#corner hutch | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

hyukasmiles · 6 months ago

Text

—SOOBIN—

(MDNI & NOT PROOF READ)

Soobin has read wayyyy too much hentai and it’s made him a pervert. He tries to put a lid on it, he really does, especially at events like this. But he’s just a man and there’s only so much he can do when you show up to his nephew's birthday in the tightest low cut tank top and tiniest little jean shorts.

“I’m so sorry we’re late!” You bounce on your heels a little, your tits bouncing with the lack of a bra. “I was waiting on a package.” Your kid hugs your legs and Soobin tries to remind himself where he is. “No I didn’t bring the baby, he’s staying with his dad today.” You whine and god does Soobin want to fuck you.

Someone’s baby starts crying, there’s so many here that Soobin doesn’t notice which one but what he does notice is that your tits start leaking, leaving two wet spots on your tank top. “Soobin.” He perks up to his name, tearing his eyes away from you. “Will you show her where the guest room is.” You stand with your arms crossed over your chest, red with embarrassment.

“Y- yeah.” He stutters, turning towards the hallway. “It’s this room.” He pushes open the door, his heart pounding in his ears as you thank him. “I’ll go get you another shirt.”

Soobin tries to will his boner away as he grabs a shirt from his sister's dresser. He doesn’t think to knock on the door, his heart skipping at the sight of you topless, gently massaging milk out of your tit. “I’m sorry!” He covers his eyes with his hand, tossing the shirt in the corner of the bed.

“It’s ok.” You whisper. “It’s not like it was on purpose.” He can hear you moving on the bed. “I overproduce, I’m so embarrassed.”

“I don’t think anyone noticed.” Soobin turns away from you, hoping you don’t notice the tent in his pants. “N’ it’s natural!”

“Could you grab me another rag?” You ask, “This is such a waste.” Soobin looks at you as he moves to grab a towel from the hutch. You’re pouting, your own eyes trained on your boobs as you express more milk.

“Save me.” Soobin breathes, barely turning to you as he hands you the towel.

You wipe yourself down, a gasp falling from your lips as you push down on your nipples. “They’re sensitive.”

“Fuck-“ Soobin groans, trying to make it to the door. His hand is turning the knob when you whisper his name.

“You can touch them.” You sigh, “I was hoping you’d ask.” Soobin can barely turn around, his heart in his throat as he tries to process your words.

Soobin gulps as you arch your chest to him. His mouth is dry as he inches towards the bed. “Are you sure?” His knee hits the bed as he asks. You nod at him, grabbing your tits and squeezing them as he makes his way to you. Up close your nipples are angry looking, red and puffy and building little droplets of milk. He presses his palm against one, fingers brushing against yours as he gropes your sensitive flesh.

You whine, dropping your hands, letting him smoosh and squeeze your boob against your chest. He can feel milk covering his palm and sliding down his arm, dripping off his elbow and onto the rag he brought you.

You reach up to cup your neglected tit, massaging your nipple as you thread your fingers through his hair. He doesn’t notice that you're pushing his head towards your chest until your nipple is touching his lips. Your fingers part his lips so you can place your sore nipple between them. Soobin takes the hint and latches onto the waiting bud. “Good-“ You whine, scratching his scalp. “Good boy.”

Soobin’s dick strains against his jeans, hips dropping so he can grind against the bed as he swallows mouthfuls of milk. He digs his fingers into your boob hard enough to leave a mark, too distracted by his own pleasure to focus on anything other than drinking and humping.

“Switch.” You gasp, pulling in his hair. “The other one is gonna feel left out.” Soobin looks up at you, so obviously milk drunk, slobbering over your tits as he kisses and licks to your other nipple, his pupils dilated as he nips on it.

He’s barely sucking at this point, whines spilling out of his mouth and into your skin as he gets himself off. “Wanna fuck your tits.” Soobin slurs, lapping at your nipple between the words. You pull him away from you completely, pushing him until he’s sitting on the edge of the bed.

You undo his belt, “Such a good boy for me.” You smile, pulling his jeans to his ankles. “Want a reward?” Soobin throws his head up and down shaking in excitement as you kiss his hard on through his boxers.

You press your tongue against the cotton covered head, the salty taste of precum sticking to your taste buds. He whines again, eyes screwing shut as you take him into your mouth. You lick and suck on his boxers until they’re dripping, strings of precum connect his erection to his ruined boxers as you finally slip them down. His dick slaps against his stomach, red and ready to burst. “You’re so hard.” You coo, running your fingers up his length. “Does it hurt?”

