#john mactavish cod

The midday heat was a physical weight, pressing down on the roof and turning the inside of the house into a stifling, breathless kiln. Above, the ceiling fan clicked in a slow, rhythmic rotation, doing absolutely nothing but lazily stirring the humid air. You were already sweating through your clothes when the water dispenser let out a pathetic, hollow gurgle, signaling the absolute end of its supply.

Then came the salvation: the sputtering idle of a heavy motorbike engine cutting through the heavy afternoon lethargy, followed by the metallic scrape of a kickstand hitting the pavement and the distinct, hollow thud of heavy plastic jugs colliding in their metal racks.

Footsteps approached the gate, heavy and purposeful.

"Delivery, hen."

The voice was a low, gravelly rumble, the thick Scottish burr a jarring, hypnotic contrast to the tropical swelter of the afternoon.

John MacTavish pushed the gate open. A man built like a brick house, looking entirely out of place yet utterly devastating as your local tukang galon. The punishing sun had bitten into his skin, painting his shoulders and arms a warm, golden bronze. He wore a faded, dark t-shirt that had long since surrendered to the heat, clinging tenaciously to the broad, carved planes of his chest and the heavy dip of his collarbones. The sleeves were pushed up, putting the heavy, carved lines of his arms on full display, the scattered, faded silver of old scars glistening with a sheer layer of sweat.

He didn't even look strained. With a terrifying, effortless grace, John hoisted the massive nineteen-liter blue jug onto his shoulder. The muscles in his neck and jaw flexed, drawing your eyes to the damp strands of his mohawk sticking to his forehead.

"Straight to the kitchen, then?" he asked, a knowing, wicked little smirk playing at the corner of his lips as he caught you staring.

"Y-Yeah," you managed to say, your throat completely dry. "Kitchen is good."

He stepped past you, bringing with him the scent of hot pavement, clean sweat, and something inherently, dangerously masculine. You watched the flex of his back as he carried the heavy jug across the cool ceramic tiles, setting it down next to the empty dispenser with a heavy thud that seemed to rattle the floorboards.

"Right," you muttered, shaking yourself out of the haze. "Let me just grab my wallet."

You turned to the counter, popping open the clasp of your purse. You dug your fingers into the main compartment, expecting the familiar crisp edge of a banknote. Nothing. You rummaged deeper, pulling open the side zipper. A few useless coins clinked against each other. Panic began to prickle at the back of your neck. You grabbed your phone, opening your banking app with frantic thumbs, only to be met with a brightly colored screen informing you of a painfully insufficient balance.

The silence in the kitchen suddenly felt incredibly loud.

You turned around slowly. John was leaning against the edge of the kitchen counter, arms crossed over his massive chest, watching you. The amusement in his striking blue eyes was palpable.

"Everything alright over there?" he drawled, his head tilting just a fraction.

"Uh, I..." You swallowed hard, the oppressive heat of the room suddenly feeling a lot more suffocating. "I'm so sorry. I thought I had cash, and my account is—I can't pay you today. Can I transfer it to you tomorrow? Or next week?"

He didn't sigh. He didn't look annoyed, or frustrated, or put out. John thought for a moment, until eventually, a wicked idea seemed to cross his mind.

He uncrossed his arms and pushed off the counter. The heavy tread of his boots closed the distance between you in two agonizingly slow strides. He didn't stop until he was standing right in front of you, trapping you between the counter at your back and the solid, towering wall of his chest.

The heat radiating off his body was entirely different from the stifling weather outside. It was electric, pulling the air straight from your lungs.

"Dinna fash yerself," John murmured, his voice dropping an octave, slipping into a rough, breathy register that sent a shiver straight down your spine despite the heat. He braced one large, calloused hand on the counter right beside your hip, caging you in. He leaned down, his face so close that you could feel the warmth of his breath ghosting over the sensitive skin of your neck. "Times are tough. I'm a reasonable man."

He lifted his other hand, a single, rough knuckle brushing away a bead of sweat from your collarbone. The touch was agonizingly light, leaving a trail of fire in its wake.

"I'm sure," he whispered, his blue eyes dropping to your lips, dark and completely blown out with intent, "we can come up with some... alternative method of payment."

The air in the kitchen felt thick enough to choke on, but you couldn't draw a breath anyway. Not with John looking at you like that.

