#John Soap MacTavish | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

eowynstwin · 13 hours ago

Text

peristalsis - ii.

selkie!soap x reader. depression. suicidal ideation. strangers to "lovers." 4.9k. . Running away from life to the Scottish Hebrides, you meet a man who won't leave you alone. . Masterlist. Ao3.

You sleep long enough that, when you wake up, you have enough energy to cry.

It’s a big one. The kind of cry that threatens to turn your throat out, with how hard you sob. Alone in the cottage, far away from anything resembling civilization, you wail like wounded animal, choking on your own tears and mucus, losing track of your body buried underneath the covers—

But it happens at a remove. You watch yourself implode from someplace deep inside, not entirely sure why it’s happening at all—but long past trying to figure it out.

This is how it’s been for a while. There’s nothing special about it anymore. Nothing urgent. Most of the time, you are a blank space of a person, a vacuum where joy or rage or fear should be, but occasionally some maelstrom or another kicks up to fill it in, and your only course of action is to ride it out until it ends.

You’ve stopped trying to fix it. And you’ve stopped hoping anyone else can, either.

So you cry, until at last, you’re empty again. Or you’re too tired to continue. The difference is negligible, but functionally irrelevant. Once it’s done, you get out of bed.

The pressure in the shower is as weak as Johnny reported, but the water is indeed warm when you turn it on; you stand naked under the flow, arms hanging at your sides.

The day stretches itself out before you with nothing to occupying it, just as you’d planned. Nothing to work towards; no effort to put forward. Nothing, thanks to your choice of locale, to feel guilty about not seeking out.

A day of peace and utter quiet.

Suddenly—violent banging, somewhere in the cottage. It startles you; you jump so sharply at the noise that you smack your wrist on the soap caddy attached to the shower wall. The banging comes again—annoyed, you realize with no little bemusement that someone is at the front door.

You wrap yourself in a towel and hobble out of the bathroom to answer it, a piece of your mind on your tongue, dart-shaped and ready to fly—

Of course it’s Johnny.

Johnny, big and burly in a sweater, kilt, and pelt once again, two paper cups balanced in one large hand and a grocery bag hanging from the other. Whose dark brows shoot up his forehead as his eyes travel with surprise, and blatant appreciation, down the dripping length your body.

“Well, good mornin’, bonnie,” he purrs.

“What,” you grunt. A cold breath of wind chooses that moment to force its way through the door, gasping across the shower water still running in rivulets from your hair to the rolled edge of your towel. Goosebumps erupt from your bare skin in millions of simultaneous pinpricks—you flinch bodily at the chill.

“Ah, hell’s bells, don’t just stand there,” Johnny says, following the wind. “It’s freezin,’ go on, let me get in, hurry.”

You let him step inside, for some reason, and he shuts the door behind him with the heel of his boot. He wastes no time after that, heading to the kitchen to set down his things.

“Brought breakfast!” he says cheerfully. “There’s this bakery on Barra I thought you’d like, fresh doughnuts and coffee. Dunno how you take yours, but there’s sugar in the pantry and cream in the fridge.”

“I don’t want breakfast,” you say.

“What? ‘Course you do. I’m no’ takin’ you seal-watchin’ on an empty stomach.”

He starts unpacking the grocery bag and setting things on the counter while your jaw hangs open. Several things occur to you to say—I never agreed to that and what the hell is wrong with you, for starters—but your stomach growls at him before you can. The aroma of fresh-baked pastry wafts through the kitchen when he opens one box, and he turns to grin at you, cheeks dimpling.

“Do you get dressed, bonnie,” he says. “It’ll still be here when y’get back.”

It is less polite than he perhaps intends it to be, given that his gaze travels appreciatively across your bare shoulders. You cross your arms fruitlessly over your chest and, nothing else for it, retreat to the bedroom, feeling his eyes on you the whole way.

You return to the kitchen after having pulled on wool leggings and the same fleecy sweater from the day before. Johnny, one hip set against the counter, has a cup of steaming coffee in one hand and a half-eaten cruller in the other, crumbs at the corner of his mouth.

“Got anythin’ heavier?” he asks around a chewed-up mouthful. “Gets cold out there.”

You look down at his bare calves, broad and taut and covered in a down of dark hair. “You seem alright.”

“I’m used to it,” he says, shrugging—the muscles flexing under your gaze.

You purse your lips. “I don’t have anything.” You hadn’t intended to leave the cottage overmuch.

You approach the counter. Johnny does not move a centimeter, forcing you to stand close as you pick through the two boxes of doughnuts and feel the body heat radiating off of him, displacing the scent of fried dough with his musk.

“That’s all right,” he says. You’re close enough to hear the way his voice hums deep in his chest. “I can keep you warm.”

You snatch a plain glazed from the box and take two very large steps away from him. The hair on the back of your neck lifts as you press against the sink behind you. If he notices your reaction, it doesn’t seem to bother him in the slightest—he lifts the cup to his lips and drinks, eyes sliding closed with simple, obvious pleasure, dark lashes curling against his cheek.

You take the brief respite from his gaze to stare at him. In the morning light, on a full night of sleep, you can almost believe that whatever you’d seen in him yesterday had been nothing more than a misfire of exhausted synapses. An overlay of a dream; a circadian prompt to rectify nearly seventeen hours of sleeplessness. You’d been cold, and tired, and hungry. That was all.

You bite down on your doughnut, not really tasting it. The nerves along your spine twitch and contract around the memory of his flashing gaze.