“Mhm!” Soobin bucks his hips into the air, desperate for the relief you provide. You spread his legs wider and slot your body between them, pressing your boobs against his dick.

You squeeze your tits together, almost completely engulfing his dick in your soft skin. Soobin whines again as you push your boobs together hader, his hips jumping as he tries to fuck them. He’s being too loud, there’s too many people in the house.

You pull away from him, reaching behind him to grab something, he whines at you, grabbing your hips and trying to force you back down. Soobin gags around the milk soaked rag you shove in his mouth, “Gonna get everyone’s attention, whining like a dog.” You settle back down on the floor, sliding his dick in between your boobs again.

“Be a good boy f’me, ok.” You pick up your tits and slowly massage them up and down against his heavy erection. “Feels good doesn’t it, baby.” You press your fingers against your nipples, milk slowly slipping down your boobs and mixing in with his cloudy precum that covers every where your skin connects to his.

Soobin is trying his best to be quiet, biting down on the cloth so hard his teeth hurt but he can’t help the whines that slip through his lips when you press your tongue flat against his tip. “N’ you were bein’ so good.” You pout at him, stopping your movements all together.

“S-sorry.” He barely vocalizes it against the rag but you hear it and it’s enough for you to give in and continue. You lick against the underside of his head, his hips shake but he doesn’t buck up like he so desperately wants to do. “M’ I good?” His words are a jumbled barely audible mess.

“So good.” You praise before finally taking the tip into your mouth, swirling your tongue around it as he shakes.

“Hold-“ Soobin’s mouth hangs open, the rag landing on his chest as he falls back onto his elbows. “I’m gonna-“ His cum spurts out of him without warning, hitting you in the back of the throat before you can pull off his dick. “I’m sorry.” He cries, more cum leaking out of him and into your boobs.

“It’s ok, baby, you were so good.” You whisper to him as you wrap your hand around his base, lazily rubbing him, helping him come down from his high. “Open your mouth.”

Soobin listens so well, mouth open and waiting for you. You scoop up as much of his cum from your chest as you can, fingers dripping as you stuff them in his mouth. “Thank you.” He smiles at you as he covers your fingers in saliva, sloppy running his tongue up and down each digit.

—

Inbox always open 🤗

#txt #txt smut #kpop smut #soobin smut #beomgyu smut #taehyun smut #hueningkai smut #yeonjun smut

452 notes · View notes

pekoehoneyncream · 4 months ago

Text

Ghoaptober # 4

Prompt: Home

Words: 3100~

TW: Phonetic Scottish Accents (sfw)

This version of Ghoaptober was created by @spadesandshovels

This one did not at all go in the direction I meant it to. I genuinely thought this one was gonna be short, that's my bad for thinking a MacTavish family reunion wouldn't be chaotic.

So a bit of Premise, I have a headcanon that Soap's actual name is Coinneach John MacTavish, but only his family calls him Coinneach.

Enjoy!

Ghost tried to steady his breathing as Johnny led him up to a picturesque country home, then around the side, under a few lines of drying laundry, to the backdoor. Johnny gave the door a cursory rap as he pushed it open, he’d barely gotten one foot over the threshold when delighted cries resounded.

An older woman, maybe fifty years old, came into view as she hustled over to yank Johnny down into a hug. A smile lit Johnny’s face, the likes of which Ghost had never seen before. It was warm and relieved, happy and teary. It looked like Johnny had been told ‘It’s all okay’ and -for the first time- actually believed it. Johnny and his mother held each other for a long moment, each just breathing the other in. Through the door Ghost could see that the space behind them was crowding with people, all impatiently waiting to have their go at hugging the returned MacTavish.

Mrs Mactavish pulled away, reaching up to clasp Johnny’s face between her hands, planting a long kiss on his forehead, then pulling back again to look him over, murmuring to him in Scots Gaelic. Something Ghost, thanks to Johnny, could now recognize.

Johnny had warned him that it was the primary language spoken under the MacTavish roof, in deference to Johnny’s Grannie, whose grasp of English isn’t the best. Ghost had been forbidden from worrying about it and Johnny had assured and reassured him that "Ma an’ all ae mah wee siblings speak English jus’ fine", so he was trying his best to obey and not stress out.

