Saintly

by nightcrews

Summary:

Sitting out there after a long day had become something you looked forward to, enjoying a nice cup of coffee and a book, and the view, of course.

And by the view, you meant your neighbor, John.

Notes:

In case you missed the tag, this is an age gap fic! Reader is *OF AGE* and Soap (in my head) is 45-50. So again, age gap!!

The apartment complex hadn’t been anything special when you moved in. It was pretty average, the same look as most other buildings you’d toured before settling here, modern but cheaply made. The difference was that the rent was a little higher, but the neighborhood was safer, and you got a gym. 

You also got a balcony, one on the backside of the building that faced the river. Back there, it smelled like lilacs when they bloomed, or grass when they mowed. In the winter it just smelled cold, but that in itself was a breath of fresh air. Sitting out there after a long day had become something you looked forward to, enjoying a nice cup of coffee and a book, and the view, course. 

And by the view, you meant your neighbor, John. 

He’d been there since before you’d moved in, seemingly permanently affixed to his balcony. It never failed when you stepped foot out the sliding glass door, John would be sitting to your right, separated by a few feet of open space and black railings. His feet would be kicked up on a small glass table, reclining him back in a plush deck chair, nose buried in a book or scribbling in a journal. Sometimes he’d have a mug of something, most of the time he had a beer, one hundred percent of the time he’ll look up at you and give you a quiet greeting. 

But good God is he a vision. At least twice your age, John is still a chiseled masterpiece. Broad shoulders tapered into a bulked torso, and you were privy to the fact that it was all muscle under his shirts, if the hard ridges of his stomach when he wore a compression shirt in the gym had any indication. His arms could easily be the size of your head, and hell, you’re pretty sure his thighs are. 

The scars are what really get you about him. One trails over his left eye, from forehead to cheek, which makes him look even more intimidating than he already is. One runs over his chin, and more mar his arms, and it kills you to wonder how he’d gotten them. What kind of life had he lived before moving into a quiet neighborhood to drink beer on a balcony and read book after book? Especially because behind the guarded blue gaze, you caught glimpses of something gentle, something other than the hard edge he appears to have. 

A few times you’d caught a glimpse of a set of dog tags around his neck, which made his size make sense. He oozed ex-military, down to the faded, prim and proper haircut. It also explained the scars, especially because, when you did the math, he easily could have served during WWIII. 

You didn’t know anything else about him, though, down to his last name, only that his first was John, and he kept to himself as much as he could. When it came to you, though, he’d give a polite nod in the gym, a soft hello from his balcony, or quiet conversation when he was feeling up to it. He even spotted you a beer once. 

The man was prime dilf material, and despite not previously having daddy issues, you quickly were starting to. 

“Evening.” He says without looking up as you step foot outside, book in hand. 

“Evening.” You say back, sitting down in the small loveseat you’d drug out there. You motion to his drink, “What’s on the menu tonight?” 

His eyes tear themselves away from his book to look at the glass to his right, then up at you as a small smile curves his lips, “Scotch today.”

You wrinkle your nose. 

“Not a scotch girl, then?” 

“Definitely not.” You say with a grin, meeting his eyes from across the open space, “I’m the typical fruity girl.”

“Nothing wrong with that.” He says. 

“I am known to drink a good bourbon every now and then, though.” You add, watching his smile soften. 

“Had a friend that preferred bourbon. Always gave me shit for drinking scotch.” 

“Well,” You lift your eyebrows, “he’d be right.” 

“Fuckin’ Brits.” He mutters. 

“What’s his name?” You ask, “Just so I know who to gang up on you with later.”

John’s eyes fall back to his book, a distance settling between you. For a moment you don’t think he’ll answer, and you’re afraid you’ve offended him somehow, when he softly says, “Simon.” 

“Sorry?” 

“His name was Simon.”

“Was?” You blurt before you can think better of it. 

“He died. Many years ago.” John says, eyes on his book, but far away. 

“Oh. I’m…really sorry.” You say awkwardly, face heating in embarrassment, “I didn’t mean…fuck, I’m sorry I said anything.”

Another smile finally takes its place on his face, “How could ye know?”

“Still.”

“‘S’alright, lass.” He says before turning back to his book and falling silent. You follow his suit, both of you sitting in companionable silence. 

---

“I’m sorry to bother you.” 

John peers down at you from the other side of his door, eyebrow arched, “Not a bother.”

“I’m trying to unclog my sink and I can’t get the pipes loose.” You say, ringing your sore hands together. You’d been trying to get the wrench to work for an hour now, to no avail, “I tried plunging it, YouTubing it, swearing at it, and nothing’s worked. I was hoping you might know a thing or two.”

“Swearing didn’t help?” He asks, eyebrows raised. 

“Not even slightly.”

“Swearing’s the last line of defense. Sounds serious.” John smiles, showing the cleft in his chin, and nods toward your apartment, “On you.” 

You grin, turning to head back to your apartment with John following closely behind. His eyes scan over his immediate surroundings as soon as he enters, flicking over the space in a practiced appraisal. You wonder if it’s instinct, a learned ability from his days as a soldier. 

He follows you into your kitchen, and suddenly the space feels a little smaller with him in it. He rolls up his sleeves, crouching down at the open doors under your sink, and starts fiddling with the pipes like he’s done it a hundred times. Knowing this place, he likely has. 

You lean against the counter next to him, feigning nonchalance, but really you’re watching the way his forearms flex, the way he turns his undivided attention to the job you’d given him, the way he mutters under his breath in that thick brogue. 

After a moment of you ogling him, he glances up at you with a smirk, “You standing there starin’ at me isn’t helpin’, y’know.” 

Heat rushes to your cheeks. “I was supervising.” 

“Aye, is that what they call it?” His grin widens before he ducks back under the sink. 

“What would you call it then?” You ask, if only to keep hearing the sound of his voice. 

He huffs, but it suspiciously sounds like a laugh, “Staring.” 

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. You let him work in silence for the next few minutes, listening to the clink and clank of tools on pipes.

When he finally straightens, he turns to you and opens his mouth to speak, but there’s a streak of something dark on his cheek, and without thinking, you reach out and wipe it away with your thumb. His gaze snaps to yours, one of his big hands gripping the counter next to you, and for a second the air feels heavier.

“You had a spot…” You breathe, shivering under his gaze. You hadn’t meant it to be anything but helpful, but the heat, and subsequent shock for it, in his eyes says something else entirely. 

“Right. Give yer sink a try.” He says, his voice maybe a little lower than normal, “Clog should be out.” 

You do, watching the water disappear without so much as a gurgle. With a laugh, you wrap your arms around his middle without a second thought, jumping excitedly, “You’re a lifesaver, John! Thank you!”

He waves you off to head back to his apartment, but you don’t miss the way his eyes linger, just a fraction too long, before he turns toward the door. You tuck that away quietly, a little flutter for the man next door. 

---

You’re not sure what it is that wakes you up, but one minute you’re sleeping, and the next you’re looking at your phone to see what time it is. It’s nearly one in the morning, and you don’t have to be up for work for another few hours. 

With a sigh of relief, you roll over to face the wall, closing your eyes, and pull your blankets up to your chin. 

That’s when you hear it—a muffled noise on the other side of the wall that has your eyes opening on instinct. Frowning, you’ve just about managed to convince yourself that you’d dreamt it in your half asleep state, when you hear it again, louder this time. 

A low sound, deep baritone, clearly in distress. It sounds torn right from someone’s worst day, one distinguishable word bleeding through the plaster— 

“Sorry.” 

You’d found out that your bedroom bordered John’s a few weeks after you moved in, when he’d politely asked you to keep the sex with your boyfriend to yourself. It had been mortifying to say the least, and you’d been hyper conscious of the fact since. 

The noises pick up in frequency, unevenly pitched and inaudible. At one point there’s a low moan, then something pleading, words you can’t understand filtering through in John’s familiar Scottish lilt. 

A nightmare, you realize. He’s having a nightmare.

The bed frame creaks as he tosses and turns, a cry ringing out, and then silence. You lay there and listen for more, but there is none. Perhaps the nightmare was over, or maybe he’d woken himself, either way, your eyes start to droop after a while before you’re fast asleep. 

It sticks with you the next day, though, all through work, weighing heavy on the back of your mind, up until you step out onto the balcony after work. John is on his side, unsurprisingly, and you lean on your railing to face him, blurting it out before you can chicken out, “Hey, John.”

“Evening, lass.” He says, glancing up at you.

“Listen, are you—” Your words falter momentarily when his head tips up, giving you his full attention, “Are you okay?” 

His brows pull together slightly, but otherwise, he doesn’t react, “Fine.”

“Okay. Yeah. Good.” You say awkwardly, fumbling with your response, and wave as you turn to go back inside. 

“Lass.” He calls, halting your retreat, “Why do you ask?” 

“I just,” You could lie, be vague, but you half expected he’d see right through you, so you say, “I heard you having a nightmare last night and I wanted to check in.” 

John’s eyes widen by only a fraction, but you see his surprise, “Heard that, did you?”

You nod.

“Sorry. Didnae mean to wake you.” His eyes drop, “Won’t happen again.”

“Oh it’s okay.” You say quickly, “I just…it sounded a little rough so I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment after that, but slowly his eyes track back up to yours, “Why?” 

“Doesn’t really seem like you have a lot of people who do.” You’re not sure if it’s crossing a line, but you say it anyway. 

For a moment he looks at you like he wants to say something more, to let out whatever’s weighing on his shoulders, but then you see the wall come down over that, and he turns back down to his book, “Thanks, lass, but I’m fine.” 

And that’s the end of that. 

