G’mornin, Bonnie. | John Soap Mactavish

G’mornin, bonnie. | john soap mactavish

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

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

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

You wake to something warm.

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

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

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

Johnny.

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

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

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

Oh. Right.

Your clothes barely made it past the front fucking door.

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

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

Fuck.

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

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

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

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

And grins. “G’mornin’, bonnie.”

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

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

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

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

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

“You—you don’t have to do that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Could you be anymore fucking awkward about this?

“Tha’ right?”

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

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

Perhaps it should scare you more that you were right.

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

“Come o’nae, I won’t bite ye.”

————————-

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

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

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

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

Perplexing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

His eyes flick away to catch the sunlight.

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

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

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

“Aye.” A lazy nod. “I do.”

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

“Why?”

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

“Wha happened te all yer self-preservation?”

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

“...self-preservation?”

He leans forward, arms on the table between you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ye’ll be back though, aye?”

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then tell me. What you meant.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He makes you wait, the bastard. And then—

“Price.”

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

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

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

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

He stills. Just slightly.

“Aye, Captain John Price.”

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

“You work with him,” you murmur.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gentle kid. Brilliant, too.

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

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

“He said that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s kissing you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Johnny! Ohf-fuck!”

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

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

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

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

“S’good. S’tight, mmfuck.”

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

“M’gonna—ohmygod—“

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

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

In some metaphorical way, you know you were.

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

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

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

“Ohfuck, Johnny—yesfuckyesyes—“

It hits you like the shatter of stained glass.

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

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

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

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

And you do.

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

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

You don’t say it.

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

That’s all it takes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Johnny,” you breathe. “This is mad.”

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

You blink at him. “And if I try?”

Lips at your temple, he grins.

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

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

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

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

“Quite the promise.” You reply.

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

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

Kinktober Day 22

Moniker: Keegan Risk Level: Low. Keegan has never been detained and is visiting freely. Brief: Femdom, pegging Safeword: Refer to first brief.

Ghost and Keegan requested this for you. You’re in full control this time around - Price

“Do not let him top from the bottom” Farah ordered as she tightened the harness around your hips.

The bite of it combined with the weight of the cock fitted to it was making you feel a heady rush of something. Arrogance maybe, because you found you wanted to top. You felt like you could put Keegan right in his place with this on you.

“Don’t assume this” Ghost said, grabbing the cock and tugging which had your hips following, “will get him to play nice. You need to be mean with Keegan if you want to break him into a slut. It’s a fight with him, you ease up and you’ll be on your back.”

“Ridden hard and put away wet darlin’” Alex added with a chuckle.

Some of the arrogance faded away given it felt sort of silly to be getting a pep talk off of three people to fuck one right in the hallway outside of the play room. You felt your hands moving to cover the frankly too big cock jutting from your pelvis and dug your nails into your palms to stop them when Nova walked past and smirked. It was pretty big and it honestly seemed a bit misshapen, a weird bump on it.

Did they have to do this in the damn hallway? You’d went from feeling like some masculine God ready to rock the world of anyone with a willing hole to feeling like you were about to get eaten alive for trying assert any sort of dominance what so ever.

“He is only teasing habibi, you will do wonderfully” Farah said, noticing how your puffed out chest had collapsed inward with your confidence.

“Hey” Ghost said, his thumb and fingers gripping your cheeks and forcing you to look at him. “You go in there all timid and don’t give him a fight and I’m going to come in and leather that cunt of yours with a paddle, you understand me princess?”

Somehow you suspected that Ghost would not make it an erotic experience. Weirdly it did give you a boost to hear him growl at you like that because you wondered if he had ever held Keegan down and had his way. Given how firm he was in his insistence you do the same you suspected yes. Was this something Keegan wanted or something he needed to keep him in line?

You were here to give them what they needed after all.

“I understand sir.”

You walked in and the door snicked closed behind you. It was all very sensual, low light and a plush bed covered in velvety red blankets.

“Aww you’ve lost me money kitten, I bet you’d puss out” Keegan said, your head whipping around to find him lounged in an armchair in the corner.