Mrs MacTavish released Johnny, prompting even more people to crowd into the room to get at him and Ghost redoubled his efforts to not freak out. Wishing he hadn’t been so adamant in rebuffing Johnny when he’d said no one would care if Ghost wore his mask. Being able to hide behind his balaclava would be really nice right about now.

“Ye mus’ be this Ghost fella mah Coinneach is always yammering abou’,” The voice piping up at Ghost’s elbow does not make him jump. Ghost is a highly trained Special Forces Operative, he would notice a middle-aged Scottish woman approaching him before she spoke. He Would.

“Oh! Ah’m sorrae, laddie. Didnae mean tae spook ye,” Mrs MacTavish apologises, “Come in, Come in, Donnae stan’ on the stoop like y’ur no' welcome.”

Ghost finds himself ushered into what he discovers is the kitchen of the house. To his right was the kitchen proper, there was what Ghost could only guess was a genuine wood stove crouched directly in front of the door and guarding the threshold, it was in direct competition with the gas cooker pressed against the far wall, bracketed by counters covered in various appliances that looked like they'd hopped straight off the pages of a fifties home catalogue, but still seemed to be in good repair. Quaintly, the cupboards hanging over them were closed with curtains rather than doors. The only acquiescences to the modern era seemed to be the nice big fridge humming away like an afterthought at the end of the counters, and the washer tucked away in the corner.

It was a nice kitchen, it looked homey, lived in.

To his left was a long oval table with an assortment of seats surrounding it. Ghost could pick out a few chairs with carvings the same as the ones on the table’s legs that could only be the matching set, but they were outnumbered by ones that had clearly been added as needed. He could also spot a leaning stack of metal folding chairs half tucked behind a hutch in the back, clearly the MacTavish house was well accustomed to crowds.

Ghost was chivvied into one of the seats around the table, his Special Forces joints extremely grateful for the soft cushion padding the chair and guarding him from the ache of the hard wood. A glance at his table mates revealed whom the cushioning was truly intended for. A lady that must be around seventy sat to his right, and to her right, at the head of the table, sat a man in the same age range. The man was watching him.

Ghost took an educated guess and presumed that these must be Johnny’s Grannie and Grandad.

Fucking Hell.

Johnny never told him their names.

He’d always just referred to them as Grannie and Grandad, so Ghost had always called them ‘your Grannie and Grandad’ when asking after them. He didn’t even know if they were MacTavishs. Thinking about it, they were probably Johnny’s mother’s parents.

Oh, Bloody Fucking Hell.

What the fuck was Mrs MacTavish’s first name.

How the hell had he managed to have a panic attack over memorizing the names of Johnny’s five siblings and never have the thought cross his mind to learn the names of his mother and grandparents. Ghost is in their house, sitting at their table, and he doesn’t have a single clue what their names are.

What the fuck, Johnny.

The awkward staring contest he’d been entered into by Johnny’s Grandad was only growing more and more uncomfortable. It’d be rude to look away without saying anything, but what the fuck was he supposed to say, ‘Sorry for barging into your home, Johnny demanded Simon Riley crawl out of the grave that Ghost left him in to come meet the extended MacTavish family’?

Johnny rescued him by coming over to the table, leaning down to accept his Grandad’s seated one-armed hug and back pats, then pressing kisses to his Grannie’s cheek as he passed by on his way to drape himself over the back of Ghost’s chair, because sitting in his own chair like a normal human eludes Johnny.

He talked back and forth with his grandparents for a moment then turned to Ghost to make the least helpful introduction he has ever been forced to be a part of, “Ghost, this is mah Grannie and Grandad,” Then turning to his grandparents, “This is mah L.T, Ghost.”

Johnny’s Grandad seemed well used to Johnny’s foibles and reached an arm across the table to shake Ghost’s hand and supplement with his own introductions, “Ah’m Amhlaigh Milne, an’ this is the missus, Fionna Milne,”

Amhlaigh Milne’s hands were broad with liverspots speckling their backs, textured by hard calluses and soft wrinkling skin. His handshake was cursory and firm. He was a man that had shaken a thousand hands before and had no interest in adding pomp or frippery to the exchange.

“Simon Riley, sir, ma’am,” Ghost replied, nodding to Mr then Mrs Milne, “Thank you for having me in your home,”

Mrs Milne said something to Johnny in Scots Gaelic, sounding almost despairing. Johnny cried a shocked ‘Seanmhair!’ and a wild barking laugh carvoted out of the kitchen, followed by a multitude of variations on the same. Mrs MacTavish had been puttering about the kitchen getting tea and nibbles together, and was now bracing against the counters to not fall off her feet laughing. The people that Ghost hadn’t been introduced to, but could only assume were Johnny’s siblings, were leaning against each other and various pieces of furniture as they fought to stay upright on knees weakened by their cackling.