---

The gym is always empty late at night, especially on the weekends, which is why you like to frequent it then. You’d come down in your tank top and shorts, headphones around your neck, and instantly blush at the fact that you’d worn you spandex shorts when you see John at the bench press. 

You give him a nod as you pass, his blue eyes meeting yours before skimming the length of you, and then returning to what he was doing. You set your water and phone down in the corner, swiveling around to face the room as you start your stretches. 

The only sound in the room is John’s harsh breaths as he lifts the obscene amount of weight on the bar, grunting here and there as he nears his limit. His shorts ride up enough to show off his powerful thighs, stomach flexing as he lifts, chest heaving with the effort. A thin sheen of sweat coats the parts of his body you can see, dampening his already dark blue shirt. 

His body, along with the noises he’s making, is utterly obscene, making you hot below the collar. So you do the only thing you can, and throw your headphones over your ears to block out the way your mind starts to wander. Was that how he sounds when he’s fu—

No. Nope. You’re not going there. You have a whole ass boyfriend to think about naked, not your hot, dilf neighbor. 

Even if he was hotter than your boyfriend. 

Much, much hotter. 

And older, you remind yourself, but…then again…isn’t everything always better with age?

You find yourself wondering then, what he must have looked like when he was younger. If he was a wet dream now, he must have been absolutely pornographic in his prime. You try to imagine what he’d look like in uniform, or shirtless in tactical pants, dog tags resting against his chiseled chest—

Weren’t you supposed to be not thinking about him? It’s not like you had even a remote chance, most men his age wouldn’t look twice at you, or you them. It’s just…John was John, no drama, no bullshit, gentle, wise, and you liked that. 

Stretches finished, you move on to the bench press that he was wiping down, waiting for him to move before finding the weight you wanted. 

“You goin’ heavy with that?” He asks from behind you, barely audible through your headphones. 

You take them off, spinning to ask, “Sorry, what?”

He motions to the rack, “You need a spot?”

“Oh,” Usually you lifted by yourself, never really having anyone to spot for you, “would you? I don’t want to interrupt your workout.”

“Was just about to hop on the treadmill to cool down, yer fine.” 

“Cool, thanks.” You says with a grin, setting your weight and laying back on the bench. John shifts close, his legs bracketing your shoulders as he takes his spot behind you. 

“Ready?” You ask, and he nods, blue eyes watching the bar intently when you push up.

His hands hover below the bar, just barely not touching, ready to catch it on a moment’s notice, “Nice. Solid form.” 

You keep going, feeling your face slowly growing redder and redder with your exertion. 

“Breathe,” He says your name, “Dinnae hold yer breath or you’ll pass out.” 

You do as he says, consciously keeping an eye on your breathing as you count reps. He leans over you, squatting slightly whenever you lower the bar. His nearness, the heat radiating off of him from his workout, the focus he has on you, is incredibly distracting for all the wrong reasons. 

“Good.” He’s saying, the little hints of encouragement doing nothing to quell the inappropriate thoughts in your head, “Two more, you can do it.”  

You do two more as he says, before his hands wrap around the bar to help you lower it onto the rack, fingers brushing against yours as he does. He doesn’t immediately move away, and you don’t sit up, you just sit there staring at each other. 

“You’ve got some strength.” John says, impressed, “Wouldnae guessed it just lookin’ at you.” 

“Funny, I was thinking the same about you.” You say, shooting him a grin. 

“Sure.” He snorts, finally stepping away so you can sit up, “Pretty sure I could bench you, doll.”

“Might be the funnest workout you’ve had in a while.” You don’t mean to covertly bat your eyelashes, but you do, “A little rigorous sounding though.” 

John huffs a laugh, hands landing on the bar behind you, bracketing you between them as he leans forward, eyes taking on a darker blue as he says, “Depends on how long you can last.” 

“How long I can last?” You scoff, “You’re the old man.” 

“Stamina’s fine, thanks.” 

You grin, unable to help the way your eyes fall to his lips, and then back up, “You’d be the one doing all the work, anyway. I’m just along for the ride.” 

John hums, tipping his head, and murmurs, “Think you could handle it?”

A thrill curls through your stomach, your breath catching, “I know I could.” 

He looks at you for a long moment, before some sort of clarity lightens his eyes, and he straightens to his full height, his arms falling to his sides, “Dinnae doubt that, lass.” 

The air between you thins out, the suffocating thickness from a few moments ago dissipating into nothing. 

John clears his throat, smoothing a hand over his trimmed hair, “Anyway, uh. You need a spot again, let me know.” 

“Thanks, John.” You say softly, watching the bob of his throat as he swallows, wondering what it would taste like under your tongue. 

“Anytime, lass.” 

You carry on the rest of your workouts in silence, and you pretend you don’t see him glance at you in the mirror, eyes dipping to your ass before he leaves. 

---

“John.”

“Lass.” 

“How would you like a home cooked meal?”

His head quirks, interest clearly piqued, and looks up at you from his usual perch outside, “What’s the occasion?”

“My boyfriend was supposed to come over, but he had to go in to work.” You explain, the bitterness you felt about it seeping slightly into your words, “I don’t want it to go to waste.” 

“So you dressed all pretty for a lad who bailed, huh?” John arches an eyebrow, eyeing your dress, “I suppose I wouldn’t mind standing in for him tonight,” His gaze lingers a little more than what’s appropriate at your waist, “Hope I can keep up with the plans you had.” 

You blink, heat creeping into your cheeks before you can stop it. He has to know how that sounded, has to know you were going to have sex with your boyfriend after dinner. It’s a given. Maybe you were just imagining it, though. He was older, after all, probably not even sparing a second thought about you. 

You shouldn’t even be sparing a second thought for him. 

“Just dinner.” You say, recovering from the momentary lapse in good sense, “And I’m sure you’re good at eating. 

His lips quirk, “I’ve been told I have quite the appetite.” 

Your face gets hotter, and you dare to say something sharp back, twirling your hair around your finger, “Good thing I made dessert then.” 

“Something sweet?”

“Aren’t they all?”

“Depends on the person.”

“Well mine is.”

John laughs quietly, “I bet it is, doll.” 

You swallow, heart in your throat as you say, “Why don’t you come have a taste then, John?”

“Suppose I could use a good meal.” He rises to his feet, “Maybe talk some sense into you about this fuckin’ dobber you keep bringing over.” 

“Door’s open.” You say with a grin, disappearing inside to set the table. 

***

“What’s a dobber?” You ask later, sitting across from John at your table, watching closely as he politely refrains from shoveling forkfuls of food into his mouth. 

“A fuckin’ idiot.” He says bluntly.

“He’s not an idiot.” 

“Yes he is.” John takes a bite of food. 

“You haven’t even met him.”

“Dinnae need to. I can tell all I need to about the way a man treats a woman, the way he caries himself, what kind of character he has. And that fuck,” John points his fork at you, “is a dobber.” 

You hum, “Must be getting rusty in your old age, then.” 

“Never.” 

“How are you so sure?”

“Spent my entire life workin’ out who the shitbags were.” John says, “Doesn’t shut off just cause I retired.” 

“Retired?” You scoff, “You’re not that old.”

“Too old to hunt terrorists, apparently.” He says, and your ears twitch, “That and I had one too many injuries according to the brass.” 

“Is that what you did in the military? Hunt terrorists?” You motion to his chest, where the thin metal chain disappears under his shirt, “I’ve seen your dog tags.” 

“Aye I did.”

“Doesn’t seem like what normal soldiers do.”

“I wasn’t a normal soldier.”

“So what, like, special forces?” 

“Something like that.”

You rest your chin in your palm, captivated by this enigma of a man, “I didn’t know you were interesting.”

This makes John laugh, dimples peaking through, “Seems I’m not anymore.”

“Can I ask a question that you don’t have to answer?”

“Sure.”

“Did you serve in the last war?”

His eyes dip to the food, then back to you, a thousand memories shuttering through them in the brief motion, “I did.” 

You nod, “Well thank you.”

He wrinkles his nose, turning back to his food, “Nothin’ I did was anything special.”

“Somehow I doubt that.” You say quietly, glancing at the scar over his eye, “Is that why you have nightmares?”

“I lost my entire team.” He says, catching you off guard, “My best mates, my mentor, and there was nothin’ I could do to save them. I’m the only one who lived to see the end of what we fought for. So yes, that’s why I have nightmares.” 

You feel like he’d just slapped you, despite his words having no bite, “Seems like I just can’t stop asking you stupid questions. I’m sorry.”

“Wouldn’t expect you to know what I did back then.” He says, eyes still distant, “No hard feelings.”

“How’s the food?” You ask after a few minutes of silence, wishing to take back the moment and not let it end on an awkward note.

“Could die tonight and I’d be a happy man.” He smiles, wiping his mouth on a napkin, “‘S delicious, lass. Yer boyfriend’s missin’ out.” 

“Well I got good company in the end, so at least I’m not.” You say, taking his empty plate to set it in the sink, “You still want dessert?”

“I’d love nothin’ more.”

You dish it out, sliding him a plate before settling back in your seat. 

“Dinnae know if I’m exactly the best company, but thanks fer lettin’ me come over anyway.” John continues, closing his eyes when the first spoonful of the dessert hits his tongue. His eyelashes flutter, and so do your butterflies. 

“You’re more charming than you think.” You say, taking a bite yourself. 

“Shoulda met me about twenty years ago, doll.”

“That’s a dangerous thought.”

“Whys that?”

Once again you find yourself pushing the boundary, “I might’ve let you get me into some trouble.” 

His grin is devious, “I was a saint.”

“If you say so.”

“You dinnae believe me?”

“I’d have to see how saintly you looked back then to form my opinion.” You say, fully aware that if he was this much of an unaware flirt now, he must have been lethal back in his day. 