Jesus, he was dressed up for you and it wasn’t stopping him from reclining back, one leg thrown over the arm rest to fully display himself. You’d never seen a man in a corset, but he was bound tightly in a gorgeous scarlet one. It didn’t quite cover his pecs, his nipples peeking over the top. The one other thing he wore were pretty thigh high sheer stockings.

It was such a strange sensation it caused in you, your brain trying to use those little shortcuts about gender without your permission and misfiring. He wasn’t any less masculine and something about those things on him had your pussy wet and excited.

There was a matte black sort of puck between his legs… a plug. He was fucking plugged. How could anyone be tarted up, have a plug in their ass to prep them for getting railed and yet still look like the smuggest person on the planet?

You lifted your t-shirt to show the still red healing slashes on your ribs and raised an eyebrow. Puss out? Of fucking him? You’d taken a glorified fucking torture session and only stopped at getting permanently branded, you were hardly about to refuse pounding some bloody respect into him.

“Careful, you show off marks that I didn’t put there and I might get jealous” he said.

There was a genuine growl of jealousy underneath the words that was both surprising and delighting. It felt good to inspire that ugly feeling in someone. But it was also the threat of him taking control which bristled.

“On the bed Keegan. I’m not the one getting marked up today” you said, dropping your shirt to cover the marks again.

“What was it you said? Make me.”

This fucking asshole. Here you were nervous and unsure and all he could do was rile you up. You’d make him alright. You marched forward and hiked up your right foot to rest it firmly on his cock. His nostrils flared and his eyes widened in some sort of dark delight.

“I said on the fucking bed” you said, pressing your foot right into his balls for emphasis.

He sucked a breath through his teeth in pain but laughed.

“How do you want me kitten? On my back with my legs spread?”

You cocked your head at him.

“Hm. Feet on the floor, bent over the bed. It’d be a shame to not get a nice view of the lacing on that pretty corset.”

You removed your foot and stood tall as he got up. Oh you liked the way the corset kept his posture straight, how he had to float up out of the chair like some trained lady. You liked how there was the whisper of the silky material of the stockings rubbing against one another as he walked and his thick thighs rubbed. You liked when he bent over the bed and his cock jumped from the movement of the plug inside him, unable to keep up the same unbothered mask the rest of him could.

“Oh baby, you’re all wound up aren’t you?” you cooed, “who put that plug in hm? Did they tease you terribly?”

“Or maybe I put it there myself. Wanted to make sure you could even find the hole for your bit of plastic kitten, I know you’re not very practiced.”

You snorted a laugh and his eyes were full of mirth looking coyly over his shoulder at you stood behind him. It was sort of fun being on this end of things, having the end goal be that you’d dominate him rather than like before when he was spanking you. Then it was always an eventuality that you’d float off into submission. You were starting to fizz with excitement about what it would be like to be the one putting someone else there.

“Well then, better get a lot of practice in. I’m sure your ass can handle it baby” you teased, pressing that plug a little and delighting in how it made his body ripple with tension. “Bet you’ll be silky and tight on my cock.”

“Bet you’ll barely last” he snapped back.

Oh, is that how you sounded when you clearly wanted to goad someone into fucking you? It was so… cute. So evidently snark coming from neediness. Whoever had worked him over for you had done a very good job of having him on edge and desperate that it wasn’t going to be impossible to get him to break on your cock and beg.

“That would be your fault, how could anyone last when you look so gorgeous laced up and cock hungry.”

And he did look gorgeous. The lacing up his back with exquisite, someone had taken time to do this properly. You ran your fingers down the boning on the side, smiling when he wriggled his ass because you were sure he hadn’t realised he was doing it.

Outwith this play room where you knew so definitively that you were safe you’d have worried about doing this, worried that there were safely concerns about pounding into his stomach when he was corseted. But you knew you didn’t need to worry about it because even if it was only the two of you in this room, there were eyes watching and keeping you both safe.

He groaned low when you played with the plug, pumped it to it’s widest point and back in to his ass a few times before pulling it out and admiring the little flood of lube that came with it. His hole flexed, not quite closing.

You knew his prostate would be sensitive and you tried to remember how Farah had been with you when she had explored with her fingers to find where you were most responsive.

