🧼rule breakers
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johnny "soap" mactavish x male!reader
summary: you’re not supposed to be here. not in glasgow, not in a pub, not watching the room like it might go sideways. but then again—neither is he. he’s all mohawk and mischief, loud as ever, arguing with strangers about whether he could knock out a bear. you don’t mean to say anything. but when you do—dry, unimpressed—he turns like he was waiting for it. like he heard you coming a mile away.
setting: a noisy glasgow pub lit in gold and neon. pool tables, spilled drinks, and jukebox static. too many voices, too many eyes, and a shadowed corner where something begins.
warnings: lowercase prose, male!reader, strangers to flirting, off-duty tension, mutual provocation, light drinking, subtle attraction, cocky banter, slow magnetic pull, soap is too charming for his own good, reader might be worse, implied interest, beginnings of something
word count: 0.6k
note: for the nights that weren’t supposed to mean anything. for the grin you didn’t expect to want to see again. for something reckless, loud, and a little bit golden.
my inbox is always open ♡♡
˚ ✦ . . ˚ . . ✦ ˚ . ★⋆.
the place is crowded. buzzing with lowlight and laughter, it's the kind of pub that smells like wet coats and old whiskey and cheap aftershave. someone’s playing oasis on the jukebox, a little too loud and a little off-key, and the air’s thick with late-night stories and glass clinks and bad decisions waiting to be made.
you’re not supposed to be here.
not really. technically, you’re still on the tail-end of recovery leave. supposed to be laying low, healing up. not out in public, not in glasgow, not watching the room like you’re waiting for a fight.
but here you are. boots up on the brass rail, pint in hand, letting the hum of strangers distract you from the quiet in your own head.
you spot him before he sees you.
it’s the mohawk first—unmistakable even in the haze of too-warm overhead lights. then the grin: sharp and stupid and unmistakably his.
he’s got one hand braced on the edge of a pool table, a half-empty pint in the other, talking too loud to a group of guys who clearly don’t know what to make of him. someone laughs nervously. someone else mutters something about scots and madness and testosterone.
“i’m tellin’ ye,” he’s saying, pointing with the chalk end of a pool cue like it’s a mic, “if it’s just me and the bear? i could take him. bare hands, no weapons. just grit and charm.”
you roll your eyes before you can stop yourself.
you don’t mean to say anything. really, you don’t. but it slips out as you pass—dry and low and just loud enough to cut through the noise.
“you’d lose.”
his head snaps toward your voice like it’s a gunshot.
and then—like he expected you to be there all along—he beams. wide. bright. all teeth and trouble.
“oi! c’mon now—do i look like someone who’d lose to a bear?”
you glance over your shoulder. drag your eyes across his frame, exaggerated and slow. broad shoulders under a black hoodie, sleeves shoved up his forearms. combat boots. faded jeans. faint scarring along his temple where the hairline breaks and never quite reconnects. a bruise just beginning to bloom under one eye.
he looks like trouble. like stories he hasn’t told yet. like he just climbed out of a fight and might be looking for another one.
“…no,” you say finally. “but i’d still put my money on the bear.”
for a second, he just blinks at you. then throws his head back with a laugh that rings like thunder through the bar. the strangers around him shift awkwardly—some amused, some relieved he’s been distracted.
“name’s johnny,” he says, turning fully toward you, walking a few steps closer without being invited. “soap, if ye wanna be formal. though i’d prefer it if ye didn’t.”
you tip your drink toward him. one brow raised, mouth curved just slightly.
“you buying the next round, or am i gonna have to humble you at pool first?”
he grins like you just handed him a live wire. “if ye hustle me,” he says, real low, voice dipping just beneath the volume of the jukebox, “i’ll absolutely fall in love wi’ ye on the spot.”
you take a long sip. don’t look away.
“then maybe i will.”
he stares at you for a second too long. like he’s trying to figure out if you’re serious or just as reckless as he is. and then—without a word—he turns back toward the table, gestures to the bartender with two fingers raised.
“rack ‘em up, then,” he calls, grabbing his cue. “hope ye’re ready to lose and fall in love at the same time.”
you set your pint down. move toward the table.
you’re not supposed to be here. but maybe neither is he.
and maybe… it'll be the best rule you've ever broken.
˚ ✦ . . ˚ . . ✦ ˚ . ★⋆.