“I probably still have a few photos stored away. You’re welcome to come look.” John offers, and though you know it’s innocent enough, you can’t help the heat nipping at your gut, that you had been so easily offered an in to his private life. 

“Really?” You ask with a grin. 

“Why not?”

And that’s how you find yourself sitting on his sofa, watching through the doorway as he drags a chest out of his closet in his bedroom. While he rifles through the contents, you glance around the sparse space. It’s relatively bland, a few artworks hanging from the walls, some figurines in the windows, but it’s definitely lacking a female touch. 

“No wife, I take it?” 

“Negative.” He calls, “Never met the right one for me, and my job didnae really allow for a normal schedule. I could deploy on a moment’s notice and be gone for weeks or months. No lass ever stuck around long when they figured that out.”

“What about now?” You ask, eagerly shifting on the couch when he returns with a photo album, “No more crazy schedules. I’m sure there’s someone to go crazy over you out there. You keep saying stuff about younger John, but older John is still pretty hot.”

“S’pose that’s a compliment coming from the younger generation.” He says, ears tipped red. 

You laugh, “Don’t you know, John? Silver foxes are all the rage right now. You could probably go down to any club and pull someone my age.”

It’s meant as a joke, it really is, but deep down, you’d been preening under his attention despite your ages. Despite the fact that you were spoken for, even if John had been right about your boyfriend not being the right choice. 

You’d finally admitted to yourself that you had a crush on the man, not that you’d ever act on it. 

Probably. 

“I could, sure, but if I’m gonna put in the effort to chase, I’d much rather do it fer someone who wants to sit on a balcony with an old man who has more aches and pains than excitement these days.” He says, blue eyes meeting yours. 

You hum and shrug, “Doesn’t seem like a big ask. I like sitting out on the balcony with you.”

“Fancy that.” 

You shift a little as his hands tighten on the album in his lap, only to realize just how close the two of you had gotten on his couch. His knee brushes yours when you move, and the warmth of him lingers against your bare skin. You try to ignore the way your pulse quickens at the simple touch, reminding yourself of the years between you. Reminding yourself you had no right to notice how solid he feels sitting beside you.

You clear your throat, nodding at the album, “So, twenty year old John?” 

He swallows thickly, tearing his eyes away from you to open the book and hand it to you, “Have at it.”

You flip through with a grin on your face, starting with a baby-faced John at the beginning of his career. He was lanky back then, still undoubtedly in shape, but less…massive. He progressively ramps up the confidence in his stature through the years in photographs, not that he was lacking any to begin with, but slowly settling into himself. 

A page flips, and you gasp, holding the book up closer with a wide smile, “No way!”

“What?” He asks, slightly startled.

“You had a mohawk?” 

“Ah, that.” His lips quirk, and he runs a hand over the top of his head, over the buzzed silvering hair, “Dinnae know what I was thinkin’ there.”

“Are you kidding? This is the hot John I’ve been waiting for!” You look over at him, absolutely delighted, “You pull it off very well.”

John lifts his eyebrows, but his smile is there nonetheless, “Glad to know I could’ve gotten ye into some trouble, then.”

You flip to the last photo, singled out on its own in the middle of the page. Four men look into the camera, one in a skull mask and sunglasses, one resting his palm on a handgun strapped to his hip, one in a bucket hat with a cigar, and next to all of them is John, rifle in his hands. OP Kingfish - 10-8-13 is written in the top right corner. 

“That’s my team.” John says fondly, looking over your shoulder, “Before the entire world went to shit.”

“Who’s who?”

John scoots closer, his arm brushing yours as he points to the man in the skull mask, “That’s Simon, the one who likes bourbon.”

“Ah, I remember him.” 

“Ghost was his callsign. That’s what everyone knew him as, you didnae call him Simon if you wanted to live afterward.” John says with a fond smile, “My best mate. Closest I’ve ever been to someone in my life. He just…knew me, and I knew him. On a bad op, he’s the one I wanted next to me.” 

You glance up at him, but he’s not looking, “Did he always wear a mask?”

“Always.”

“Why?”

“It’s a long story, and it’s not a good one.”

“Okay.” You point to the man next to him, “Who’s that?”

“Roach.” John says, “Gary Sanderson. My protégé. He was supposed to replace me as Captain someday, would have been better than me at it, I’m sure.” 

You raise your eyebrows, “You were a Captain?” 

“I was a Major, lass.” He says with a bit of a puffed chest, “Got promoted after the war. Not that I took it well at the time.” 

“Because of your team?”

“Guilt has a knack of blinding you. Almost court martialed my way right out of the military.” John’s eyes take on that distant look again, “I was well on the way to self-destruction when I lost them, survivor’s guilt and all. Thankfully some rookie with the CIA saw my shit for what it was and helped me through it. I owe her a lot, that one.” 

He keeps talking, pointing to the man in a bucket hat holding a cigar, “That was my Captain, John Price. Took me under his wing and taught me everything I know. Started seein’ him as a dad in a way. I lost him once when the bastard stayed behind on an op and got himself captured. Lost him again right after I got him back. Saved my life more times than I can count.

“And then there’s me.” He finishes, sitting back against the couch, “Task Force 141.” 

“So Roach and Ghost.” You say, “Did John Price have a callsign?”

“Just Price.”

“What about you?”

He grins, eyes bright, “Mine was Soap.” 

“Soap?” You give him a look, “Why Soap?”

“That’s a story for a different day.” He laughs a little, “My team gave me shit for it when we first got together, but then Roach came around and there was someone new to pick on.” 

“They sound good.” You say softly. 

“They were.” His voice is just as soft, “Much better than me.” 

“So I’ve determined,” You say, closing the album, “that you were not a saint.” 

He frowns good-naturedly, “On what grounds?” 

“The haircut, alone.” You shrug, “But it’s also your eyes.”

“My eyes.”

“They’re just unnaturally blue.” You say staring at them without paying much attention to the way that you are, “You flash those at anyone and they’re doomed.” 

“Even you?” He asks, eyes widening slightly like he hadn’t meant for the words to slip out. 

“Yeah,” You say, fingers digging into the edge of the couch, “even me.” 

You stare at each other for a long moment, the air thickening in your lungs. Those blue eyes you’d just teased him about are on you, boring into your own like they were searching for something. Every detail about him sharpens, the slow rise and fall of his chest, the flex of his jaw, bob of his throat when he swallows. You know you should look away, laugh it off, but you can’t bring yourself to end the way he seems to drink you in. 

You want him to swallow you whole. To consume you until you were inside of him. Until he was inside you. 

John shifts, leaning away like he was about to break you both out of whatever you’d fallen into, when his hand comes to rest over yours. His fingers brush against the back of your hand, the feel of them shooting up your arm like a static shock. He lets out a shuttering, quiet breath. 

His eyes flick down to your mouth, and something hot and forbidden curls low in your gut, slicing as sharp as a knife. Your thighs press together at the feeling as you start to lean toward him, your body seemingly moving on its own accord. 

But John seems to realize the trajectory you both were on, because he clears his throat and shoots to his feet, snatching the album off your lap, “So there, uh, there ye have it. Younger MacTavish.” 

“MacTavish.” You say, voice a little breathy, “Well, thanks for having dinner with me, John MacTavish.” 

He looks down at you, face unreadable, stiff as a board, “And thank you for letting an old man reminisce. ‘Bout all I’m good for these days. Nothin’ more.”

You’re not sure if he’s trying to allude to whatever had just happened between you, but you get the hint anyway. Rising to your feet, you know your face is neon red as you say, “Goodnight, John.”

“Night.” He says quietly, but just before you reach the door, he calls your name. You turn back to him, “Yer boyfriend’s missin’ out. Was some good cooking.” 

“Thank you.” You say, and step through the door.

---

“You’re a fucking bitch!” 

You stand your ground, pointing to the door, “Okay, asshole, get the fuck out of my apartment, then!” 

Your boyfriend, or ex boyfriend rather, laughs, “Jesus Christ, you’re pathetic, you know that? Thanks for wasting my fucking time. Over fucking nothing.”

“Get over yourself.” You say, crossing your arms, “You cheated on me and somehow that’s nothing?”

“You don’t put out!”

“Maybe because you don’t make it worth the time and effort.” You say back, trying to push down the angry tears that burned in the back of your throat. 

The woman he cheated on you with, younger and more attractive maybe, had maliciously sent you a photo of them together, just to rub it in your face. Or rather, it was a selfie of him fucking her from behind, which really sealed the deal that he was cheating. You’d half suspected it but didn’t want to believe it, not that he was anything to write home about, really. He’d made you happy in the beginning, and that’s probably what made you stay when things started going south. 

“Fuck you, you think you’re some prize?” He scoffs, “I could have a better fuck with a silicone doll. You just lay there, it’s fucking boring. You’re boring.” 

You swallow hard, your hands balling into fists at your side, but you stay quiet. You won’t deign him with the outburst you know he wants. 

“All you have is a nice body, but that’s about it. Should be good for sex, but you can’t even do that.” He continues, a smug smile on his face, “That’s why I had to go find someone else. She’s younger than you, face is better, fucks me the way I want, tighter—”

“Then why not just dump me?” You snap, cutting off all the things you apparently weren’t good for, “If she’s so much better, why not just go be with her?”

“Because, baby,” He gives you a mock innocent look, “being with you gives me a good reputation. Makes me look like I have my shit together.”

You laugh, “Do you even hear yourself? You basically just admitted you’d rather have good pussy than personality.”

“Not like you have either.” 

“Oh fuck you!” You shout at him, pointing to the door again, “Get the fuck out of my apartment and go be with your fucking side piece. Let her fake her orgasms, cause I’m fucking done.” 