Before you could formulate a response, his hand shifted from the counter, his large, calloused palm wrapping firmly around your waist. His grip was an anchoring weight, pulling you flush against him. The shock of it—the hard, unyielding wall of his torso, the damp cotton of his shirt against your skin, the radiating furnace of his body heat—made a quiet gasp slip past your lips.

John took it as an invitation.

He didn't hesitate. His mouth came down on yours, stealing whatever air was left in your lungs. It wasn't a gentle, exploring kiss; it was hungry, demanding, and immediate, matching the oppressive, heavy heat of the afternoon. You tasted salt, sweat, and something dark and intoxicatingly sweet.

Your hands came up instinctively, fingers tangling in the damp material of his t-shirt before sliding up to grip his broad shoulders. His muscles shifted beneath your touch, corded and tense as he crowded you back completely against the edge of the kitchen counter. His other hand came up to cradle the back of your head, his thick fingers tangling in your hair to tilt you exactly where he wanted you, deepening the kiss until your head spun.

The contrast of his skin was dizzying. The hand holding the back of your neck was still slightly cool from carrying the chilled water jug, sending a shiver down your spine, but his mouth was a brand, hot and insistent. He groaned, a low, vibrating sound deep in his chest that you felt all the way down to your toes.

Suddenly, his hands were on your hips, gripping tight. With a singular, effortless motion, he hoisted you up, setting you down on the cool ceramic tiles of the kitchen counter. The sudden elevation brought you eye-level with him, and he didn't waste a second stepping right into the space between your knees, caging you in completely.

"Christ," he breathed roughly against your lips, his Scottish burr thick and heavy with raw desire. "You're killing me in this heat."

You didn't wait for him to ask. Your hands gripped the hem of his damp t-shirt, pulling it upward. John broke the kiss just long enough to oblige, crossing his arms and ripping the fabric over his head in one swift motion before tossing it blindly over his shoulder. It hit the floor with a soft, heavy thud. God, he was fucking huge.

Without the shirt, the sheer scale of him was overwhelming. His chest was broad and sculpted, slick with a sheen of sweat that caught the dim light filtering through the kitchen window. Thick, prominent veins branched across his heavy biceps and crawled over his broad shoulders, stark against his sun-bronzed skin, breaking only for a scattering of faded, jagged scars that told stories of a completely different life.

He stepped back in close, the bare skin of his stomach and chest brushing against you. His hands slid from your hips, his rough palms dragging a agonizingly slow path up your sides. He leaned in, his lips trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses along your jawline before dropping to the sensitive crook of your neck. Every scrape of his teeth, every brush of his rough stubble against your skin sent a shockwave of static electricity through your veins.

He nipped at the spot right above your pulse point, making you arch into him with a helpless sound. John chuckled against your skin, the sound dark, victorious, and completely ragged as his hands moved exactly where he wanted them next. Then it was your turn for your shirt to be shrugged right off your head, you didn't wear anything else underneath due to the heat, and the Scot let out a whistle at the sight of you. "Look at you..." he breathed out, his voice dropping an octave into a rough, low growl. His blue eyes dragged slowly up and down your bare skin, burning with a hunger that completely swallowed the stifling heat of the room. His hand immediately found it's way to cup your breast, kneading the soft flesh and earning a breathy whine from you. He leaned in to leave more open mouthed kisses down the valley of your breaths, nipping with his teeth and soothing each spots right after with his tongue. And eventually, his mouth found it's way to your nipple. The contact sends shivers right down your spine, making your cunt ache. His other hand kept kneading and playing with your other breast, making sure they received equal attention. The hand on your hip made its way to tug at your shorts, and you lifted your hips so he could yank it off of you along with your soaked panties. The damp skin of your bare ass made a thwack as it hit the cool tiles of the counter.