His eyes open again, and he smiles at you. “Good?” He flicks a look at the single bite you’ve taken, looks at your mouth, and then waits for your reply.

“It’s fine,” you grumble. Then, “How did you get here? I didn’t hear the truck drive up. Do you live close by?”

“Sometimes,” he says. He looks pleased that you’ve asked, that you’re interested at all, and you immediately regret inquiring. “Live on a boat, me. Moored in the cove right now.”

“A…boat,” you say.

“Aye.” A wisp of dark hair, something he must have missed when he gelled his mohawk this morning, flutters as he nods. “Nice and cozy. Not as grand as all this, mind.” He gestures around with coffee and doughnut at the less than five hundred square feet of the cottage. “But it’s still a sight nicer than some other places I’ve slept.”

He’s likely hinting at his military service. “Okay,” is all you say, unwilling to entertain it.

He smirk—undeterred. “We’ll take her out once you’re ready.”

“I never said I was going.”

Dark brows lift. “Got somethin’ else planned for today?” he asks, incredulous, as if he never imagined you wouldn’t want to hang out with him.

“No, I—”

You wrack your brain. You have no intention of explaining to this complete stranger that the last thing you’d wanted to do, when you booked this trip, was really anything at all—and in fact, you hadn’t even considered that that might be something anyone else would care much about.

Much less proactively address.

“No,” you repeat, sulking.

Johnny considers you, chewing. His eyes do not stray, this time, to places they don’t belong; but there’s an insight to them. A sharp awareness. A perception in his gaze that is just as undressing, as if whatever is going on with you is visible to the naked eye.

“I figure,” he says, slowly, as if to coax, “you put your wee shoes on, an’ I’ll pack this back up, and we take it along.”

“You don’t have to do this,” you grouse. “I don’t need you to, like—be my tour guide.”

“Aye, but that doesnae mean I don’t wanna,” he retorts, smiling.

He shoves the last bite of cruller in his mouth and gazes patiently at you as he works it with his jaw, the muscles flexing along his temples as he chews.

Exhaustion, your constant companion, stares you down alongside him. It would take so much more energy to fight him than to go along with whatever he has planned. Energy you just don’t have anymore. And going along doesn’t mean you have to pretend to enjoy yourself—it’s not like you care enough about Johnny’s self-esteem to conjure up a happy face to show him.

You can go, and be a bitch about it, and once you do maybe he’ll realize you’re not at all worth the effort he’s making, and then finally leave you alone.

“Fine,” you say, which is how you end up on a fishing trawler headed south toward, ostensibly, a colony of breeding seals.

It’s an old vessel—that much is obvious. Its edges and corners are dull with the passage of time and constant maintenance, scuffed by innumerable passes-over with cleaner and cloth. Mildew competes with the aroma of fresh varnish as Johnny leads you onto the bridge, which is mercifully closed in from the ocean wind.

The interior is mostly wood of a warm, orangish variety—you can’t tell if that’s a decision made with aesthetics or function in mind. The space comprises a kitchen, surprisingly well-appointed with a stove, sink, countertop, and fridge, and a small sitting area with both couch and booth seating. Surrounding windows allow in the grey light of the morning.

“Bought it off an old bloke on Lewis,” Johnny says, taking his place at the wheel, which is in a little alcove off the kitchen.

If you’d thought steering a boat would have curtailed his chatting, you’d have been wrong—he seems to have no trouble with that and talking, incessantly, at the same time, as he pulls the vessel away from the cove and into the open water.

“All his family moved to the mainland, he told me, an’ this is after generations fishin’ these islands, even makin’ it through the Clearances! No money in it anymore, he said, not like you could make in some office somewhere countin’ someone else’s money.” He checks something on the dashboard in front of him, but it doesn’t distract him for long. “Held on for a while, but people just kept leavin,’ an’ he was gettin’ too old to go out on his own. Got such a good price on it, I think he was just happy someone else was gonna take up the tradition.”

“Did he sell you the cottage too?” you ask, and then dig your nails into your wrist for encouraging him.

“Yup,” he says. “No one else wanted it, but me? I saw somethin’ special about it.”

He turns to smile at you—no doubt pleased you made the connection. You avert your gaze.

“Imagine someday I’ll have my own family here,” he continues. “Good place for it. Nice and slow, not like city living. Can hear yourself think out here. Perfect place to have a few wee ones.”

“If people stop leaving,” you mutter.

He turns to you again. “I’m no’ worried about that,” he replies. He’s still smiling. “You came here, after all.”

You have nothing to say to that.

The trip is a short one—Johnny brings the trawler alongside an island he informs you is called Mingulay, a square mile smaller than Vatersay’s tiny dot in the North Atlantic. Unlike the latter, he says, this island has not been inhabited since 1912, and has been completely reclaimed by the ocean and its wildlife.

After he drops anchor offshore, Johnny disappears down a steep flight of stairs below deck, which he had not offered a tour of, and emerges a short time later with a large, bulky coat.

“Didn’t I tell you?” he says proudly, holding it out by the shoulders. “Here, turn ‘round.”

You pause in the middle of reaching for it. You don’t know exactly why you comply—it occurs to you that if you grabbed for the jacket, he could simply not let go of it, and you would end up exactly where he wants you anyway. So you lower your arm and, resigned, give him your back.

He steps up behind you. Warmth pours off of him, more than you think any human body should be able to generate.

You hear him inhale, deeply, as he brings the jacket to your back. As you slide your arms into the sleeves, you feel his exhale on the nape of your neck, teasing through individual follicles of hair.