“She doesn’t fake them.” He says defensively. 

“Cool, keep telling yourself that.” You sneer, pointing to the door, “Now get out. We’re done.” 

“Whatever, good luck finding someone who wants to put up with you. You just cling and cling, but you can’t seem to put any effort into what I want.” 

“Please leave.” You whisper, lip quivering when he turns around. You’re ripping open the sliding door of your balcony even before he’s slamming the front door closed, letting out a pitiful sob as you do. 

Tears start flowing and they won’t stop, soaking your palms as you press them to your face. It’s ridiculous, really, because you know deep down what your ex boyfriend said wasn’t true, but it still cuts sharp nonetheless. Growing up, you’d always been self conscious not only of your body, but social interactions as well. You did what you could to fit in with the right crowd, molding yourself into the type of people they seemed to want to be around, never doing something you could be criticized for, even if it was in good fun. Being teased or made fun of made you want to crawl in bed and never leave. 

So for someone you considered to be close to to tell you how insignificant you were, how boring, how no one would want you, it only dredged up the inky black feeling of your youth. 

“You alright?” 

You jump at the sound of John’s deep voice, quickly wiping your eyes and face, and find it ridiculous that you’d forgotten how often he frequents his balcony when you ran out there. You sniffle, trying to compose yourself like you hadn’t just been snotting all over your hands, lest he think you’re just as pitiful as your ex did.

You’re not sure why you care, but the thought of John, the gentle giant, intimidating and inviting all at the same time, thinking that you weren’t good enough makes your chest heavy. Perhaps because he’d been one of the only ones who had never made you feel out of place. 

He’s got his feet kicked up on the patio table, beer gripped loosely in his fingers. Empty bottles litter the deck at his feet, full ones stuffed into an icebox on his right. Somehow, his attention on you instead of his own peace made you feel worse, “Yeah. He’s just an asshole.”

“Keep tellin’ ye tha’.” He rises to his feet, grabbing a beer out of the icebox, and pads barefoot across his balcony. Coming to a rest with his forearms against the railing closest to you, he holds the bottle out to you, across the expanse of open air, “Dinnae waste yer tears over him, lass. Fucker wouldn’t know a good thing if it slapped him in the face, which,” He lifts his eyebrows, scar pulling, “it shoulda.” 

You huff a soft laugh, hesitantly shuffling over to your railing, reaching out on your tip toes to take the beer from him. Looking over at him, you twist the cap off and tip it toward him in thanks, his blue eyes holding yours with that intensity that always made you shiver. 

“Guess that means I’m just the boring person he said I am.” You say pitifully, “Bland, not exciting me.” 

John shrugs, “Boring’s not bad, lass.”

“Says who?”

“Me, just now.”

You take another drink, “No offense, John, but people my age want exciting.”

“In case ye forget the photos, I was yer age once, doll, and I’m tellin’ ye, it’s overrated.” John follows your lead, tipping the bottle to his lips, “Woulda killed fer a girl like you te come home to.” 

“A clinger?” You ask with the slightest sneer at your own expense. 

“Aye.” John says with a nod, “Knowin’ my girl was home waitin’ fer me, excited te jus’ spend time with me, somethin’ soft an’ all mine…maybe could’ve saved me.” 

“Saved you from what?” 

John looks at you for the length of another heartbeat, before taking another drink, “Ah. I may be drunk, doll, but I’m no’ drunk enough fer tha’. ‘Sides, we’re talkin’ about you and yer shit taste in men.” 

“And you’re any better?” You joke, enjoying the way it makes his lips quiver.

“I prefer women, myself.”

You snort, hissing when beer just barely syphons up your nose, “God, men really don’t lose the smartassness in their old age, do they?”

“Old age?” A grin splits his face this time, revealing the whites of his teeth and dimpling his cheeks, and something in your stomach flutters, “Fuck me, now I know how Price felt. Fuckin’ kids.”

You drain your beer only for John to wander back to his icebox and bring you another, “Hey I may be half your age, but I’m not a kid.”

John hums, taking a drink, and you feel yourself flush as his eyes rove down your body and back up to meet yours, practically glowing in the waning light, “No you are not.” 

A sharp thrill slices through your chest and down into your stomach, ending right between your legs, and it takes everything in you not to look away. Your fingers tighten around the bottle and you tip it to your lips, desperate to stop the heat crawling up your spine. 

“In all seriousness.” John says, having turned his intensity out on the river, “Tha’ jackass was wrong about everythin’ he said. Guys like him, they never grow up, they call a woman boring cause she’s good to ‘em. They’ll never find what they’re lookin’ for cause they’ll never settle. You,” He tips his beer in your direction, “will find the righ’ man, cause ye have a good head on yer shoulders. An’ I meant what I said, boring isn’t bad, no’ that I think ye are.”

“I take it you like boring, then?” You ask, squinting at the light breeze that had picked up, and find yourself smiling about the fact that his Scottish accent is thicker with his waning sobriety. 

“Very much.” 

“Why? You seem like you used to be pretty exciting. No offense.” 

He shoots you a look and curses under his breath, “Guess ye could say tha’. An’ it’s precisely because I was that I can tell ye a little calm can do wonders. Havin’ a little peace, some quiet, bein’ able te turn yer brain off with someone…wouldae saved me a lotta trouble when I was blamin’ myself for my team’s deaths. Would save me a lot now, too. Sometimes I think about y—” 

He cuts himself off with a little shake of his head, then pushes himself off the rail, “Fuck me. Looks like I better turn in fer the nigh’. Ye got me nearly spillin’ my secrets.” 

“Cant have that.” You say with a smile, ignoring the disappointment that your chat was over. 

“No.” John grins, “Mighta said somethin’ about you if I kept going.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, “Give me a hint?”

He sighs, closing his eyes like he’d just ran a marathon. Then he opens them and looks right at you, “Hint is, I used to love lookin’ at the river out’ere.” 

You frown in confusion. 

“Stopped lookin’ at it a few months ago.” He says, and then disappears into his apartment. 

It hits you, exactly what he means, having been his neighbor for only a few months. You smile to yourself, looking down at the ground below as something warm and giddy fills your chest. You know you shouldn’t entertain it, shouldn’t give it anymore life than you already have, but the alcohol in your system tells you it’s ok, just for tonight. Just until you get over your ex. 

Just for tonight. 

---

Fuck. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. 

Motherfuck. 

What the fuck was he thinking? 

John had always prided himself on being smart. Even the hairbrained, idiotic decisions he’d made in his youth, the ones that earned him a reckless reputation, had been made with careful calculation. Nothing he did was ever without thought, without consideration for the aftershocks. 

Until tonight, until he’d let the alcohol and his own weakness get to him. He shouldn’t have said what he did, shouldn’t have entertained where the conversation had gone, shouldn’t have let himself get to this point. 

He was older than you by at least twenty years, if not more. Old enough to be your father. Old enough to know better. 

But fuck, were you the prettiest goddamn thing he’d seen in a while, with a heart just as pure. You’d waltzed right out onto that balcony for the first time, smiled and said hello, and he found himself unable to look away. Bright eyes, smooth skin, soft lips, a body he’d kill over. What he wouldn’t do to be in his prime again, in the height of his career, to at least have the chance to run his calloused hands over your curves, tongue leaving wet trails in its wake as his teeth nipped marks into your skin. Anything to be able to hear the noises he could coax from you, the noises he knew would sound just as pretty as he imagined. 

That’s the thing, though, he shouldn’t be imagining any of it. Not for you. Shouldn’t care that your prick of a boyfriend finally dumped you. Shouldn’t care about the shitty things he’d said about you. Shouldn’t care about the way it’d made you cry. 

And he absolutely should not be flat on his back in bed, fingers wrapped around his cock, jerking himself off to the thought of your pretty lips wrapped around it. He can practically feel the warmth of your mouth, see your eyes looking up at him, hear your gags as he sinks into your throat. 

He fists his cock tighter, groaning softly at the pressure, and quickens his pace. His hips lift slightly, thighs tightening, a sweat breaking out on his brow. Heat blooms across his skin, furling into his gut, tightening his balls.  

Your eyes are still on his in his head, cheeks puffed around his cock. Saliva drips down the length of him when he pulls out of your mouth, then pulls your head back down onto him, your moan filthy when he hits the back of your throat— 

“Fuck.” He hisses, hips lifting off the bed as a rope of come covers his fingers, spattering over his lower stomach. The pleasure is blinding, locking up the muscles in his thighs as his cock continues to jerk in his hand, emptying his shame right there for him to see. 

He’s disgusted with himself when he cleans up, setting the stream of water in the shower to freezing. It stings wherever it touches, turning his skin red, and does little to quell the guilt in his head. 

You’d only ever been kind to him, the only person who’d asked him how he was doing, if he was okay, since being forced to retire from the career he’d loved. You were all innocence, treating him like a normal person, being neighborly, only to have him take it for more than it was. An old man lusting after a young woman. 

He can’t help but wonder how appalled you’d be if you knew. 

---

You’d lost count of how many times you made yourself come since the other night, since John had basically admitted to looking at you, and every time had been to fantasies of him. 

Fucking you, face-fucking you, eating you out, fingers buried in your pussy, deep voice whispering every dirty thing you could imagine in your ear. It didn’t matter that he was older anymore, because when you thought about it, you imagined that with his age came experience. And being that he used to be in the military, when he was younger and objectively more attractive, he had to have gained that experience. 

Because the John you knew was a complete and utter smoke show. 

The problem was, since the night on the balcony, he hadn’t come back out. To be honest, you’d been too shy to sit out there the day after, but when you’d gathered the courage and opened the door the next day, John wasn’t there. Not that day, or the next, or the next. 

He wasn’t at the gym. 