Well, it was good to see that Johnny came by it honestly.

Mrs MacTavish pulled herself together enough to pick up the tea tray and bring it over without spilling, the occasional giggle rattling through the teaset before she made it to the table.

“Ma says-,” Mrs MacTavish cut herself off, planting a hand on the table as a new wave of laughter wracked her, Johnny was hiding his face behind a hand, but the deep red of his ears betrayed his blush, “Ma says, it’s guid tha’ Coinneach is the firs’ ae her grankids tae bring ‘ome a fella, bu’ did ye have tae be a fuckin’ sassenach!”

The last of the translation is squeaked out in between laughs, but Ghost thinks he’s gotten the jist. Mrs Milne was hoping her grandchildren would bring home partners that were Scots.

Add her to the tally of people Ghost had lived to disappoint.

“None of your siblings have had partners before?” Ghost turns his head to address the question to Johnny, getting some vindictive pleasure from the offended squawks coming from the peanut gallery of siblings milling about in the kitchen.

“Nae, they’ve ‘ad partners, bu’ all ae 'em 'ave been too feart tae bring ‘em fer a visit,” Now Johnny is the one laughing, and the greedy beast that weaves through Ghost’s ribs squeezes tight, viscerally glad to have been the one to cause it.

A succession of offended noises comes charging out of the kitchen, followed by the siblings in question.

“Oi!” barks a young man with Johnny’s mousey brown hair, Mrs MacTavish’s straight nose, and hazel green eyes that Ghost doesn’t recognise, “Ah’m nae feart!” The rest of his defense is in Scots Gaelic and therefore lost to Ghost, but by the gasps and laughter it triggers, it’s nothing good.

“Artair!” Mrs MacTavish scolds, and Ghost assigns the name to the face on the internal profiles he’s been habitually building in his head for Johnny’s family, “Donnae say tha’ we’ve company!”

“He cannae understan-” Artair complains,

“Tha’ donnae matter. Artair MacTavish, ye’ll watch y’ur tongue or so help me Jesus, Ah’ll give ye a doin’!” Mrs MacTavish asserts, hands on her hips. Nodding sharply when Artair obediently subsides, “Noo, did ye wan’ a cuppa, Ghost?” She presents the full tea service to Ghost.

“Please, call me Simon, Mrs MacTavish,” Ghost almost begs of the woman, being addressed by his callsign by such a motherly figure is disconcerting in ways that Ghost refuses to analyze.

“Simon i’ tis,” Mrs MacTavish easily agrees, and starts identifying the nibbles she's brought over, “These ‘ere are egg an’ cress pieces, bridies, butteries, tablet, an’ shor’ bread. Have y’ur pick ae the lot.”

“Mo ciallian, did ye-”

“Nae, Da. Ah didnae pu’ onions in the bridies,” Mrs MacTavish supplied before her father could finish his question.

“Guid lass. Pass us up a few, noo. There's a guid lad,” Mr Milne chivvies Johnny into popping a few on a plate for him, Ghost was fascinated to see Johnny automatically make up and pass along a cup of coffee too. His family had never had that kind of camaraderie. A sudden wave of despair welled up to drown him as the unwelcome thought that he had no idea how his mother used to take her tea and there was no one left that he could ask struck him.

Johnny gently squeezed at the nape of his neck, bending down to put their heads in line, so that he could mutter to Ghost what exactly was in all the snacks Mrs MacTavish had just offered him. If Ghost leaned into the contact, buoyed by Johnny’s presence, that was between him and the devil, thank you very much.

Having clocked the identity of the coffee pot, Ghost got himself a tea from the teapot. Opening dishes until he found the milk powder, he mindlessly filled a mug with coffee for Johnny and slid it over along with the milk bowl, setting the dish back amongst the teaset when Johnny had taken what he wanted. The teapot was ensconced in a nicely knitted plaid tea cosy, a brief glance up at Johnny netted him a nod, and he studied the cosy with more interest.

So this was the MacTavish… hmm.

Another glance to Johnny, with a tip of his head in Mr Milne’s direction. Another distracted nod from Johnny, one of his sisters was ranting to him about an incompetent chef.

So this was the Milne tartan.