“There w’go,” he murmurs, much closer than you expected.

You can hear the low hum of his voice in his chest; his hands linger on your shoulders far longer than they need to, heavy, big enough that his index fingers brush along your collarbones.

When his hands make to slide down your back you step away from him and fumble to zip the jacket up; he chuckles lightly behind you. When you turn to face him, his lips are curled—smug.

“Alright then,” he says. “Let’s get out there.”

He rows the two of you to shore in a small kayak, two pairs of binoculars in your lap as you huddle away from the wind. You’ll be walking to the haul-out, he says—getting too close to the breeding grounds, which he calls a rookery, would spook them, possibly causing a stampede.

“It’s grey seals we’re gonna see,” he explains as the two of you pick your way across the rocky landscape. “Not the biggest haul-out you could see, some colonies get into the thousands, but we’ll have it all to ourselves.”

He insists on taking your elbow every time the two of you cross particularly uneven terrain, even though you don’t need it. You think he takes your attempts to shake him off as proof of your lack of balance, because he grasps you all the tighter every time.

“I’m not a child, Johnny, I can walk on my own,” you finally snap at him.

“Just bein’ a gentleman, bonnie,” he replies nonchalantly. He does not let you go.

As you get closer, you hear the seals before you see them, and when their voices reach you across the open island, you stop dead.

Groaning, grunting, hissing in a cacophonous chorus. Some part of your hindbrain double-takes, reshuffles itself—some ancestral instinct always on the lookout for predation. If you’d been given a chance to guess what a colony of mating seals might have sounded like, you’re not sure you could have guessed what they sounded like.

Certainly not like what you hear now—

Like people.

Johnny grins at you when he notices. “Aye, it’s a right ruckus, innit?”

He leads you up a small rise, where he has the two of you settle belly-down over the machair to overlook the wedge of rocky coast that the colony has claimed for its own.

And when you finally see it—it’s underwhelming.

Perhaps two hundred long, fat bodies, in varying shades of brown and grey, lay indolently along the rocks, in groups of three or four, some heavily galumphing from one place to another while others roll occasionally from side to side. The shifting winds catch their scent and blow it uncaringly into your face; you nearly gag at the admixture of dead fish and ammonia.

It doesn’t escape you that this is a rare thing to witness; you are not wholly immune to the fact that you are only a hundred meters away from something most people only encounter on a screen. It’s just that without a swell of awed music in the backdrop, or a narrator’s breathless wonder at the miracle of pinniped life, what’s left for you to observe is a population of wet, stinking animals, shitting where they lay, vocalizing without cease while they laze about doing basically nothing.

Johnny does not seem to notice your disillusionment; he hands you one pair of binoculars, and directs your attention to activity along the shoreline. You follow to where he’s pointing; one larger seal is hassling a smaller one, which snarls at the aggressor as it thrashes around with its substantial bulk.

“Little one there—” Johnny says, “that’s a female, probably obvious. Big one knows she’s ready to mate, can smell it on her.”

The female bares her teeth and lunges at the bigger male, which flinches back but holds his ground.

“Doesn’t look like she agrees,” you mutter.

“She’s just givin’ him a hard time. She’s all in heat, see? Just makes her cranky,” Johnny says. You feel his eyes on you, and lower your binoculars to look at him. “She’s got to fuss to feel all in control.”

You flush. “Right.”

“You don’t think so?”

“No,” you say. “He’s—he’s just bothering her.”

He gazes at you for a moment, contemplative. Corners of his mouth quirking upward. He does not reply for a long moment, long enough that you have to avert your gaze from his.

“Nah,” he finally says, and you don’t think you’re imagining the low, sultry note in his voice. “She wants it bad as he does.”

You scowl, uncomfortably perceived, and return your binoculars—the pair is still facing off, gurgling and growling at each other. The female is slim, almost sleek, unlike most of the other seals populating the rookery.

“Is she sick?” you ask.

“Hm? Oh, no, she’s alright. The mums lose a lot of weight when they nurse. Takes three weeks, and they don’t eat in the meantime.”

“Jesus.”

“Be nice if the dads ever brought ‘em a bite, aye?” Johnny agrees. “Deadbeats, the lot of them.”

The two of you survey the colony in silence for a moment. As the morning wears on, the cloud covering thins overhead, allowing cool sunlight to filter through. The temperature doesn’t rise in response; begrudgingly, you tug Johnny’s jacket a little tighter around you.

Then, suddenly, his hand lands on your back, between your shoulder blades.

“Got some pups over there,” he says. “Look, by the kelp.”

You find them; smaller bodies, white dinged with wet sand and dirt, lounge near their mothers or wriggle with aimless difficulty. They’re fluffy and round as plush toys, with shining black eyes and noses, and once Johnny’s pointed them out you can differentiate the higher, sweeter pitch of their cries from the overall cacophony.

“Sometimes,” Johnny murmurs, “search and rescue’ll get called out because someone thought they heard a baby crying. Some kid stranded or lost, right? Turns out to be a baby seal.”

“That’s kind of scary,” you say.

“Aye,” says Johnny. “Always makes me think that’s where the old legends come from, about seal people or mermaids.”

A small ways away, some of the mothers lay with their pups far into the surf, letting the waves break over them. You watch as one mother thunks her large head overtop of her pup’s as the water rushes toward them; the pup wriggles, and then, as the wave engulfs them, it begins to thrash, whipping up a panicked froth.

“Time for swimming lessons already?” Johnny muses. “Seems early.”