Hadn’t been loitering outside. 

Hadn’t been seen at all. 

As you mix a drink with the leftover alcohol in your freezer, you hope to make yourself feel a bit more happy, and a bit less like you’d lost something special. 

Just a few wouldn’t hurt. 

---

John is, once again, sulking on his couch when there’s a knock at his front door. When he opens it, he finds you leaning against the frame, cheeks ruddy, eyes glassy and half lidded. 

“John.” You say. 

“Lass.”

“Can I come in?”

He eyes your quivering legs, “For?”

“Company.” You say, then push past him like you own the place. You stumble over to the couch, collapsing into it with a pleased sigh, “You’ve been avoiding me, John, it’s lonely without you.”

“Have you been drinking?” He asks, which is a stupid question because he can smell it, can see it with your fumbling limbs, hear it with your slurred speech.

“Mhm.” You grin, “‘S’not very fun by myself. You wanna have some with me?”

“I’ll drink some water with you.” 

You make a fake gagging noise, “That’s no fun, John.” 

“Thought we established that I like boring.”

“So you like me then.” 

He clenches his jaw tight, watching the way your eyes fall to his, the wide-open look on your face surprisingly telling him you’re trying to tread into dangerous waters, “I like you just fine.” 

“But you also like me.” You say, rocking to your feet to cross the distance he’d put between the two of you, “You said so.”

“If I said something that made you think—”

“You look at me, that’s what you said.” You say, peering up at him, “I can see it too, you know. When you do.”

He swallows hard, breath getting clogged in his lungs, “It’s not meant any certain way, lass.”

“Bullshit, John.” Your hands brush against his sides as you press yourself to the front of him, “You want me just as much as I want you.” 

“I don’t.” It’s a lie and he knows it as he grabs your arms, trying to step away, “And you don’t. You’re drunk.”

“You can’t tell me you don’t want it.” 

“I am twice your age.” He says through his teeth. 

“So?”

“So?” He asks incredulously, “I could be your father, lass.”

“But you’re not. You’re my neighbor.” You step into him again, angling your head toward his, “Look me in the eye and tell me you haven’t thought about me.” 

Your hands smooth up his back, his head swimming with how close your lips are to his, breath labored at the feel of you in his arms, “Fuckin’—of course I have, lass. I’m not blind. But wanting and taking are two very different things.”

“They don’t need to be.” You breathe, eyes on his mouth.

“Yes they do.” His chest feels like it’s about to seize, your hands burning where they touch him, “Especially right now. I will not put you in any sort of position when you’ve been drinking.”

“Why?” 

“Because you’re not thinking straight.” His hands wrap around your upper arms, “I can’t do that to you. I won’t.”

“I want it, John.” You say softly, “I want you.”

He closes his eyes to block out your face, the pleading expression, to tamp down the fire in his veins, “Lass…” 

“Please.” 

“I—” 

He gasps when your hand cups between his legs, pressing against his half-hard cock through his sweatpants, your touch jolting his entire body. A groan leaves him before he can stop it, and before his senses even have a chance to return, his hand is winding in your hair, pulling you forward into his open mouth. 

You moan into it when his tongue finds yours, your hands balling in his shirt. His arm slides around your waist, pulling you in to grind his erection against you. 

Your lips are soft but searing as they hungrily take his, your tongue sweeping over his with the taste of whatever alcohol you’d been drinking. You bite his lower lip roughly, fingernails digging into his back.

“John.” You breathe against him. 

He groans again, a breath shuttering out of him as his hands trail down your back and over your ass, lifting you to his height. Your legs wrap around his waist, and you gasp when the head of his cock nudges against your thinly-clothed pussy. 

The kiss doesn’t break even as he carries you into his bedroom, not until he lays you down, hovers over you for only a moment before tearing himself away. You gaze up at him with dazed eyes, and he swears at himself, whether it’s for the sin of losing control and kissing you, or for what he’s forcing himself to do, he’s not sure. 

Either way, he smooths the hair out of your face and pulls the covers up over you, saying, “Go to sleep, lass.”

“What?” Disappointment washes over your face. 

“You’re drunk.” He says again.

“At least stay.”

“No.” He pulls his hand out of yours, “Because if I stay, I can’t promise I’ll keep my word.” 

“You don’t need to.” 

“I won’t do something you’ll regret in the morning.” He pauses in the doorway, door half closed, “I’ll be out here if you need anything.” 

“Okay.” You mumble, and roll over. 

He comes in the bathroom toilet, to the feel of your lips on his, the way you’d tasted, the way you’d sounded. 

And as he rests his forehead against the wall, chest heaving, remembering the way you’d felt in his arms, he’s not sure what is even right and wrong anymore. 

---

You’re pretty sure it’s the headache that wakes you, blinking blearily up at your ceiling as nausea rolls in your stomach. You hadn’t meant to drink as much as you did, but feeling like you’d done something wrong with John had left you wallowing in self pity. 

Two drinks had turned to four, and suddenly you’d lost count. The last thing you truly remembered was watching tv, running your last conversation with John over and over again in your head. 

You roll over and groan as everything spins, but just as you do, you catch a whiff of a smell that’s completely out of place in your room. Not only that, but your bed felt unfamiliar and more solid, blankets a little thinner. Were you still drunk? 

You open your eyes and look around for real this time, stomach dropping when you don’t find the sight of your room at all. Rather, it’s dark with blackout curtains, the little bit of light seeping out the bottom illuminating a tidy space. 

There’s a lamp at your bedside that you flick on, revealing a larger bed than yours, with navy blue bedding, a dresser on the opposite wall with a mirror over it, and a hamper next to that. 

The blankets fall away from you, exposing your naked torso, and you pull them back up upon the realization that you were fully nude underneath. There’s no one in bed next to you, no one else in the room with you even, to tell you where you were. 

What the fuck had you done? 

Your clothes lay in a heap next to the bed, and you quickly pull them on as the smell of breakfast starts to waft underneath the door. Apprehension mixes sickly with the leftover alcohol, your pulse spiking at the thought of having to face whoever you’d just had a one night stand with. 

Taking a deep breath, you rip the bandaid off and swing the door open—

To find John standing at the stove, back turned to you, cooking something in a pan. The air gets sucked from your lungs in an instant, the room tilting, like you were floating in the vacuum of space. 

John? 

John MacTavish? 

You’d had sex with John and couldn’t remember it? 

Your eyes flick to the hallway where the front door was, trying to gauge if you could make it without him seeing you, when he says, “I heard you open the door, lass, if you’re thinking about sneaking off on me.”

“I…wasn’t.” You say, standing awkwardly in the doorway to his bedroom. 

He glances over his shoulder, then motions to the couch with his spatula, “Sit, I have breakfast for you.”

“You didn’t need to make me breakfast.” You say quietly, but sit on the couch like he’d instructed. 

He huffs a laugh, setting a plate of bacon, eggs, and toast in front of you, “Something tells me you need a little something in your stomach.”

“Thank you.” You say, looking at him, and then quickly away as you begin to nibble on your food. You both eat in silence, seated at opposite ends of the couch, until the food soaks up enough alcohol in your system to take the edge of nausea off. 

You stare at the plate, John’s silence deafening in your ears, “John.”

“Lass.”

“Did we, um…” You glance at him, tilting your head to suggest the rest of the sentence. 

“No.” 

“My clothes were off.” 

His eyes flick to yours, earnestly blue as he says, “If they were, it wasn’t my doing. You were fully clothed when I put you in bed.”  

“How did I end up here?” You ask, believing him without a second thought. Mostly because you were known to strip when you got drunk, but also because the look on his face left no room for doubt. 

At least you hadn’t had a night with him and not remembered it. 

“You knocked,” He says, setting down his plate, “propositioned me, very persistently.” 

“Oh God.” You cover your face, heat furling under your skin, “Oh my God, John, I am so sorry.” 

“‘S’alright, lass.” He says with a small smile, “We’ve all been there.”

“I…I should know better than that, though.” You feel angry tears burning in the back of your throat, “That’s, so inappropriate on my part.” 

John surprises you by laughing softly, not an ounce of judgement anywhere on his face, “Only thing that’s inappropriate is that a lass like you thinks I’m worth sleeping with.” 

“You are, obviously.” You blurt, which only makes you wince, “Fuck. Sorry. I—I didn’t do anything dumb, did I? I really can’t remember.”

“Got a little handsy.” He says, and to your surprise, a blush creeps over his cheeks and into his ears, “We, uh, maybe kissed.” 

You suck in a breath, thighs pressing together at the clench of your pussy. 

“And that,” He doesn’t look at you, “may have been my fault.” 

“Oh.” You whisper, surprised at the admission. 

“I…won’t lie to you, lass.” He sighs, resignation on his face, “I think about you more than I should, in ways I shouldn’t.” 

“Same here…obviously.” You wince, the fact that you were even sitting there is proof, “Thought I was just being delusional that you’d even look at me.”

“Aye, well, feeling’s mutual then.” He shifts, scrubbing a hand over his chin, “And it…needs to stop.” 

Your eyes linger on his, static fizzing in the space between you, “Says who?”

“Me.” He turns to face you, “You and I can’t have what you asked me for last night, and I’m sorry if I’ve lead you to believe otherwise.” 

“But why?” You ask, shoulders aching with the embarrassment of rejection from something you hadn’t even planned to pursue. Now that it was out in the open, though, you stood your ground, “Explain it to me, John. Is it embarrassment?”

“Embarrassment?” He scoffs, “You think I’d be embarrassed of you?” 

“Kind of seems that way, yeah.”

“I would never.” He says, “But, lass, I’m an old man, I’ve got more years behind me than I have left. I can’t give you what you think you want. You’re young, you’ve got your whole life ahead of you. You could have anyone you want. Dinnae waste it on me.”