A woman burst through the backdoor, a small dog following at her heels. Another ecstatic cry went up and the family rushed to welcome her home. Johnny had told him that this was the first time all the MacTavish children would be under the same roof in years, Johnny’s mother had been planning it for months.

“Kennie!” the latest addition cheered, breaking free of the scrum to tackle Johnny in a hug, “How’ve ye been! Still ten, ten, an’ two?”

Johnny threw his head back in a laugh, then held up his hands to wiggle his ten fingers at her, “Aye, ah’ve still go’ all mah bits, Maggie.”

Ghost watched the crease of his eyes, the flash of his teeth, the jump of his chest. Glutting himself on Johnny’s happiness.

“So ye finally brough’ us y’ur man,” Maggie nodded in Ghost’s direction, a released Johnny coming to perch at Ghost’s shoulder again. Memorizing her face Ghost updated his profiles, this must be Maighread, the youngest.

“Aye, doin’ Ma proud, Ah am,” Johnny retorted, “Pickin’ up the slack ae allae youse,”

“Oi,” Maighread barked with a laugh, bending to pick up the dog that had been standing on its hindlegs to paw at her thighs, “A’ leas’ ah’ve brough’ Ma her firs’ grankid,”

“Aye, right.” Johnny conceded, reaching forward to give the dog a few pats, “An’ how’s wee Calum been farin’?”

“He’s grand! Vet said he’s great joints for nine,” Maighread enthused, then gave Calum a smooch on the head and pressed him into Johnny’s arms, “ ‘ere, be a lad an’ hold him while I say hullo to ar seann-phàrantan,”

Watching Johnny juggle a small grey dog and a hot mug of coffee twisted a smile onto Ghost’s face.

“Calum?” He let the question stand on its own and was gratified by Johnny’s response.

“Aye, he’s Maggie’s wee lad. A mini schnauzer. She go’ ‘im off a breeder, he didnae qualify fer a showdog, so noo ‘e’s the first MacTavish grankid. Ma’s go’ ‘im in the albums an’ every’hing.” Hearing Johnny’s accent thickening with every second that he spent amongst his fellow Scots was captivating, “Maggie trea’s ‘im like ‘e’s her own bairn.”

Ghost is not legally obligated to confirm or deny whether he did or did not open a mental profile for Calum the nine year old miniature schnauzer.

“Why’re you holding him?” Ghost asked,

“Dae ye wan’ tae?” Johnny asked in return. That hadn’t been why he’d asked, but he wasn’t going to say no.

Ghost nodded and scooted back from the table to give Johnny room to set the warm armful of dog on his lap, carefully bringing his arm around to make sure Calum didn’t accidentally fall.

Calum the miniature schnauzer snuffled at his face, his shirt, his hands, then seemed perfectly content to take a seat on his lap, propping his forepaws up on the table, like he truly was part of the family.

“Aye, tha’s fine,” Johnny supplied at Ghost's questioning look, “Donnae le’ ‘im jump up or no’hing, bu’ it’s fine as long as ye wipe the table after ‘e gets doon.”

Ghost was then perfectly content to sit, drinking his tea and petting the dog weighing down his legs. Normally the hustle and bustle of the many people talking and swarming about the rooms would quickly become too much for Ghost and he would need to take a break or else risk disassociating or having a panic attack, but oddly he was feeling fine.

With Johnny standing sentinel at his shoulder, his hip pressed against Ghost’s side, and his arm arm idly draped across the back of his chair, Ghost was able to feel secure where he was. In spite of the commotion and chatter around him.

Eventually the whole MacTavish brood was sat to the table, including Calum, who had abandoned Ghost to curl up on Maighread’s lap as soon as his owner had sat down. With cuppas and plates of nibbles close to hand, the air thrummed with idle chatter. Everyone updating and catching up, sharing the newest gossip about people that the table’s occupants would never meet. Mr Milne clearing his throat muted the room, though the silence wasn’t the oppressive tension that Ghost’s father had loved to employ, rather it was more of a curious waiting.

“Riley, ‘ave ye met,” Mr Milne cast a wide gesture out to encompass the entire room, grunting like he’d expected as much when Ghost replied with a quick ‘No, Sir’, and then proceeding to efficiently go around the table, putting names to faces.

“Mah oldes’ daugh’er, Oighrig.”

