight with goosebumps is out of your control. In all of your daydreams, he’d been more of the silent, grunting type—the type to huff and puff through every thrust, no appetite for sweet, sugary words. You never thought to imagine a voice to go along with his face.

He’s handsome in the way that some men are—almost effortlessly. Sea blue eyes and strong nose; thick neck and bristly jaw. He wears his age well.

And then his question registers, the gears in your brain slow to start chugging along again, overwhelmed by his proximity and attention, neither of which you ever expected to be on the receiving end.

“Um…” you start, tripping over your words and swallowing them back up. “Maybe. Have you?”

His lips stretch into a fond, crooked grin, cheeks dimpling with his smile. “Yeah. Pretty sure I have.”

“Probably. I mean, I’m, um—I’m staying here. At the resort, I mean.”

“Here alone?” he asks.

“No, I’m with them—” You turn and point over your shoulder towards your group still lounging in the cabana. “My friends. We got here a few days ago.”

“Right,” he says, not bothering to look over to where you’re pointing, eyes not shifting from your face. “Liking it so far?”

You’ll have to check later for burns because your face feels like it's on fire. The shock of the cold glass in your hand when the bartender passes you your drink helps to ground you at least.

“It’s been nice,” you croak, smile feeble when you finally coax your slack lips into working again. “…How about you?”

You wish your conversation would come out less stilted. Hard to play it cool in a hundred degree heat.

“Getting better every day,” he replies, as smooth a line as you’ve ever heard.

You take a sip of your drink, hoping the alcohol helps settle your nerves. You’re conscious of the way his eyes follow your tongue as you lick the salt off the rim of your glass. Someone off in the distance shrieks and there’s a splash from the other side of the pool, but it barely registers as background noise, all of your attention focused on the blue of his eyes.

“That any good?” he asks, voice gruff.

“You want some?” you ask, instantly mortified when you hear what just came out of your mouth.

“Kind of you, love, but I can’t take what doesn’t belong to me.”

You don’t know what he means by that until the bartender puts a beer down in front of him, a lime garnishing the rim. The man thanks him, big hand wrapping around the bottle and fingers easily overlapping. The mental image of that goes straight into your spank bank for later.

The lime gets dropped somewhere on the countertop and he takes a long pull from the neck, eyes locked on you the whole time.

You’re not so naive as to not know what this is, but—

Someone calls your name from the other end of the pool and you turn instinctively at the sound, grasping onto the edge of the countertop and leaning back until you see one of your friends standing at the edge of the pool, waving you towards her.

“Friends want you back?” he asks, sounding vaguely disappointed. You’re not sure if that’s just in your head or not.

“Uh…I’m not sure—” you answer uncertainly.

The same friend calls your name again, louder this time, garnering the attention of some of the other people sitting around the pool, and a surge of annoyance rushes up your chest. Weren’t they dozing off just a few minutes ago? Now all three stand at attention, sandals on and tote bags slung over their shoulders, the brims of their hats shading them from the sun as they gesture for you to join them. You nearly groan out loud. Of all times to call you back.

You made a promise though, at least to yourself. The possibility of good dick, while tempting, is not enough to get you to switch your allegiances.

(just yet, something in you whispers)

(give it enough time)

The smile you give him is rueful, almost apologetic. “I’m sorry—I should get going. They probably planned something at the beach. It was nice to meet you though…” There’s room at the end of your sentence for him to wedge his name in, a little dangling participle of pleasantry.

A chuckle flows out of him like the chuff of a bear. “John.” He gives his name like a gift, offers his hand the same.

You think it’s an offer anyway, until John just takes your hand, his damp, warm palm practically swallowing yours. Doesn’t wait for you to give him what he wants—just takes it like he’s owed it. The thought makes your head spin. Coarse, callused fingers wrap around the underside of your hand, long enough to nearly engulf your wrist as well. The hair on his knuckles is as dark as the pelt on his chest, and you wonder what it would feel like for him to drag a knuckle down the line of your jaw.

Your throat pulls with a swallow, breath shaky on the way out.

“Nice to meet you, John,” you say, all raspy-voiced, giving him your name as well like he pulled that from you too.