“Don’t I get to decide who I want, then?” You demand, “If I could have anyone, I’d have you.”

“You candecide that all you want, but that doesnae mean I should let it happen. A man my age with a lass yours, people’d talk, about me, about you—”

“I don’t care.”

“Maybe not now, but one day you might, and I’d be the bastard who let it happen.”

“I’d never blame you for a choice that was mine.” You poke a finger into your chest, “Tell me I’m wrong, John. Tell me you don’t feel anything.”

He shakes his head, but says, “Why, then, lass? Why me? If you could have anyone, why would you want some washed-up old man who still can’t figure out how to cope with the fact that he is?”

“Because you’re—” You throw up your hands, “You’re you, John. You’re gentle, and you’re kind, and you make me feel comfortable. And I think I do the same for you. I also think you’ve been alone for longer than you like to admit, and you’ve let yourself believe that you’re fine with that. You’ve let yourself believe that you don’t deserve to be happy.” 

“I don’t.”

“You do.” 

“What makes you so sure, then?”

You shift closer to him, “Because I saw how much you loved your team, the ones you told me about.”

He frowns, shooting you a look of confusion with a little shake of his head.  

“The way you spoke about them, it made it seem like they were good people.”

“They were.”

“Then they loved you. They wouldn’t want to see you beating yourself up all these years later.” You cover his hand with yours. 

“You dinnae—” He squeezes his eyes shut, “They died on my watch.”

“Doing exactly what they wanted to be doing, right?” You ask, watching his eyes flutter. 

“Aye.” 

You brush your thumb over the back of his hand, “Even if I’m not the one who’s going to make you happy, John, because I understand that we are very different ages, you need to stop depriving yourself. You can be happy and still mourn your friends.”

“It’s not about my team or my feelings!” He says, voice cracking, blue eyes softening, “It’s about not taking advantage of you.”

“I am plenty old enough to know what’s best for me.” You try to pour every ounce of honesty you have in you, “It’s not taking advantage when I want it. Unless you truly don’t, in which case, it’d be me taking advantage of you.” 

He stares at you, eyes boring into yours, for so long you’re not sure if it’s a hint to leave or not. But then he sighs, his head falling back onto the couch to say, “You say all that and then act like I wouldn’t want anything to do with you.” 

“Then stop acting like I’m some mistake waiting to happen, or that you’ll somehow ruin my life. If you want me, say it. If you don’t, I’ll walk away right now. But don’t keep sitting there pretending I don’t know myself.”

“It’s a moral thing.” He sighs, scrubbing his face in frustration again, “Last night. I could have done what you wanted. I could have taken you to bed and fucked you and had been done with it. But what kind of man would I be after that?”

“But you didn’t.” You say quietly. 

“Aye. So now what? I could still do it if you asked, now that you’re sober.” His eyes slide over to you, head still tipped back against the couch, “I could stop pretending as you say, and fuck you the way I’ve been imagining every single night since I met you. But how many years is too many? Twenty? Ten? I’m old enough to be your father, lass. Morally, how do I let myself look past that?”

“Because I’m not a child.” Your hand slides to grip his wrist, watching his resolve slipping, “I want you. You want me. Why does there have to be a moral standard when we have the same goal?”

“I don’t want to ruin you.” He whispers. 

“I’m not afraid of you, John. I think I know right from wrong.” You lean closer, “And if you’re wrong, there is no right.” 

The hand not trapped under yours reaches out, gripping your other wrist to pull you forward into his lap, thighs landing on either side of him. His head is still on the back of the couch, but his chest is rising and falling harshly, his hands resting on your hips to burn into your flesh. 

“You’re sure?” He asks, eyes turning to a depth of blue you’d never seen, “Because if you’re not one hundred percent on board, I need you to leave.” 

You can’t quite believe when your hands glide up his chest, to his neck, coming to cup his jaw between your fingers, “You couldn’t get me to leave even if you wanted to.” 

“Promise me.” He says, shifting underneath you, “Look me in my eyes and promise me you won’t regret this.” 

“Only if you do the same.”

“I promise.” His hand slides up your back.

You let out an unbelieving breath, “I promise, John.” 

And then he’s pulling you down to his mouth, his hand tight at the back of your neck, and you think you must be dreaming when his full lips crush to yours. He tastes and smells exactly like you’d fantasized, but better, distinctly him. His tongue sweeps over your bottom lip before pushing through to meet your own, and when it does, the groan he lets out is straight from your fantasies. 

“You don’t know how long I’ve thought about this.” He breathes, moving his mouth to nip at your ear and then trail down your neck, “How long I’ve wanted you.” 

“I think I can imagine.” You say, lifting your arms so he can push your shirt up and over your head. Drunk you really had come here for one purpose and one purpose only, because you aren’t wearing a bra, your bare tits hanging right in his face, “Probably as long as I have.” 

The light stubble on his jaw scratches your breast when he sucks a nipple into his mouth, tongue rolling it against his upper teeth and then lapping up the bite. Your thighs squeeze around him, a breathy noise leaving your lungs, and his cock throbbing beneath you goes straight to your pussy. 

“Always out there in those short fuckin’ shorts.” He continues, his nose skimming across your cleavage as he switches breasts. 

“Almost like it was on purpose.”

“Left nothin’ te the imagination. Couldnae catch a break.” 

You hum with a pleased rock of your hips up the length of his cock, feeling him shutter underneath you, “Big talk for a guy who wears the tightest shirt he owns to the gym.” 

“Do ye not know what a compression shirt is?”

“Oh I do,” You grin, pulling his head back to lean down and kiss him, “I spent an extensive amount of time looking at yours.” 

“Ah, so you admit coming to torture me in the gym was all a ploy.” 

“What can I say, I’m a little spoiled.” You shift back on his thighs, sliding a hand down his sweats to wrap it around his swollen cock, “I always get want I want.” 

“Hah, fuck.” He breathes, spreading his legs a little wider, “And I want to give it to you.” 

You tighten your hold on him, giving him a few light strokes, “Do you?”

“Yes.”

“What if I want to have my way with you?”

His hand wraps around your wrist, tight enough to still your strokes. His eyes blaze as he ghosts his mouth along your jaw, breath shivering down your neck, “Then use me any way you please, doll. But don’t think for one second I won’t take just as much from you in return.” 

“Is that a promise?”

He answers with another press of his lips to yours, rolling his hips up into your hand, fucking himself ito your fist. But you can’t have that, you’re supposed to having your turn with him, so you break the kiss to his dismay, and shimmy off his lap. 

You find the band of his sweats and pull, his hips lifting enough for you to get them off of him, and then he groans when you sink down to your knees in front of him. Your hands curve over his knees, sliding up his thighs, and then back down, gently spreading them wide for you to settle between. 

His cock is easily the biggest you’d seen in person, not only in length but girth. Your pussy clenches at the sight of it, at the thought that you somehow had to make it fit.

“For an old man, you sure have a big dick, John.”

“Takin’ that as a compliment.”

“You should.”

Wasting no time, you dip your head, running your tongue up his balls, along his shaft, right to the tip of his head. His thighs flex under your hands, and he lets out a little breath when you lick at his slit, lapping up the precum that had started leaking from it. It dips down just slightly, flicking at the divot the lip of his head made, curling around the underside of it. 

“Oh my fuckin’—” John’s breath stutters, head falling back before tipping down to touch his chest, “Dinnae stop, lass.” 

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Johnny.” You say sweetly, and he’s gasping even before you sink your head down onto his big cock. 

“G-good girl, take it nice an’ slow, just like tha’.” 

The sound of his breathy voice, of his praise and instruction, goes straight through you, your hands gripping his hips as you do just as he says. You take him inch by inch, bobbing your head and pushing him further and further into your mouth. You let go of a hip to stroke him as you do, synching your movements with each other. 

John moans quietly, his fingers threading through the hair at the top of your head. He gathers it around all sides, balling it up into a pile he fists, pulling tightly in some places. You flick your eyes up to his, pleased to find that he’s gazing back, mouth slack and breathing labored. 

“Gorgeous.” He murmurs, and you preen at the endearment. 

Looking away to focus on the task at hand, you sink down until he hits the back of your throat, jaw open wide. You gag when you swallow him deeper, throat protesting the stretch of his cock, but the guttural sound he makes when you take him make it all worth it. 

You moan around another gag, the vibration pulling another curse out of him. You still haven’t swallowed him down completely, trying to bob your head again for more momentum. Saliva drips down your chin onto John’s body, tears pouring from your eyes to mix with it. Your entire body convulses with every gag, but you fucking love it, love the way he’s tensing and intending under your hands.  

“Fuck, come on doll,” John’s all but whimpering, filling you with something hot and sweet and obsessive that you had him a mess at your mercy, “you can take more. Take the whole thing.” 

You nod, looking back up to meet his eyes again, take a deep breath, and force him further down your throat. His hips involuntarily buck, and you find your nose burying itself into the trim, dark hair at the base of his cock. 

“Fuck.” John grunts, body jolting as you bob your head some more. His free hand palms the back of your neck, fingers wrapping around to the front, bulging with the intrusion of his cock, “Can feel myself in yer throat.” He says, almost awestruck, “So fuckin’ hot, bonnie.” 

You moan, eyes rolling, and shove a hand down your shorts to circle your clit, to ease some of the ache of your own arousal. 

“Touchin’ yerself, hen?” John asks, fingers tightening around your throat, making you gag again. 

“Mhm.” You moan, more saliva dripping down your chin, red-rimmed watery eyes peering up at him. 

“You keep lookin’ at me like that and I’m gonna lose it.” He gasps, “Paint that pretty throat of yours.” 