“Oh, jus' call me Effie, dear,” Mrs MacTavish interjected,

“Oighrig’s oldes’, Iseabail,” Mr Milne spoke on, unphased,

“Izzie,” The woman sat to Johnny’s left offered,

“Ye know Coinneach o’course,” Mr Milne didn’t miss a beat and Ghost got the feeling that this was routine for him,

“Folk ‘roun ‘ere call me Kennie,” Johnny grinned up at him, his chair leg-to-leg with Ghost’s, letting Johnny easily press up against Ghost’s left arm,

“Then the twins, Donella-”

“Nella,” Chirps the woman directly across from Ghost

“an' Eilionoir,”

“Ellie,” Spoke the identical woman sat to Donella’s right,

“Artair,” The young man sat to the right of Eilionoir offered only a nod, “our younges’, Maighread,” Mr Milne indicated the woman sat to his own right,

“Call me Maggie,” She offered with a bright smile,

“An’ Maighread’s Calum,” Mr Milne rounded out, giving the dogs ears a ruffle.

Ghost gave the table a nod, “It’s good to meet you all, thank you for having me,”

His thanks are immediately waved away, eight separate voices speaking their denials of any thanks being necessary. Ghost holds his hands up in surrender and sits back to sip his tea

“So Ellie, did ye tell tha’ man wit’ the gormless ring idea tae get tae fuck?” Maighread’s question forces an aggravated sigh out of Eilionoir, and with that the conversation moves on.

Ghost is happy to have the attention off him, but is even happier to revel in the line of heat that comes from Johnny pressed tight against his side. Planting a hand on Johnny's leg, Ghost silently urges him impossibly closer, appeased by the way Johnny immediately obliges him. Scooting half off his chair he pushes down on Ghost’s shoulder and tugs him around by the waist so Ghost's slumped back against Johnny’s chest. Perfectly aligned for Johnny to drop his head down to rest his chin on Ghost’s shoulder, the soft scratch of the shaved sides of his warhawk rasping over Ghost’s ear and rubbing intoxicatingly against his cheek. Ghost squeezes at the leg he hadn’t released and revels in the tight squeeze Johnny returns to him.

No one at the table gives their new seating arrangement a second glance and Ghost allows himself to wholly relax. Dropping his weight back onto Johnny without any fear of falling.

There aren’t words for the feeling that fills up Ghost’s chest. The closest might be devotion. A gluttonous loyalty, content to share only because it gains him ever more of Johnny, others drawing out sides of him Ghost can’t. A burning obsession that banks and surges with every moment, every glance, every touch that Johnny allows him.

What else is he meant to feel for a man that brings him home.

Thank You For Reading!

So the idea I set out with was "Soap takes ghost home to meet the family, ghost gets a bit overwhelmed by the amount of people, and realises he’s treating soap like some absurd mix of a touch/worry stone and a therapy dog. Thereby realising that soap makes him feel safe, and that wherever soap is, is home to him." I don't know how that became 3000 words, but here we are.

For anyone curious here are my notes on the MacTavish family:

Amhlaigh Milne -Grandad Fionna Milne - Grannie 69yo Oighrig MacTavish - Mother 53yo Iseabail(lesbian, the devil's advocate, she likes to look like the reasonable one and sometimes she is, trained as a professional chef, Job: restaurant owner) 34yo +1yr Coinneach John, 33yo +2yrs Eilionoir(Poly, is used to sharing Donella's partner, is not attracted to Donella, thoughtful and assessing, judgemental, realist leaning pessimist, job: makes jewelry) Donella(Poly, is used to sharing Eilionoir's partner, is not attracted to Eilionoir, more outspoken, open-minded, optimist, Job: professional horse trainer,) 31yo +3yrs Artair(sarcastic, always has a comment, acts like the baby of the family, Job: broker, he gets a budget from his client to find a specific/rare item for them, he bids in auctions and stuff), 28/yo +1yr Maighread(is the baby of the family, no one asks Maggie to do anything she doesnt want to, kind, warm, obliging, but not selfless or overly giving, Job: house sitter). 27/yo

Eilionoir and Donella live together and have four cats, all of which used to be stray cats. Their names are Sir Gawain, Darcy, Croissant, and Soot.

A photo of Calum to make it fair.

PekoeHoneynCream's Masterlist

#ghoaptober #ghoap #soapghost #ghostsoap #simon ghost riley #ghost cod #ghost call of duty #simon riley #john soap mactavish #soap cod #soap call of duty #scottish soap #john mactavish #cod #call of duty #PekoeHoneynCream

79 notes · View notes