It takes him a beat to let go of your hand, the intent in his hold so clear that he might as well say it right to your face. You have to leave before your resolve crumbles like papier-maché.

“Since you’re not sticking around,” John says, finally letting go of your hand, “think I will have a taste.”

A taste. The word makes you clench up but you don’t register what he means until he curls his fingers around your margarita and brings it to his mouth, taking a sip from where you last had your lips.

Oh god. You’re smart enough to get it. You’re smart enough to see that gesture for what it is.

You send him one last thin, watery smile before beating a hasty retreat, his invitation still at the swim-up bar with him. Water sloughs off your body as you take the stairs out of the pool instead of swimming back to your friends, swimsuit damp in more ways than one, and you swear you can feel the heat of his gaze on your back as you walk over to where your friends stand.

One of your friends peeks over your shoulder while handing you your stuff, eyes going wide when she notices him sitting where you just left. “Oh, did you see the hot guy was sitting at the bar too?”

“Yeah,” you reply, shaky hands slipping your sunglasses on. “I noticed.”

#price #i loveeeee this #imma re read it #like a lot

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mintfullyyours · 28 days ago

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Blue collar Soap would steal a lunch from the communal fridge if a coworker pissed him off enough, fall in love with the woman that cooked it, and conspire to steal her from said coworker (doing you a favour really)

#soap #whos gonna give this to me #who!!!!

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mintfullyyours · 1 month ago

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in kyle's point of view, you were always such a fucking tease.

he should've known better than to indulge in your silly little attempts of getting his attention, but – god – it was hard.

you're so sweet. always so caring with him and his needs. you'd text "drink your water", "stay safe" and "don't overwork yourself", taking care of him even if he feels like he should take care of you.

but then – if you're in a playful mood – you'd text little, teasing remarks. hints of what you want him to imagine. texts like "it's so hot today, i had to put a sundress on", "i spilled water on my shirt and now it's see-through" and "i'm bathing, i'll answer in a bit".

he gets so worked up by your small texts that it doesn't take long before he's sending his own teasing messages to you.

"aw you cold baby? let me warm you up then"

blurb from BEEN AWAY: COLLECTION.

#gaz #my sweet sweet boy

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mintfullyyours · 1 month ago

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King Simon Riley choosing you as his bride. CW : Slight NSFW.

Simon was heavily respected within the realm, predominantly because when he was nineteen, he went against his father's orders. And fought in a war despite being of high society.

Simon was then crowned when he was twenty four, becoming a feared and esteemed King.

Simon was now thirty, finding himself without an heir, but more importantly, without a wife. He was far too used to his own hand, now craving a wet hot cunt to sink into every night.

Simon had his advisors find him a handful of the most beautiful women in the Kingdom, having them lined up in his royal hall.

Simon walked up and down the line, not finding any interest in the women before him. They were pretty, sure. But none had what he was looking for.

The doors of the royal hall opened and two of Simons knights dragged in a woman who seemed to be shouting and fighting against their grasp. That woman, was you.

"Unhand her" Simon demanded, his voice booming throughout the hall. The knights letting you go, causing you to stumble forward slightly.

"Your majesty, she was found stealing a loaf of bread" one of the knights states firmly.

"I was hungry!" You snapped at the knights, scoffing as you smooth out your old and dirtied dress. Glaring at the women in line that snickered at your outburst.

Simons lips twitched, stepping forward and grabbing your chin to get a better look at you. Your brows scrunching at his gesture.

"You have an attitude" Simon hummed, his eyes dragging down your body. Smirking at what he sees. "This one" Simon said firmly, letting go of your chin.

"What?! What if I refuse?!" You shouted, only making Simon chuckle at your defiance.

"Oh you won't, you just need a hot mouth on your cunt to keep you happy" Simon said, pride swelling as your cheeks bloomed with red. Your mouth opening to bite back, though nothing came out. "Get her cleaned up, I want her in new clothes in my chambers by nightfall" Simon demanded.

He was going to have plenty of fun finding out what makes you tremble under him.

⛧°. ⋆𓌹♰𓌺⋆. °⛧

#ghost #who’s gonna write it

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mintfullyyours · 1 month ago

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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.”

#soap #cries because this is so good

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