You’re horrified. “She’s going to drown it!”

The hand still on your back pats you consolingly. “Just watch,” says Johnny.

The wave reaches as far up the shore as gravity allows, and then begins to recede. The pup’s thrashing calms as the air meets its face once again; the cow allows the pup to lift its head, and after a few sputters, the pup seems no worse for wear.

“They’re hardier than they look, bonnie,” Johnny says.

His hand, heavy and warm even over his borrowed jacket, slides down from your shoulders to your lower back, and then he rubs, slowly, side to side, as if to comfort you—but the knobs of your spine contract at his touch.

“Last of the births this season, looks like,” he says. “Mum’s getting ready to leave—probably not the only one.”

Something hard drops into your stomach.

“They leave their babies?” you ask.

“Aye. Once they’re done nursing, they mate, and then they go.”

You look back at the other cows with their pups. One baby has its muzzle to its mother’s belly, quivering and suckling, while she lays with her head on a patch of grass. She looks uninterested—more, she looks disinterested. As if how voraciously her pup is nursing has nothing much to do with her, and she’s bored of even having to think about it.

Bored—and already looking forward to the next part of her life without a baby in it.

“That’s horrible,” you say.

“They’re solitary animals, bonnie,” Johnny says, not ungently. “The only time they’re really all together is for this.”

A line tightens between your stomach and throat, and you feel it start to build between your ribs. A tremor—foreshocks. The wind picks up, bringing a sharp chill off the ocean and up the rise that cuts into your stinging eyes, abrades the naked skin of your hands and the exposed part of your neck.

When you look through your binoculars again, you wonder how many of the pups you see have already been abandoned.

“Aw, bonnie,” Johnny says. There’s a kind of pity in his voice that has your hackles raising.

“I want to leave,” you say, yanking away from his touch and shuffling down the incline. “Take me back to the cottage.”

“Bonnie, it’s okay!” Johnny protests, rolling to his back to look at you as you stand. “The pups make it, they figure out how to fend for themselves.”

You glare at him, vision blurring. “All of them?”

Some part of you knows you’re being irrational—knows that nature is a cruel home, and that many children face worse fates than the seal pups. Abandoning the young, the needy, is no aberration; it is, in fact, far more the standard than the human practice, which lingers for decades—

Most of the time.

Johnny has no response. He holds your angry gaze, brows drawn low, mouth pressed into a thin line. It’s the first time that cocky aura, which seems to rest in every fine line on his face and every angle at which he holds his body, is completely absent.

He isn’t reflecting your anger back at you, though—he’s internalizing it. Letting it hit him, you think, and trying to use it to figure you out.

You do not want to be figured out.

You scoff again. “Take me back,” you repeat, and then you start walking in the direction you came, without waiting for him to follow.

Johnny drops you off in the cove, and thankfully does not linger this time before he departs—he bids you farewell after rowing you to shore, contemplation on his face, and then leaves you to yourself.

You retreat, seeking the cottage’s empty quiet.

As you perch on the couch you listen to the radiator hum—the wind blow over the reeds in the thatch roof—your own heart beating a drum in the arteries of your neck.

Percussive. Quick and hard. Like heavy knockers on a door. Pounding as if to burst through.

You realize you’re still wearing Johnny’s jacket, and you throw it off, disgusted with yourself. You get up and pace, and try to ignore it lying in a heap on the floor.

You do something you swore you wouldn’t do the moment you set foot on the island—you turn your phone back on.

True to Johnny’s word, there’s no signal. You picked this island, this part of the world, for a reason; for the past several years, a slow exodus from the British isles has vacated the need for dedicated cell towers or satellite or internet access, especially given that the only ones who remain are too old now to want it or need it or know how to use it.

It’s isolated. Cut off. Left behind by anyone with better options, and only clung to by those trying to preserve the only way of life they know.

Some kinder part of you belongs with that demographic; the part that was telling your mother the truth, before getting on the plane.

The rest of you holds your phone up and starts walking around.

In the furthest corner in the bedroom, you find a single bar of signal. A tiny chip of connectivity—a thin, frayed thread. Something you lied to yourself about cutting.

It’s a weak connection. Unstable. It could take a while—you stand there, waiting.

The screen dims. You tap it again.

Blank.

You unlock it, look through your apps. Wonder if maybe your notifications are bugged by your new SIM card.

Nothing—

No one.

You whip around and, with a cry, pitch the thing at the far wall—it hits the stone with a crunch, falling to the floor in pieces.

You’re out of the cottage then in a mad dash, door slamming behind you, driving yourself back into the wind. Far away—you want to be far away, far from everything, so far that nothing could possibly reach you. You trudge down the path toward the beach, banding your arms across your chest, shivering in the cold, and yet you hardly feel it.

Not worth it. No point. Waste of your time. Energy. All of it. Stop trying. Stop wanting. Nothing. Nothing. You want nothing.

You’re halfway down to the shore, not really knowing what you’re going to do when you get there, when you catch sight of a body on the sand.

You gasp, a sharp breath down your larynx, and freeze in a dead halt.

The body is completely still.

A swimmer? A diver? It’s dark, like it just pulled itself out of the ocean—or washed up—

Then, it moves. A twitch, a ripple across its bulk, and your chest rapidly decompresses.

A seal. It’s a large seal, lounging alone on the beach.

You stand motionless. You’re very close—much closer than you and Johnny had been at the rookery. You hadn’t contended with the sheer size of the animals, tucked safely up and away from them, but there is no illusion of distance now.