The plug was tossed on the bed next to his head and it landed with a muffled thump. No need to start with just one finger when he had been well stretched, two sank in with no resistance, only the silky heat of his walls sucking your digits.

“Fuck Keegan, so wet and needy.”

“Fuck kitten, so slow and scared” he snarked back.

“Don’t be such a brat” you said, lightly smacking his ass and feeling your cunt throb with the sharp sound of it. “I’ll give you hard and fast when I’m good and ready.”

“Fuck!”

Ah ha. Found it. You pressed your fingers hard into the flimsy barrier to his prostate and his legs shook. Now you knew why Farah had been so determined to know exactly what angle to use, because having his body react like that was heady.

“Shh there we go, good boy” you said, leaning over and pressing a kiss to his back just above the corset.

The boning and lacing was keeping his spine straight, keeping him from arching the way you knew he wanted to. Part of you wondered how it must feel. Maybe you’d let him lace you up one day. If he was good of course.

“Come on! Just fuck me already” he barked, still not giving in but definitely nearing the edge.

Honestly you sort of knew he was helping you here. From immediately getting you riled up when you walked in to get you out of your head to giving you cues like this to subdue him, Keegan was guiding you beautifully on how to dominate him. You obviously wouldn’t ever acknowledge it out loud, but you appreciated it.

“Settle down baby, I want you to savour it. Want you to relax.”

You punctuated your statement with what you were hoping was a nice prostate massage. By the way he ground his head into the bed to hide his whining you thought you were probably doing a good job. He was so fucking messy inside, your fingers slick from the sheer amount of lube that had been trapped by the plug.

Or maybe a little sticky actually, maybe a little less like lube and more like something else.

“Did someone use you and leave you wanting baby?”

You were almost jealous which was odd, but when you thought about it the feeling was coming from this new persona, this dominant side of you. The heavy weight between your legs felt very real right now and your hind brain was furious that someone else would put their cock where yours belonged. You wanted to fuck him better, rail him until he was fucking moulded to your shape.

He stayed quiet, as if nervous. The power of that went straight to your dick. He was nervous to tell you anything that might displease you because he was giving in, submitting to you. The crack of your hand on his ass was harder this time.

“Asked you a question.”

“Yes.”

“Yes what Keegan?”

“Yes someone used me and left me wanting.”

You smacked him hard on the same spot, nearly losing your fucking mind at how your handprint was blooming red on his ass.

“Sir!”

“Was that so hard baby? God, I really have to teach you everything don’t I?”

“Sorry sir.”

You rubbed the mark lovingly as a reward for how sweet he went. Perfect. Nice and melted under your dominance. Nice and ready to take your fat cock so you could fuck that cum out of him, have it squelching out around you. You could take a guess at who exactly had tormented him, but you were happy to leave it a mystery. Maybe it was more than one person, maybe Keegan enjoyed a train. What a slut.

You fed him your fingers and he sucked the lube and cum off of them like he was starving for it. Slut.

“Let me in” you grunted, holding your cock and guiding it to his hole.

You laughed at him when he choked a little from the stretch. This wasn’t that nice beginner dick Farah had fed your pussy with, this was fucking big. When you pushed your way in there were two thoughts. One, you appreciated those with cocks more now because you could already tell this was going to be a workout. And two, the little bump deformity on the cock settled right against his prostate when you sank as deep as possible.

Jesus fucking Christ. This cock was designed exactly for him. You were literally perfect for him, filling him just right.

“You absolute whore baby, who did you beg to make this for you hm? Who did you get on your knees for to make it happen? Fuck look at you just swallowing it, holy shit” you hissed, really feeling the squeeze of his ass around that silicone as if it was your dick.

“Sir, please!” he finally begged, trying to push himself back even though you were already as deep as you could be.

You lost it and hammered into him. Your cunt throbbed in time with your thrusts and your hips fucking hurt with how aggressively you were fucking him, but my God the little submissive moans and whines could sustain you forever.

Logically you knew you couldn’t cum in his ass, but you were determined to fucking try. When you slipped out you just growled and grabbed you slippery cock to shove it right back in. It was such a compliment how he took it, such a kindness for him to let you dominate and take it so nicely. You had thought how well you were treated with the financial compensation and the aftercare was too much for what you were doing, but not anymore. You could see now that to submit to someone was such a fucking gift.