"Fuck, yer soaked through. And it's no' just the weather doin' that to ye, is it?" He says, taking a sharp inhale and running a thumb through your wet folds, fuck, that felt good. It had you instinctively spreading apart your thighs for him. His finger circled your clit for a second, testing for a reaction. Your greedy pussy was already desperate and clenching around nothing. "Patience, hen. Let me have ye properly first." He cooed, his mouth finding it's way back to your neck, and his fingers finally sank into your warmth—thick, and stretching you apart even better than you could ever do when touching yourself. You let out a mewl, his body pressing up against yours, a little humiliated at the compromising position (and the fact you couldn't pay for a stupid jug of water). He groans against your slick, sweat-drenched skin, feeling the frantic, desperate hitch of your breath and the tight swallow of your throat right beneath his lips as he pumps his fingers in and out of you, curling it in the right places. You whine as he pulls out his fingers, dragging you on the counter by your thighs with little effort and holding them apart. "Fuck, I need a taste of ye.. Open up for me, darlin'." He licks a long stripe up your sobbing pussy, your thighs lock tight around his head with a sharp shiver, and a breathless, high cry breaks past your lips. "Aah! F- Fuck- Johnny~!" You mewled, lost entirely against the hot, heavy air of the kitchen. Your hands come down to grab blindly at his head, fingers clawing for anything to anchor to, only to slide uselessly off the shaved sides of his scalp until you finally fist your hands in the stubborn strip of his mohawk, tugging hard enough to draw a harsh, approving groan straight from his chest. He devours you filthily, tongue prodding and reaching all the right spots it made you see stars behind your eyelids. And his fucking stubble, it poked your ass everytime he went deeper, causing your hips to jump. John finally pulls away after a while, your slick coating his lips and chin until he wipes it off with the back of his hand. "Alright then.. Time to settle the tab."

His hands dropped from your thighs, moving down between you with a deliberate, unhurried slowness that made your breath catch. With one sharp yank, he pulled the heavy leather belt free from his loops, letting the metal buckle clink loudly against the counter before he tossed it aside.

He didn't look away from your face, even for a single second, his gaze dark and unblinking as he let the belt hit the floor with a dull, weighted thud. In the same fluid motion, his thumbs hooked into the waistband of his jeans. With a slow, deliberate downward pull that made the heavy fabric drag heavily over the stark lines of his hips and thighs, he stripped them away, kicking them unceremoniously aside. "Look at what yer doin' to me. Yer drivin' me mental." He drawls, taking your hand to palm him through his boxers. He was hard, and huge, precum stained the fabric where his tip was angrily pressing up against. He tugged his boxers off, his cock springing free from it's restraints—angry and leaking. You could barely wrap your hands around it as you lazily stroked him, a groan leaving his mouth. "Wan' you, Johnny… Please…" You pleaded, the words slipping out in a choked, desperate whisper as the heat completely burned away whatever pride you had left. This wasn't even about the payment anymore; the debt, the delivery, the stifling kitchen—it all melted away into nothing, leaving only the frantic need to bridge the distance between you. A rough sound rumbled deep in his chest—half a laugh, entirely a growl. "Aye? Is that right, hen?"

He caught your jaw in his calloused hand, tilting your face up so you had nowhere to hide, his blue eyes burning into yours with absolute, unapologetic possession.

"Dinna worry, pet. I wasna goin' anywhere without givin' ye every last bit o' what ye're askin' for."

His thumb dragged across your lower lip, wiping away the hitch of your breath before he leaned down, capturing your mouth in a kiss that tasted like pure danger and heavy, suffocating heat. His weight settled fully against you, driving the remaining air from your lungs as he hooked a heavy arm under your thighs, lifting you effortlessly to lock you tighter against him. The stretch felt agonizingly good, you felt full even when not even half of him was in you! Your sopping cunt immediately clenched tightly around him, as if you were trying to pull him in closer. "A'right? Yer doin' so damn well for me, darlin'. Keep breathin' for me." He cooed, running his fingers through your damp hair. His voice and his hands grounded you, reminding you that everything is very much real and not just a dream. "Christ, yer so tight.. Fuck, so bonnie like this." You let out a long moan as he buried himself fully into you, he stilled for a moment, trying to keep himself from cumming fast because of how tight you were. Then he's just fucking rough, unforgiving. Your teeth knock against each other with the first thrust, hands coming up to claw at his sweat slicked skin. He knocks the air right out of your lungs, filthy moans leaving your lips with every time his dick bumps against that one spot inside of your warm, gummy walls. "Hah- Ah! Please, please- Hngh~!" You pleaded, tears prickling hot at the corners of your eyes and a shameful, heavy drop of drool slipping unheeded to wet the corner of your lips. "Look at you, begging like a good wee pet. Forgot all about the debt, didn't you? So eager to pay me back with your body." You couldn't say anything, just nodding frantically as all pride is completely stripped off of you. Maybe, just maybe, you've been dreaming of this moment—him fucking you dumb against the kitchen counter or the couch of your living room—Touching yourself while you imagined it, playing innocent whenever he came to drop off water. "Well, look at that. You’ve been plottin' on me this whole time, haven't ye, hmm? And here I thought ye were just in a rush." The rough movements of his hips hitting your ass—damp with sweat from the heat of the weather and the sex—made a repeating sound of plap, plap, plap ring across the kitchen, your pussy wet and dripping onto the counter. "Look at the state of you.. Fuckin' wet, hell, you're shakin'.. And all for a bloke you couldn't even afford to pay. Fuck, you're pathetic, and you're gorgeous." He chuckled, tilting his head in amusement at you. The knot in your stomach tightens and burns at your impending release, incoherent babbles leaving your mouth, fucked stupid on his thick cock. "Fuck... you're squeezing me so damn tight, gunna make a mess of us both. Hah- you're close aren't ya? Cum for me darlin'.. Show me how good I make you feel." His thrusts grow more frantic and sloppy, trying to chase his own climax. He grabs you closer by the hip and holds one of your knees up against your chest, and your body decides it's all you can take—Squeezing so tight around him as you orgasm—as if you wanted to suck the soul out of him. "Oh, I'm right behind ye, darlin'. Good fuckin' girl.. Feel good doesn't it, eh?" He groans out, thrusting a few more times before pulling out, spilling his load all over your stomach and thighs, the sudden empty ache making your lower belly clench reflexively. The sudden, ringing quiet in the room felt heavier than anything that came before it, the brutal heat rushing back into your skin in a dizzy, overexposed wave.