It’s the biggest one you’ve seen today, you’re sure of it. Bigger, you think, than most adult men. Its pelt is a riot of every shade of grey, splashy, like liquid paint thrown across a canvas. Black speckles scatter overtop of marbled white and cool slate, and down the center of its back is a broad, dark line, soft at the edges, which reaches all the way up to the top of the seal’s head.

The bull—it must be male—turns over. It lifts its head, and opens its eyes—

Fear suddenly zips up your spine as it looks right at you.

You stumble backward and trip on your own feet, landing hard on your ass. Johnny’s care with keeping enough distance from the colony rushes back to you, along with the warring couple’s bared teeth.

They can’t move that fast on land, right? They aren’t interested in people, right?

You scramble backward. It’s so much bigger than you ever would have imagined. If it got to you—threw itself over you—it could crush you with its weight alone—

The bull watches you placidly. Unperturbed.

You pause.

Its small eyes are dark and glossy—watchful and focused. The whiskers on its muzzle twitch a little as it takes you in. It breathes, deeply and evenly, huge body expanding and contracting at a slow, calm tempo. Its—his—nostrils flex, widening and narrowing, as he blinks docilely.

Unafraid.

If anything—curious.

Then he snorts, and wriggles in place. It startles a laugh out of you, more reaction than humor. Still watching you, the bull lowers his head back down, resting it again on the sand.

Your heartbeat abates. He doesn’t move again—nor does his attention leave you. Slowly, you sit up.

Wary. No sudden movements.

He doesn’t react; only continues to watch you.

You draw your knees up. Wrap your arms around your shins, and dust a bit of sand from your leggings. Rest your chin in the crevice between your knees.

There’s an intelligence in the bull’s eyes that is fathoms deep. There is a massive gulf between his experience of the world and yours, millennia of evolution separating your species from his—and yet…as you hold his gaze, you recognize the look in it.

Him, seeing you. And seeing you see him. The pendulum swinging between awareness of each other, and recognition of that shared awareness.

An empty space in the cloud cover passes overhead; sunlight touches the earth, warms it briefly before disappearing again. You wonder a little why this bull isn’t with the other seals.

Johnny would probably know.

“I didn’t come for you, you know,” you grumble at him.

The seal blinks. Awareness notwithstanding, you don’t share any language.

You sigh. “I guess you didn’t come to see me either,” you say.

But you don’t move away.

And you stay like that for a long while, you and he—regarding each other as the wind breathes out across the shore.

next chapter early access

a/n: follow for more seal facts™

Also huge thanks to Lev for trawler listings/info. Didn't explore it much this chapter but Soap's boat will show up more soon :)

#soap x reader #soap x you #john soap mctavish x reader #john soap mctavish x you #john soap x reader #john soap mactavish x reader #soap mactavish #john soap mactavish x you #soap mactavish x reader #soap mctavish #john soap mactavish #mwritessoap #madi writes #am i happy with the photos i used? no #am i going to make an effort to change them? also no #does that image of a whirlpool look terribly erotic? oh yes #selkie soap #peristalsis

422 notes · View notes

oceantornadoo · 1 day ago

Text

ch6 something borrowed something blue (mafia!price x simon's sister!reader)

tw: dirty talk and fingering

masterlist | next

The following week, you learn John Price’s meaning of “friends.”

It means no repeats of the library incident, as you’ve dubbed it. It means no more handfed breakfast. It means no hourlong cuddle sessions.

It does mean waking up tangled together, even though you went to bed on opposite sides. It includes five, and no more, minutes of breathing in each other’s presence, pretending to be asleep while knowing the other person’s awake. It proceeds to mean you staying in bed while John gets up at an ungodly hour, watching him get ready through half-lidded eyes. He always wears some kind of workout set, shorts that show off his unfairly thick and hairy thighs and a tight shirt that you can see his defined pecs through. Even if he’s going to the gym, he tucks his Glock into the back of his shorts. He comes back an hour later (you’ve timed it to be sure) and while he’s careful not to wake you, your body simply doesn’t allow more sleep.

If you’re lucky, he’ll take off his shirt before walking into the bathroom. He’ll shed it with ease, swiping it down his face as he calms his breathing. This routine of his is addicting, as if a higher power is forcing you to watch how sweat drips down his upper half. Then he’ll shower, sometimes with the sound of skin slapping against skin, and don one of his many suits. Always with a black button-up, never white. Sometimes a tie, sometimes not on the days he seems more agitated than usual, like he can’t be bothered putting on his mask of professionalism. When he’s ready to leave, after he tucks his gun back in, he approaches you in bed. That’s when you play your game of false-sleep, eyelids stone-still as he finds your hand and kisses the top of it.

When he leaves, you don’t see him until he crawls in late at night.

This bed of yours, your new gilded cage, is in the master bedroom of John’s Eaton Square apartment. Apartment is in an inadequate word, a building for normal people who aren’t filthy rich. John’s apartment is a palace, complete with a sitting room and courtyard garden. After the library incident, where you were shuffled back your Ritz hotel room and passed out on the bed from sheer embarrassment, you woke up in the morning with Gaz of all people in the corner chair of your room.

“Finally, she wakes.” You blink rapidly, trying to process the scene before you. The bed is cold, no John to be found. Morning light streams through the windows, turning Gaz into something like an angel with a golden halo. He looks positively affronted at your lie-in, frowning as you stay silent. “Aren’t ya s’pposed t’ be a mouthy brat?” Instead of replying, you fumble around the bed until you can find the decorative pillow that was digging into your back all night. You grip it tight and aim true, clocking Gaz in the chest as he smirks. “There she is. Welcome back t’ the land of the livin’, Mrs. Price.” You groan at his words, smothering yourself in blankets. “I’ll be outside when y’r ready, don’t have all day.”