You pull off of him, gasping for breath, chest heaving, and wipe your face, “Paint it all you like, Johnny. I’ll take every drop.”

“Fuckin’ minx.” He sighs, grunting as you dive back in, slicking his cock with more saliva. You blow him messy and eager, tongue curling, lips swollen and slick as you hollow your cheeks and suck. The couch creaks as his thighs spread wider, as his hand tightening in your hair, guiding you in shallow thrusts he couldn’t hold back anymore, “That’s right, lass, just like that. Milk my fucking cock, I’ll give you every drop you ask for.”

His hips jerk up into your mouth, cock pulsing, as you swallow him deep. Your nose brushes his skin, throat convulsing around the thick length stuffing your mouth. His fist tightens in your hair, the other clenching white-knuckled on the couch cushion, looking torn between pulling you off and keeping you held there.

You pull back just enough to swirl your tongue around his tip, lapping up the steady stream of precum before swallowing him again, fast and hungry. Drool slides down your chin, dripping onto your tits, slicking your hand when you pump him faster. 

He’s gasping for breath, voice cracking through as his restraint crumbles, “Fuuuck I’m there, lass, gonna come—” His voice cracks into a ragged growl, his hips bucking helplessly as he shoves himself in deep. Hot, thick ropes of come spill down your throat, each pulse making him curse louder, “Tha’s righ’, take it, lass. Fuck, l—good girl, just like tha’, swallow it.” 

You gag but swallow everything he gives you, throat milking him through every spasm, your eyes watering as he throbs hot and heavy against your tongue. When he finally sags back against the couch, chest heaving, you let him slip from your mouth, come and spit smeared across your lips.

John looks down at you, sweat glistening at his temples, his cock still twitching against his stomach. The sight of you on your knees, lips swollen and glossy, his come dripping down your chin, has him smirking, “How’s breakfast? I made it special fer ye.”

“Best I ever had.” You pant, grinning from ear to ear. 

“C’mere.” He says, and you go easily, settling comfortably into his lap, “You alrigh’?”

“Yeah.” You say, grin still curving your lips.

“Forgot I can get a little…worked up.” He says, and you imagined that if his face wasn’t already red, it’d be spreading like wildfire, “Hope I dinnae, say anythin’ outta line. I can also make myself be quiet if you prefer.” 

“You kidding?” You dart your tongue out to curl his lower lip between your teeth, tugging it before letting it go, “That was the hottest part. Please keep doing that.” 

“Not a lot of people have ever told me te keep talkin’.” His arms snake around your waist, “Somethin’ must really be wrong with you.” 

He doesn’t let you respond before he’s shifting, holding you tight to his body to push himself to his feet. You wrap your arms and legs around him, giggling as he caries you across the room, back into his bedroom. 

The sheets are still askew from where you’d slept as he lowers you down, persistent lips stealing the breath from your lungs. The feel of him pressing you down into the bed, his weight solid and grounding above you, is a welcomed comfort you never thought you’d get to have. 

“You had your fun.” He mumbles against your mouth, “Now I get to have mine.” 

He tears your shorts from around your legs, leaving you completely naked, and does the same with his own shirt, both of you in the throes of it all now. 

Your back sinks into the mattress when he pushes you up to the pillows, lowering himself to his stomach across his bed. He throws your thighs over his shoulders, humming to himself when he finally gazes down at your pussy. 

“God, you are divine, doll.” He breathes, pressing a kiss to each thigh, before spreading you apart with his tongue, licking a hot stripe up through your slit. 

You sigh, eyelids drooping, “Can I tell you a secret, John?”

“Aye, I do live a good secret.”

“Mm,” You let your head fall back in a momentary lapse, his tongue lapping slow lazy lines up and down your pussy, “No one’s ever made me come before.” 

John’s tongue freezes on your clit, eyes flicking up to yours. He finishes the flick of his tongue before curling it back into his mouth and cocking his head, “Excuse me?” 

“Just me, myself, and I.”

“What kind of fuckin’ scrotes do you keep shackin’ up with?” John scoffs, breath hot on your pussy, “Never had someone get ye off. That’s fuckin’ blasphemy.” 

You bite your lip, fingers threading through his hair, “Good thing you’re a saint then, right?” 

The smirk he gives you is devilish, “Something like that.” 

His tongue delves back in, tasting every drop of your arousal, “Sweetest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever had. How no one’s ever spent all night in this pussy is beyond me.” 

Your hips tilt into his face, a moan breaking free when he flattens his tongue and presses harder, lapping you up like a four course meal. His grip is iron on your thighs, holding you wide and still, his stubble scraping deliciously against your thighs as he drags his mouth over you.

“Oh, John.” You sigh, fingers tangling deeper into his hair, “Oh, fuck, right there.”

He groans into you, the sound filthy, sending shockwaves straight to your core. His tongue works in tight, expert circles around your clit before flicking it quick and sharp, over and over, until your legs tremble around his head. 

You cry out, back arching, as pleasure runs hot through your limbs. You grind your hips into his mouth, unable to stop the harsh breaths that are slowly ramping up in intensity. 

“Mm, tha’s it, angel,” John praises from between your legs, “Ride my face. Dinnae hold back on me.”

Before you can even think to respond, he latches onto your clit, sucking hard all while sliding two thick fingers inside you. The stretch makes you cry out, your nails digging into his scalp. He chuckles and curls them just right, tongue flicking mercilessly against your swollen bud. 

“John.” You plead, hands falling away to bunch in his sheets.

The grip on your thighs tightens, keeping you pinned as his tongue flicks faster, sharper, his fingers curling hard into that spot inside you. You’re moaning unabashedly, head grinding back against the pillows. The tension grows unbearable, white-hot and coiling, every sound spilling from your lips louder, higher, needier. Your nails dig crescents into your palms even through the sheets, your hips bucking helplessly into John’s face.

And the man is having the time of his life, groaning into you like he can’t get enough, like the taste of you was life everlasting. Every time you buck into his mouth, every helpless whimper, every stuttered breath, it only seems to spur him on more. 

His chin is soaked, jaw working rough and greedy against your pussy, and fuck—he was smiling. You could feel it against you, see it through the heat in his eyes.

Your thighs quiver violently around his head, your body coiling tight, ready to snap. He curls his fingers again, ruthless, grinding them against that tender spot inside until your back is arching again. 

His tongue continues its barrage on your clit in fast, merciless strokes, and you gasp in surprise as something even sharper flares under his tongue. 

Never. No one had ever been able to get you to come. Not even close. 

But even as the thought enters your head, your orgasm is tearing through you in waves, your body seizing and jerking against his face. 

John doesn’t stop, riding it with you, coaxing more, sucking hard enough to make your vision white out.

“John—ah, fuck, I can’t—” You gasp, voice cracking as tears prick your eyes, “John!” 

But he only moans low in his throat, greedily lapping at you like a man on a mission, and that mission was apparently getting you to come more than once. His tongue dives into your pussy and then trails up, one hand gripping a thigh to hold you in place, forcing you to take every second of it. 

There’s no teasing this time, no slow build, just a ruthless, wet suction on your clit as his fingers thrust deep, caressing that spot inside that makes stars burst behind your eyelids.  

“Okay, okay,” You whine, the overstimulation on your clit jolting your hips, “I came, John, you did it.”

“Can do it again.” He all but growls.

You cry out again, thighs clenching under his hands as a sob breaks from your chest, “John, please, I cant!” 

“Yes you can.” He says, dragging his tongue, “You’re gonna give me one more. Dinnae fight it, let me have one more.” 

His tongue dips down to delve into your hole, nose rubbing into your swollen clit. You’re a crying mess at his mercy, overstimulated but so turned on that it hurts. 

“Oh my God,” You whimper, the sharpness from before spreading up your thighs. You look down at him with wide, surprised eyes, “John. Fuck. John I’m gonna come again.”

He groans like you’d told him the sweetest secret, his eyes fluttering closed, and the vibration sends you hurtling into another climax. Your whole body jerks violently, your thighs clamping around his head and squeezing tight as your second orgasm grips you, hot and unrestrained.

But he doesn’t stop, his tongue and fingers working in sync, dragging another from you before the first had even ended. You were sobbing now, babbling nonsense around his name, tears slipping down your cheeks from the sheer intensity of everything. 

By the time he finally sits up, your thighs have gone slack, spread wide and twitching. Your pussy is swollen, glistening with his spit and your come, your entire body flushed and wrung out.

John gazes down at you in adoration, his mouth and chin utterly soaked, his hard cock bobbing from his arousal. He wipes his chin with the back of his hand, grinning darkly.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” He pants, voice rough with arousal, “I could spend all night listening to you, buried in that sweet cunt, lass. And I plan on doing just that.”

You can feel his cock laying warm and heavy against your stomach as he leans over you, covering your heated body with his. His lips kiss along your throat, up to your jaw, your ear. 

Your hands skim along his sides, wrapping around to his back to trace along old puckered scars. His teeth nip at your ear, and you throw a leg around his waist to pull him into you, “Come on, John.”

He laughs softly, lifting his hips to shove a hand between you. Rising up on his forearm to look down at you, his mouth goes slack when the head of his cock dips into you, teasing through your folds. 

“You need me to stop, you tell me to stop.” He breathes, giving you a peck. 

You nod, tensing when he pushes into you, stealing the air from your lungs, your mouth falling open on a gasp. The stretch is immediate, sharp and searing, your pussy clamping down on him as he inches forward. It’s too much, engulfing you completely, and yet it’s perfect.

A whine escapes from low in your throat when he pulls himself back just a little, before nudging back in, rocking his hips to bob his way further in. Your nails bite into his shoulders from where you cling to him, focusing on his steady breathing rather than the sting of fullness consuming every part of you. 