You lay completely boneless against on the counter, your chest heaving with shallow, shuddering gasps as your pulse hammered a frantic, deafening rhythm behind your ears. The sweat coating your skin felt instantly cold as the air hit it, making you shiver despite the lingering fever in your blood. Every nerve ending felt raw, hyper-sensitive, and humming with a lingering, static shock that made the edges of your vision blur at the corners.

Above you, Johnny was a heavy, comforting dead-weight, his breath coming in hot, ragged puffs. For a long, suspended moment, neither of you spoke—just letting the world tilt back into focus as the room slowly stopped spinning and the sharp, dizzy edge of the peak faded into a deep, heavy ache in your bones.

Slowly, Johnny shifted his weight, his heavy palms pushing off the cold, cluttered surface of the counter right beside your hips. The sudden loss of his heat made you shiver, a gooseflesh ripple chasing over your sweat-slicked skin as he braced himself. He lingered there for a beat, wedged right between your splayed knees, his chest still heaving as he looked down at the absolute wreckage he’d made of you against your own kitchen counter.

He stepped back just an inch, his ice-blue eyes sweeping down over your flushed, trembling body—draped over the edge of the counter, completely undone—before he reached down and scooped up his discarded jeans and heavy belt from the floor where they'd been kicked aside in the rush.

With practiced, unhurried movements, he stepped back into his trousers, the metal snap of his button and the rasp of his zipper cutting sharply through the quiet. He didn't bother tucking in his shirt, letting the hem hang loose over his waist.

"Well," he muttered, his voice still thick and rough with the aftershocks of it. He reached out with one calloused thumb, giving your chin a brief, rough nudge upward so you had to meet his gaze, forcing you to look at the man who had just completely dismantled you.

He let his thumb trail down your jawline before dropping his hand. " Don't go losin' sleep over the ledger, hen. The tab's cleared… and honestly? Think we can call future installments cancelled, too. At least till ye learn how to play fair."

You blinked up at him, chest still rising and falling in shallow hitches, too boneless and wrecked to even muster a sarcastic reply.

A slow, crooked smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth at your silence. He reached behind him, grabbing his jacket from the back of the chair and shrugging it on as he started toward the front.

"Get some rest, pet," he called back over his shoulder, his boots clicking against the floorboards before the heavy front door swung shut behind him, leaving you lying right there on the cooling counter in the quiet dark.

Author's Note:

I honestly didn't mean for this to spiral quite this far out of control, but here we are! What started as a quick little concept ended up taking ages to claw its way out of my brain, and it came out way longer than I ever originally planned. It's a bit messy but I hope you still like it :))

This whole thing was specifically requested by one of my absolute most loyal followers (you know who you are) thank you for sticking by me through every single delay and brainrot spiral, and it was directly inspired by THIS video we stumbled across that immediately hijacked my thoughts until I had no choice but to write Johnny with this idea.