He came untouched, the abuse his prostate was taking having him spurt all over the bed. You kept fucking him through it, the poor corset getting smeared with his own cum as he was jostled back and forward. When his legs just collapsed you swore as you struggled to keep him up by his hips.

Your cock bounced out of his ass with a wet pop as you tried to take his weight so he went gently to his knees rather than crashing down onto them. You caught your breath once he was settled, his shoulders and head still on the bed and his legs splayed on the ground.

His ass was wrecked and it was gorgeous like that, all red and puffy and twitching while the remainder of the cum and lube dribbled out. And he was so vulnerable like this. Totally at your mercy as he panted and tried to calm down. It made you freeze just a little. You’d never done aftercare for someone else. You wanted to, but with him so debauched you were a little scared to fuck it up.

You didn’t want him to hear you say it and think he had done anything wrong so you gave the camera a look and the hand signal for red, hoping you were conveying that you didn’t want to leave but you did want help.

It was a little surprising that it was Soap who quietly opened the door and came in, but then he had handled aftercare with you so beautifully your first day with him and they wouldn't have sent him if he was in what you were going to politely call one of his moods. He helped you with Keegan, gave you whispered guidance. When Keegan was a little more together and you were feeding him in the bath he told you that the aftercare needed to go both ways, asked if looking after him was making you feel good as well.

Huh, you guess you hadn’t even thought about it, but it had. The act of unlacing that corset had calmed you down, got you out of the dominant headspace you had started to get lost in. It helped that getting him out of it and the stockings caused your pussy to practically purr.

Soap nuzzled you and started to strip you down, mumbling how you needed to be taken care of too. He gave you a lazy orgasm on his tongue and fingers right by Keegan’s bath and popped you in right next to him after. Well almost right after, Keegan definitely had to give him a long look.

Your heart flip flopped over it all. Just over a week to go.

in conclusion:

And stop inviting everybody to the cookout. (Especially just because they can do a lil two count and hold a tune)

Sinners spoilers without context.

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allpurposeramen

3 months ago

Price

Found this on an old flashdrive and you cannot tell me this isn't Captain John Price coded. Like could you just imagine John has been home for a few months, meaning he hasn't been working out as much, his stomach becoming a bit heavier with all the foods you've been cooking.

And you just can't get enough of it. Don't get me wrong, no matter how he looks, John's body is incredible. But there's just something so...domestic about him when he starts looking like this.

4K notes View Post

allpurposeramen

4 months ago

𝖾𝗑-𝖿𝗐𝖻!𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇 “𝘨𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵” 𝗋𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗒 𝗑 𝗆𝖾𝖽𝗂𝖼!𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝗐𝖻!𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒 “𝘴𝘰𝘢𝘱” 𝗆𝖺𝖼𝗍𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗌𝗁 𝗑 𝗆𝖾𝖽𝗂𝖼!𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋

𝖼𝗐 : 𝗌𝖾𝗑𝗎𝖺𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆𝖾

𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗄𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾. 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝖺𝗇𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅, 𝗁𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇'𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾, 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝗅𝖺𝗆𝖾.

𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝖻𝖺𝗌𝖾, 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎—𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗎𝗍𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗆𝖾𝖽𝗂𝖼. 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗉𝗂𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗈𝗎𝗌; 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝖾𝗂𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋. 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗂𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝗅𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁, 𝗇𝗈 𝗇𝖾𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖺𝖽𝖽 𝖺 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗂𝗑. 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗐𝗈 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝖺 𝖻𝗂𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝖿𝗎𝗇 𝗍𝗈𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋, 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍?

𝖺𝗍 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍, 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖿𝖾𝖼𝗍. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖽𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗉 𝗆𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗒 𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗀𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗌, 𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝖻𝗒 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗎𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗈𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖿𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗇𝗂𝖼𝖾. 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝗒, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗇𝖾𝖾𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗅. 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖺 𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿𝗂𝗌𝗁 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗅, 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗇 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗉𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾. 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍, 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝖽 𝖻𝖾 𝗈𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖽𝗈𝗋𝗆, 𝗅𝖾𝗀𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾. 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝖾𝗅𝗅, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗇𝖾𝖾𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾.

𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄 𝗆𝗎𝖼𝗁. 𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝖼𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗈𝖿𝖿 𝖻𝗒 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗈𝗋 𝗆𝖺𝗇𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖽. 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍’𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗆: 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖽. 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗇𝖾, 𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗈𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗒. 𝗂𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎; 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇'𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗂𝗍𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍.

𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎: 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗍𝗈𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗆𝗆𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗋𝗈𝖼𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗅𝖽 𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝗇 𝖻𝖺𝗌𝖾. 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗌𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗐𝗁𝗒, 𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝖺 𝖻𝗂𝗀 𝖺𝗋𝗀𝗎𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍—𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝖻𝗂𝗀 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖺 𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗎𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉—𝗌𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗅𝖾𝖿𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗋𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝗂𝗌𝗉𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝖽 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖻𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺 𝖿𝖾𝗐 𝖽𝖺𝗒𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝖽 𝖻𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗍𝗈 𝗇𝗈𝗋𝗆𝖺𝗅. 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝖼𝖼𝖾𝗉𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗆 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖺𝗋𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍. 𝗂𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋.

𝗂𝗍 𝖼𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝖼𝗄 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖽𝗈𝗋𝗆, 𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗋, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝗆𝖻𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗉𝗈𝗇 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗀𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗌 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝖺𝗌𝗄 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖼𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇'𝗌 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝗈𝖻𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝖾𝗀𝗌—𝖺 𝗌𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗄𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗆𝖾. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆, 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖻𝖾 𝗇𝖺𝗄𝖾𝖽, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝖾𝗆𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌.

"𝘺𝘢 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘯'𝘵 '𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥, 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘢 𝘣𝘪𝘵 𝘰' 𝘧𝘶𝘯," 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗋𝗍𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗆𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝖼𝗂𝗀𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗇𝖽𝗈𝗐. 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖻𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀.

𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇'𝗍 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽? 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗐𝗈 𝗂𝖽𝗂𝗈𝗍𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝖺 𝗄𝗇𝗂𝖿𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗅𝗈𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝖺𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄.

𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗍'𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗁 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗁𝗈𝗆𝖾; 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝖿𝗎𝖼𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗄𝗌.

𝗈𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒 𝗆𝖺𝖼𝗍𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗌𝗁. 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒, 𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗅𝗂𝗋𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗎𝗋𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗎𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗂𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽, 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄𝖾𝖽. 𝗂𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗉 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖾𝗑𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽-𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗅𝗒. 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗅, 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾.

𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝖿𝗎𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇'𝗍 𝖺𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗆𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗓𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗂𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝖽 𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗂𝖿 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 141. 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝖽𝗂𝖽 𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗆𝖾𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗅𝗒 𝖿𝗅𝗂𝗋𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗂𝗇 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗐𝗁𝗈𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽, 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘰𝘯𝘯𝘪𝘦, 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗈𝖿𝖿𝗂𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗅. 𝗂𝗍 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗍 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽.

𝗌𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗉 𝗂𝗇 𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒'𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖽. 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗍, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗉𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗒, 𝗌𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝗈𝗎𝖽, 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗋𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝖺𝗇𝗌 𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾. 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝖾𝗑 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗆𝗎𝖿𝖿𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝖺𝗇𝗌. 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒? 𝗈𝗁, 𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗅𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗂𝗌𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾. 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅. 𝖺𝗍 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝗒, 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝖽𝗂𝖽, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗀.

𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗉 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝖾𝗀𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝖻𝗂𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾𝗋𝗇. "𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴𝘯𝘢𝘦 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘨𝘶𝘪𝘥?" 𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗌𝗄𝖾𝖽. 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗌𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗂𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝖽, 𝗂𝗇 𝖽𝖾𝖾𝖽, 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽, 𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝖽𝖽𝖾𝖽, "𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘯𝘢𝘦 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘴𝘩𝘺 𝘰𝘯 𝘮𝘦, 𝘣𝘰𝘯𝘯𝘪𝘦. 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘢𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘺𝘦," 𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝖼𝗄𝗒 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗋𝗄 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌. 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖺𝗍𝗍𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾.

𝗐𝖾𝗅𝗅, 𝗆𝖺𝗒𝖻𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗍𝗍𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇, 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗐𝗈 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗇𝖾, 𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗎𝖽𝖽𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝖻𝖾𝗀𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍. 𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝖽 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗆𝖺𝗀𝗂𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝖽𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗒 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒. 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇'𝗍 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝗑. 𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝗃𝗎𝗇𝗄 𝖿𝗈𝗈𝖽, 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝖽 𝗀𝗈 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝗂𝖾𝗌 𝗇𝖾𝗑𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝗌𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝖽 𝗀𝗈 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝗎𝗇. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗀𝖺𝗓. 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝖽 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗀𝗎𝖾𝗌.

𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝖽𝗈𝗐, 𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝗇—𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗌𝗂𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾𝖺𝗅.

𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖻𝗅𝖾𝗆 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗇𝗈 𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗈𝖽𝗒 𝗂𝖽𝖾𝖺 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍. 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒 𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗇𝖺𝗆𝖾, 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇'𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝖿𝗍. 𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗌𝗇𝖺𝗉 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗇, 𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗁𝗎𝗍 𝗎𝗉—𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗇𝖾𝗐, 𝗀𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒'𝗌 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗇𝖼𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄 𝖺 𝗅𝗈𝗍. 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝖾𝗐, 𝗁𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋, 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗇𝖾. 𝗇𝗈𝗋𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒, 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖿𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗉 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒 𝗋𝗎𝗇𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗁, 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖺𝖽𝗈𝗉𝗍 𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗃𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈𝗇𝖾. 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝗐? 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗉𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇.

"𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘵 𝘨𝘰𝘵 𝘺𝘦𝘳 𝘱𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘢 𝘵𝘸𝘪𝘴𝘵, 𝘓.𝘛.?" 𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖺𝗌𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾, 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝖿𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗉 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇'𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗈𝗋. "𝘮𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦 𝘺𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘢 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘣𝘪𝘳𝘥𝘪𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘺𝘦𝘳 𝘯𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘦𝘴, 𝘺𝘦 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸?" 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇'𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝗆𝗆𝖾𝖽𝗂𝖺𝗍𝖾. 𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗈𝗍 𝗎𝗉 𝗌𝗈 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖼𝗄𝗅𝗒 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄. 𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝖾𝗎𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖺𝗇𝗍'𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗉𝗂𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗉, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗄𝗇𝗎𝖼𝗄𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝖿 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝖺𝗉. 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽 𝗇𝗈 𝗌𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝗁𝖾 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗅𝖾𝖿𝗍. 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗎𝗇𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇'𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗎𝗂𝗍.

𝖺𝗌 𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗏𝖾, 𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗀𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝖿𝖺𝗋. 𝖻𝗎𝗍, 𝗀𝗈𝖽, 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖽𝗎𝗆𝖻? 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗇𝖾𝗑𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇'𝗌. 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗌. 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇'𝗌 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆. 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄. 𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐.

𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖽𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗂𝖿 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝖽𝗎𝗆𝖻 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝖺 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝖻𝗂𝗋𝖽𝗂𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗀𝗈𝖽𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗌, 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝖻𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖽𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝖽𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉𝖾𝖽, 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽. 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝖿 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗁𝗎𝗋𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾𝖽, 𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽.

𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝖾𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝖾𝗎𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖺𝗇𝗍. 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽?

𝙛𝙞𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙧𝙨 𝙠𝙚𝙚𝙥𝙚𝙧𝙨, 𝙡𝙤𝙨𝙚𝙧𝙨 𝙬𝙚𝙚𝙥𝙚𝙧𝙨.

𝘪 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘵 𝘴𝘰 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘯𝘰 𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘢

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allpurposeramen

5 months ago

tw: self-shipping; male masturbation

I'm terrible at edging when it comes to my own self, but I'd relish in making Johnny lose his composure, his mind, his own damn soul.

He's a very sexual individual. Always ready to go with little to no effort. I have to give him a look and his cock is chuffing in his pants.

The poor lad is just sitting on the couch, minding his business and watching a rugby match when I approach him, just staring and admiring until he quirks an eyebrow.

"Take a picture, lass. It lasts longer."

He's getting hard in his sweatpants. I can see his cock give a curious twitch and I feel my own pussy buzz with excitement as if the two are calling out to each other.

"Are you mad that your team is losing?" I tease, slowly approaching the couch while he squirms already, like a dog waiting for pets.

"No," he huffs, gripping the remote control tighter as he glances at me out of the corner of his eyes, "What's yer mission 'ere? Ye wee minx."

I kiss my teeth, crossing my arms as I watch his cock get harder; his neck flushes and it creeps up his stubbly cheek. Damn horny brat.

"You should pull your dick out," I make a gesture at his crotch and make a jerking motion with my hand, "Play with it a little for me."