When you emerge from the room, he looks slightly mollified, probably due to the biscuit in his hand. “You didn’t get one for me?” He scoffs, then hits the button to call the elevator. “If you’d waken ‘fore noon, you would’ve gotten a whole feast.” You wonder if you would have seen your husband as well. His presence, or lack thereof, is the elephant in the room. Well, elevator.

“Where’s…” He raises an eyebrow with intrigue. “Wha’, don’t say y’r gettin’ attached!” You roll your eyes, scooting away from him so you’re on opposite sides of this metal torture machine. “E’s workin’. I’ll be takin’ ya t’ the Castle.” He sounds positively miffed at this being his day’s work. “A castle? I thought he lived in London.” Gaz smiles ruefully. “We call it the Castle, real behemoth it is. Don’t worry, it’s in Eaton Square.” You knew he was rich, but wow. Did he even need this marriage if he has all this money? It seems like his bank account is big enough to buy out the Riley family outright.

Once the elevator opens to the lobby, Gaz guides you to a sleek black car waiting at the curb. It’s a silent car ride, only punctuated by Gaz’s occasional short phone call. When you arrive at the Castle, you feel a sudden kinship with Cinderella, feeling like a peasant in rags compared to the riches before you.

It looks a bit like the American White House, with columns of marble on each level of the ‘apartment’. The outside is all white, a testament to how clean this part of the city is. When Gaz guides you out of the car and through the gated entrance, you note how the two guards at the entrance nod at him with respect on their eyes. Before stepping into the house, you turn and find men stationed throughout the small park across the street. They seem like casual city-goers to the untrained eye, but you know too well the stiffness of a mafia man.

The entrance feels like you’re back at the Ritz, with its marble flooring and manicured potted plants. Gaz takes on the role of real estate agent, guiding you through a floral dining room and modern kitchen, giving you time to glimpse one of the bedrooms before turning you to the gardens. As you walk, you note a chef in the kitchen and a few men at the dining room table. They nod in greeting but not much else, seeming to be absorbed in the laptops in front of them. They lower their eyes in deference to you, like they’ll turn to stone if they glimpse at you for more than a few seconds. Gaz seems at ease with all of this, pointing out decor and architecture like you’re not at the base of London’s prime criminal headquarters.

Once you enter the gardens, a sense of peace settles between you two, an acknowledgement of the garden’s natural beauty. “As y’know, Price has a lot of time on his hands t’ garden.” You can’t help but giggle at the joke, smiling at the gardener who’s watering some of the white flowers. There’s outside furniture, couches and tables, and you can’t help but imagine reading here on a balmy summer night.

Instead of walking through to the other side, Gaz walks you out the way you came in. “Price’s study’s on th’ other side, so we’ve turned tha’ an’ th’ two bedrooms to a security area an’ supply room. Nothin’ you’ll be interested in.” Actually, you’re extremely interested in what Price’s business is, but you bite your tongue as Gaz walks upstairs and into a beautiful sitting room. “Christ, this house is more for a Victorian lady than John.” There’s a sense of winning in your stomach as Gaz barks out a laugh at your joke, nodding along. The sitting room has walls miles high, decorated by rigid furniture and old paintings. It doesn’t look used, seeming to be designed to keep people from overstaying their welcome with its lack of warmth. You absentmindly wonder how lonely John was before this marriage.

Finally, Gaz takes you to the master bedroom. There’s a guard stationed outside of it, a younger-looking man who’s probably been given the job with the least amount of responsibility - guarding a room when it’s not in use. The decor of the bedroom is more modern than the rest of the house, clean lines and beige walls. Unsurprisingly, it’s very organized, a glimpse into the closet revealing Price’s suits hanging next to each other. What is surprising is recognizing your own clothes next to his, tops and bottoms hanging in color-coordinated order. The closet is wall-to-wall, with a room between the bedroom and bathroom, dedicated just for changing.

“Right, well, tha’s the tour.” You’re back in the bedroom, standing awkwardly. He slips you a business card: Kyle Garrick - Security Professional. You snort. “Don’t knock networkin’, princess. Tha’s got my number if ya need it, but only use me as a last resort. Price’ll hav’ my head if you call me before him.” You tuck it into the pocket of your jeans, then scratch your arm out of nervous habit. “What am I supposed to do now?” He shrugs, clearly unequipped to handle this discussion of your future.

“Reckon you get comfortable. Lot of shit’s goin’ down now, so don’t expect Cap t’ be home at 5.”

“Cap?”

“‘S what we call Price. Runs this ship tight as a captain.”“So without him, you’ll sink?” Gaz nods seriously. “Y’ve got no idea.” Clearly wanting to get back to his actual work, and uncomfortable in his boss’s bedroom, he makes a quick goodbye, leaving you alone. Something to get used to.

Your usual solution to combat the feeling is to call your brother. He picks up on the second ring, concern etched into the vowels of his speech. “Alright, love?” You nod, then remember he’s not here. “Yeah, just bored, I guess. I just got to Price’s apartment, it’s a mansion, Si,-” “‘m sorry, kid, I’m dead busy right now. Let’s plan a call on the weekend, yeah?” Oh. Stupid, you should have remembered he has a life outside of you. If it were a regular day you’d have one too, opening your bookstore for your late Monday hours. “Right, sorry. Let’s call later.” He grunts, clearly distracted. “Olrigh’, talk soon. Love ya, kid.” “Love you too, Simon.” He hangs up right after your goodbye, not even a second of breathing between you. You’re really on your own. Guess it’s time to explore.