“Easy.” John says, the veins in his forearms standing out as he holds himself steady, “Relax for me, lass. Yer tight enough as it is.” 

You take a deep breath, swallowing the saliva building up in your mouth, “Keep talking to me.”

He hums, sinking deeper, “You like that, eh? The sound of my voice?”

You nod, tits brushing against his peppered chest with every breath, “Quite a bit, actually.”

“Tellin’ ye how tight you are?” Heat ignites, soothing around the pain of his size, “How good you feel? Cause fuck me, lass, this is the nicest fuckin’ pussy I’ve ever been inside.” 

“Oh.” You gasp, your pussy easing around him as he presses deeper, your body burning with the ache of it. Every inch feels endless, splitting you open, filling places you didn’t know could be filled. You whine again, the sting melting into pleasure until it’s all tangled together, “Keep going, fuck. Fuck, John.”

“Tha’s my girl,” His voice is rough in your ear, breath tickling its way down to your shoulder, “takin’ me so fuckin’ well. Deep breaths. Good. Good fuckin’ girl.”

When his hips finally press flush to yours, so full you could hardly breathe, the pleasure blooms hot and heady, rolling through you in waves. The pressure of his cock grinding deep makes your toes curl, your body already clenching hungrily around him. 

John stays still for a long moment, his cock pulsing inside you, letting your body adjust to the sheer size of him. His chest presses against yours, his breath ragged in your ear, “Alright?”

“Need you to move.” You say, kissing his shoulder, “Fuck me, John. I can take it.” 

“Damn right you can.” He says, easing back, dragging against every swollen nerve as he pulls almost out. And then he’s pushing back in, deeper, harder, the weight of him pressing your body into the mattress.

“Yes, John, just like that.” You say, glancing down to watch him do it again, to watch his cock sink back into you, until he’s setting a steady, brutal rhythm. Your eyes roll, body melting back against his bed as he pounds into you, unable to hold in the little “ah”s he coaxes out whenever he fills you.

“My…God—oh my God.” You pant, his hips stalling momentarily to grind into you, “You’re so fucking big, John.” 

“Ye like that, do you?” He tips his sweat-covered forehead to yours, “Like my big cock stretching open that tight little cunt?” 

“Can barely handle it.” 

“Mm, but you can.” His voice is like silk, “Yer gonna take every inch I give you.” 

“Give me all of it.” You beg, “Hard, John. Or are you too old for that?” 

His eyes darken at the challenge, a devilish smile curling over his lips, “You want, rough, lass?”

“Begging for it, Johnny.”

“And te think I almost made you leave.” He says, sitting up, gripping the backs of your knees in his hands, “Said I’d give you anythin’ ye wanted, didn’t I?”

He shoves your knees back to your head, until they were almost touching the mattress on either side of you, effectively folding you in half. You can feel yourself spread apart, leaving your pussy wide open, and John spits crudely into your hole before thrusting his cock in in one long stroke. 

You honest to God scream, barely able to catch your breath before he does it again—pulls all the way out, spits, and stuffs himself back inside. The suctioned noise of his cock filling your pussy is nothing short of obscene, along with the groans leaving John’s lips. 

His eyes are alight with something dark and triumphant when you let out a long, whining moan, his hips snapping harder and faster, every thrust deliberately angled, searching for the one spot he knew was there. 

He folds you further, the new angle making his cock slide even deeper, and finally, finally, the thick head of it hits that swollen sweet spot inside you.

You cry out, body jolting, as John grins in pride, rocking himself to nudge your g-spot repeatedly. Breath won’t come, your eyes rolling uncontrollably as pleasure locks up every muscle in your body. 

“R-right,” You stutter, chest heaving as you try to breathe, “right—”

“There?” John asks, hitting you just right again, and you choke out a grunt. 

You catch his gaze, staring up at him with a pout, nodding profusely as his cock continues to rub you, his head catching on your nerves with every thrust. Without breaking eye contact, he holds your leg back with his elbow while his thumb presses down on your clit, circling ruthlessly, the combination shoving you closer to the edge as he synchs his movements.

“Don’t stop.” Your voice quivers when you plead it, “Please. P-please don’t stop, John.”

He swallows audibly, sweat glistening across his chest, “Wouldn’t dream of it.” 

The pressure builds unbearably, your body straining underneath him, legs shaking when he slams into you again. The sound of your wet pussy taking him fills the room, mixing with the slap of his balls against your ass, hips against hips.

His cock drags against that spot again, relentless, until your vision blurs and you’re suddenly sobbing from the intensity.

“That’s it, lass,” John coaxes, his voice rough with pure hunger, “Come for me. Come on my cock. Show me how gorgeous you look.”

And that’s all you need, your orgasm whiting out the backs of your closed eyelids. Your pussy clamps down so hard it nearly forces him out, a scream shredding your throat as your body convulses, soaked pussy dripping onto the sheets. 

John groans deep and guttural, slamming into you harder, rocking your body, “Jesus, lass. Can feel ye coming.” 

He lets go of your legs to grip your hips, and you find yourself groaning from not only your orgasm, but the relief on your sore limbs as well. His grip on your hips is bruising, rough with his need to come now, dragging you onto him harder, chasing the pleasure you can see etching itself across his face. 

You can feel it in the way his cock swells, see it in the way his chest heaves over you, that he was close.

“Fuck, lass, I’m gonna—” He doesn’t finish before he cuts himself off with a moan nearly shouted, as he buries himself as deep as he can. He pins you on his cock, pulsing inside you, while his release hits him hard, hot streams of his come spilling deep, flooding your pussy until you feel it leak around the edges. 

The room falls silent when he’s finished, body twitching in your embrace, the only sound being the ragged breathing from both of you. John hasn’t pulled out yet, his cock still seated deep, slowly softening, and for a long moment neither of you move.

Then John lets out a long exhale, and presses a kiss to your damp temple, brushing the hair out of your face. His hand smoothes down your side, gentling over the redness his grip had left on your hips. 

“Dinnae mean to be so rough, lass,” He murmurs, frowning down at the marks on your skin, undoubtedly on their way to bruising, “Got a little carried away.”

You make a soft, weak sound, part laugh, part whimper, “Again, not very saint like.”

He chuckles quietly, the vibration rumbling against your own chest, before he eases himself out of you with a wince. His come leaks after him, and he swears under breath, watching it drip down to the crumpled sheets.

“Wait right here.” He says, rolling off the bed and disappearing into the bathroom. When he returns, he has a wet cloth in hand, and you reach out to take it from him. 

But he frowns, holding it out of reach, and spreads your legs. He wipes you down gently, paying careful attention to anywhere too tender, then helps you to your feet. You wobble when you attempt to stand for the first time, legs quivering like jello. You hadn’t realized just how much he’d taken out of you. 

Once he makes sure you’re not going to collapse on him, he peels away the spoiled sheets and throws them in the corner, pulling a fresh pair from the top shelf of his closet. You help him with the corners on one side, then throw the comforter over top. 

“So, uh, I guess…” You shrug, not sure where to go from there. You’d gone from neighbor forbidden to even think about doing anything, to fucked within an inch of your life, what’s the proper procedure? Are you supposed to leave now? 

John rounds the bed, eyebrows furrowed, “You guess?”

“Should I leave?”

His eyes widen by a fraction, searching yours intently, “Do you want to?”

“Do you want me to?” You ask, avoiding putting yourself in the position of giving an answer. 

“‘Course I don’t.” He says like it’s obvious, and relief floods through you, “I’d really like to hold ye after that.” 

“You would?” You don’t mean it to sound so relieved. 

His hand comes up to cradle the back of your neck, tucking your head underneath his chin, “Like I’d tell ye te fuckin’ leave, lass, Christ. That was the best sex I’ve had in my life, yer no’ gettin’ away tha’ easy.”

You laugh softly when you wrap your arms around him, “Your accent gets thick when you’re emotional.”

“Ach, bad habit.” 

He pulls you into bed, laying back against the pillows to tuck you against his side, head resting in the crook of his arm. Your fingers trace over the scars you’d felt earlier, listening to him tell you how, where, and with what he’d gotten them from. Gunshots, knife blades, burns, they made an uneven patchwork across his body. One that you wanted to spend hours studying. 

“John.”

“Lass.”

“Where do we go from here?” You look up at him, at the obvious difference in age weathering his face. 

He’s quiet for a moment, before his fingers trace along your arm, “For once in my life, I dinnae have an answer fer that.” 

“I guess,” You search for the right words, “I’m not asking for a solid relationship, John. I know the implications that could have for you. But I…really do like you. As a friend and…” Your face flushes, “The sex wasn’t half bad either.”

He scoffs. 

“So I guess, friends with benefits?” You suggest, waiting to see his walls go up as usual. 

But they don’t, they stay crumbled as he kisses you breathless before saying, “Dinnae think there needs te be any sorta label on it, lass. We are what we are.”

“I like that.” You rise up on your forearms to sprawl across his chest, kissing him back, “But for the record, they’re very good benefits.”

“Not so bad for an old man, aye?” He grins. 

You hum, throwing a leg over him to sit low on his hips, feeling smug when you feel his cock stir underneath you, “I don’t know if I got enough of a sample, John. Might have to try it a few more times before I can answer that.” 

He laughs, hands cupping your ass to squeeze, “Won’t be catchin’ a break with you, then.”

You grin and drag your already sore pussy over his swelling cock, “Not today, John MacTavish.” 

And you ride him until you see stars. 

Notes:

The thought of Silver Fox John MacTavish is just…mm. THE NEED.

If you saw this when I accidentally hit upload before fixing my format, no you didn’t 🙈😂

As always, I love you all and look forward to chatting!!