His eyes light up, his chest heaves as he inhales sharply, and his Adam's apple bops when he swallows hard.

"...'scuse me? Ye ovulatin' or sumthin'?" He snorts a laugh, but his hands are already untying the laces on his sweatpants; one meaty reaching inside as the other rolls the grey fabric down below his balls. He rucks his white T-shirt up to expose his muscular, bulky torso, covered in coarse, dark hair.

"You're a good boy, right? So, do as I say, Johnny."

His brows furrow, his jaw ticks as he clenches his teeth, annoyed, but his cockhead is flushed an angry red and his shaft throbs with need.

"Gimme sumthin' ta work with, then." He clicks his tongue and nudges his chin at me as his fist moves, up and down, up and down, "Show me yer tits."

I tilt my head back as I laugh mockingly, and he curses me under his breath.

"Fuckin' tease," he grunts, "Always fuckin' teasin' yer poor man." He pumps his cock faster, the friction sounding painfully dry.

"Wait," I say, still snickering as I approach, nudging his legs apart with my foot before I kneel between his thick thighs. I grab his wrist, make him stop pumping his cock and hold it at the root instead before I lean over his tip to spit a generous glob of my saliva on his cock.

"There... much better."

He sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth, head tipping back against the couch with a groan. The thick tendons in his neck strain while I can watch his slit dribble with pearly precum that mixes with my spit.

"Now suck it f'me, aye?" He hisses, pupils blown as he peeks down at me. His thumb brushes along the curve of my cheek, trying to coax me closer.

I shake my head with a grin, sitting back on my haunches, "Nah, you go ahead and jerk it for me. You know I like watching."

"Bloody minx." Johnny huffs, but does starts pumping his fat cock for me anyway. I'm squirming, my panties getting damper by the second; pussy gushing with arousal as the wet sounds of his hand working his cock, his hitching breath and shameless moans, drown out any other noise... and thoughts in my head.

I feel like a kitten watching a pretty toy twitch and wiggle in front of me, stimulating my hunting instincts until I'm ready to pounce.

"And remember... don't cum until I allow it, Sergeant."

I enjoy hearing Johnny whimper. His deep, breathless voice makes my stomach flip and flutter, and my pussy throb in anticipation.. Sometimes it's enough to get me all hot and bothered for him.

Perhaps I'm just as bad as he is.

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allpurposeramen

2 months ago

Please enjoy this smutty little scene based on a discord convo I had earlier today about sex after IUDs. Unedited and abrupt - if you know me, no you don't 😌

Johnny 'Soap' MacTavish x Reader

*As always, 18+, Minors DNI*

When you'd gotten your IUD a few months back, you'd been prepared for the worst. You'd heard so many horror stories before you'd decided to bite the proverbial bullet and get yours, and you thought you'd prepared yourself for every eventuality.

But you'd never heard anything about the increased sensitivity afterwards.

"C'mon hen, keep your hips up."

When you'd met Johnny, all you'd been expecting was a quick fuck. It was supposed to be a one night stand, the perfect way to test everything out, a practice run before your next longterm relationship. That was before he'd gotten you on your on your tummy, legs splayed wide around his hairy thighs as he slid into your aching center.

You'd struggled against it at first; it had never been your preferred position with past partners, especially ones as... blessed as Johnny. Most of the time, it hurt, your cervix too sensitive to last long as they pounded into you.

However, in between your last partner and your current situation, something had changed. Rather than the sharp pain you'd been expecting, there was a soft, dull ache where Johnny rested inside of you.

"You're so warm - feels like heaven inside ye."

You couldn't stop the whimper that bubbled up, and you were grateful he couldn't see your face; you were sure you were blushing. As you began to rock back, your hips pressing into his, you savored the new sensitivity, the ache adding to the pleasure starting to build. Your movements became frantic, both of you pushing towards your own orgasms.

You crested as you heard him curse behind you, his hips flush with yours as he pulsed inside you. You couldn't stop your hand from creeping between your thighs to press gently on the skin over your womb - the dull ache lingered for a moment, gently pulsing with the last aftershocks of your orgasm.

Oh yeah, you could get used to this.

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allpurposeramen

2 months ago