The thrill of exploring lost its sheen five days in. Five days of John leaving in the morning, five days of hand kisses and nothing else. You explore a room a day, forcing yourself to flip through every dusty book or memorize every old painting. You tried talking to the staff, but it’s clear they’re only there when necessary, wrapped up in their own duties. The Friday after your wedding, only a week after the club incident, you finally get to talk to another human.

She happens upon you in the dining room, eating a late breakfast.

“Kate Laswell, solicitor.” A hand appears in front of your cereal bowl, stopping your spoon from reaching your mouth. Deciding to be courteous, you put it down instead of spilling milk on her hand. “Mrs. Price, ghost of the Castle.” She gives you a small smile like it’s a concession. You shake her hand firmly, noting callouses unusual of the prim and spoiled lawyers you’re used to. She doesn’t say anything, so you take a second to analyze her while she does the same.

Kate’s dressed in a sharp suit, pinstriped and tailored well. Blonde hair in a bun, with chic bangs on her forehead. What’s more intriguing is her accent. “You’re American?” She nods, sitting down at the table with you. There’s a stack of folders in her hands, laid carefully on the sleek table. “Dad’s British, old friend of Price’s father.” She lets you fill in the blanks, assuming she grew up in America with her mother. Every word of hers is thought out, leaning towards calculated but not quite. It’s silent for a moment as you continue eating your cereal, neither of you in much of a rush.

“Well, I’m quite flattered, but I’m assuming this isn’t a social call since the last time I saw you, you were negotiating this blooming marriage.” She nods, opening the first folder of her stack. It’s a…real estate report? She passes it your way and you note the pictures of various storefronts, mainly old retail stores. “Available Price businesses. Mainly purchased for tax reasons. This report details location, average foot traffic, measurements, etc. Questions?” The report is ten pages long, thick with ink and possibility.

“Is this for my…?” The thoroughness of the research impresses you. She takes out more stapled papers, detailing market value in the area and payment plans. “Bookstore? It took a bit to gather the paperwork, some of these places haven’t been looked at in a long time. I thought this might be more interesting than haunting the Castle.” Your hands nearly shake with excitement. You’ve been positively bored, nothing to do and no one to talk to. “Do you have somewhere to be after this?” You ask, almost timidly. She checks her watch, then shakes her head. “Not until lunch.” You grin. “Let’s talk.”

You talk for nearly two hours. Business plans, target market, the walking patterns of Londoners. She tells you more about the city than you could ever find online. She points out up-and-coming neighbors versus those slowing down. It’s refreshing to talk to a woman and not a man calling you nicknames and making your head spin. She’s smart and sharp, joking less than Gaz but greeting your own with rare smiles.

The two of you decide on a storefront on Carnaby Street, surrounded by boutiques and small businesses. It’s different from the vibe of your Manchester store, but a new challenge is all you need. You have enough money from the profits of your bookstore plus some your father left you, enough to buy the property in full from John. You have a feeling Laswell, as she’s asked you to call her, is underselling you, but you’re not going to blame her for saving you a few thousand. A few calls get made to respective bankers, and Laswell promises a contract and detailed payment plan by next week.

“Laswell?” She tips her chin in acknowledgement as she packs up the folders. “Thank you for visiting. You’re welcome anytime, for lawyer stuff or not.” Laswell gives you a half-smile, then slips her business card onto the table. “Here’s my info, lawyer stuff or not.” She winks, then bids you goodbye using your first name. It’s a relief to be acknowledged. The whole interaction gets you out of your week-long funk, riling you up.

When’s she gone, you reach for your phone, calling one of your newest contacts. “Price.” You scoff at his greeting. “Jeez, not even a hello?” There’s a pause, like he took the phone away from his face then put it back. “Sorry, sweetheart, didn’t check the caller ID. You okay?” He hasn’t talked to you all week, so the petname’s a shot to the heart. “I think Laswell lowballed me, but I officially own one of your properties.” He chuckles, low and soft in your ear. Friends. Frenemies. Stay solid. “Tha’ righ’?” God, admitting this victory is like handing him your beating heart. “Yes.” It comes out stern and he stops laughing, mistaking your tone for anger. “Can’t promise dinner but I’ll be there ‘fore lights out, yeah?” The topic change throws you off. You nod, swallowing an embarrassing notion of asking about his dinner plans. “See you then. And, John?” He’s quiet, waiting on you. “I’m going into the city for dinner, taking a guard so don’t worry. Bye!” That leaves him sputtering, scales tipping towards balance again. “Wait, don’t-” Beep! He doesn’t get to finish the thought as you hang up.

You find a spare guard in the hallway, who tells you his name is Terrance. “Ma’am, I don’t think the Captain’ll be ok with this.” Another American. “Well, I’m leaving with or without you, Terrance. Let me know what you think he’ll be more okay with.” That gets him going, talking into his ear piece before moving to shadow you. You walk swiftly without direction, turning left down the street in search for a cab. Terrance clears his throat behind you. “Center of the city is the other way, ma’am. Let me call a driver, the cabs’ll cheat you.” You concede, the raging hunger in your stomach your main motivator. He probably wouldn’t have let you take a cab anyways, safety protocols and all that. You brush the small revolver in your purse for comfort and think of the small knife strapped to your upper calf. It’s not the best placement, but you’re overly cautious with your first venture into the city. You tap your foot impatiently as Terrance calls a driver. You didn’t eat lunch after meeting Laswell, too eager to explore.

After a short ride, Terrance sitting up front with the driver, you arrive to your destination: your new storefront. It’s a bit rundown but the street is busy even at this early dinner hour, a good sign for business. Huge glass windows frame either side, and you try to peak through to get a look inwards. It seems dusty but well kept, no signs of natural damage. A perfect clean slate.

Satisfied, you turn to look for a cafe, since the restaurants aren’t open just yet. Settling on a quaint one down the street, you order a sandwich and find a seat. It’s nice to spend time surrounded by others, lives flashing by yours in a flash as you sit by a window, picking at your food. You invite Terrance to sit with you twice but he refuses, content to stand near your seat at the window, eyes on both the inside and outside. You brought a notebook with you, so the hours fly by as you plan your bookstore. You force yourself to stay past dinner, only conceding to a ride back when Terrance looks dead on his feet and the cafe workers are clearly closing.

When you get home, John isn’t there.

Your veins go cold but you shake it off, reciting reasons why you shouldn’t care: just friends, childhood enemy, influenced the breakup of your family, forced you into a marriage, practical stranger. Then the other side of your brain responds: the honeymoon period, agreed to negotiations, doesn’t pressure you into sex, gifted you a library, holds you tight every morning, takes care of you when drunk. It’s a tie, like your cartoon devil and angel can’t even decide. Typical.

You decide on a long shower, shutting yourself away in the bathroom. Body scrubs, haircare routine, shaving, the works. The excitement of the day hits you and you smile to yourself, thoughts of your new bookstore drifting through your mind. Maybe you need some stress relief. Maybe you’ll give yourself what John won’t.

You drag a hand down your wet body, pinching your nipples. A scene from the library appears in your mind, the memory of being completely exposed under John’s view. How he brushed the lace of your underwear, testing the wetness of your folds. Your other hand starts to circle your clit, faster and faster as you imagine what would have happened had the clock not struck twelve. How he would have stuffed a finger, maybe two, into your hole, exploring the limits of your body. How he would’ve called you sweetheart in that rough voice. Your core tightens unreasonably fast, careening towards the edge of your orgasm when it just stops. You groan in frustration, then reach for the detachable showerhead.

This time is rougher, torturing your poor cunt with harsh water pressure. You find yourself on the edge again, clenching with anticipation before it escapes you again. That’s enough of a sign that it’s not going to happen for you tonight. Defeated, you end your shower quickly, speeding through the rest of your night routine.

You exit the bathroom clothed in pajamas, sweating from exasperation and effort. Two failed orgasms is enough to break any woman’s heart. This thought is what keeps you from immediately realizing John’s sitting up in bed, reading glasses on, shirt off. It stops you in your tracks.

“Nice shower?” He asks, not looking up from the reports in his hands. You stutter, long enough for him to look up in confusion. “You good, sweetheart?” You shake your head, wiping your hands on your pajamas. “Sorry, lost my train of thought. Think the hot water fried some of my brain cells.” He chuckles, a sound that goes straight to your core. He looks so damn delicious, better than your shower fantasies. The glasses make him look like a frazzled professor instead of the head of a criminal organization. The fantasy is a bit broken by the Glock on his bedside table, but you shrug it off. You make your way to the bed, shutting off your bedside lamp as soon as you get in. His eyes bore a hole into the side of your head, like he can tell you tried getting off to the thought of him for half an hour and failed.

“Laswell tol’ me ‘bout your meetin’.” He says after a few minutes. You flip to face him, tugging the covers up to your chin. “I love her. She’s like who I want to be when I grow up.” Instead of reminding you that you are, indeed, grown up, he nods like he understands. You hate it. “She has tha’ effect. She’d make a mean school principal.” You laugh and he turns to hit you with the full force of his smile. “Like that lady from Matilda. But without the corporal punishment.” He nods. “Like a calm Trunchbull. Instead of yellin’, she’d jus’ stare.” You both laugh at the image, breaking the ice of his abandonment during the week. John turns out the light, disappointingly taking off his glasses and putting away his reports. You both get comfortable, facing opposite directions on your respective sides of the beds.

“‘M sorry for this week. Wasn’t real friend behavior.” Did he just apologize? You clear your throat, forcing yourself not to turn to face him. “It’s okay, I get it. I’ll be busy soon, too.” He’s quiet for a while.

“I wish we had a longer honeymoon.” It physically hurts you to say. You quickly try to take it back. “You know, to spend in the library.” You mutter. “‘S ok, sweetheart. I would’ve liked more time too.”

Oh.

“Right, well, goodnight, John.” What else can you say? I wish you’d stay longer in the mornings? I wish we had dinner together? I wish this was under different circumstances and our families weren’t entwined? “Goodnight, sweetheart.”

Except sleep doesn’t take you. The memory of your shower is too recent, your core fluttering with the memory of your failed orgasms. You shift against the pillows, the scrape of the bedsheets torture against your skin. For a madness-induced second, you dip your hand down your pajamas, but you quickly pull it back when you remember John is a foot away. After fifteen minutes of squirming, he finally says something.

“You alrigh’?” You huff, still moving to get comfortable. “Sorry, I’m just hot.” He tugs the covers off you and towards him. “Can keep the covers off?” But now you’re shivering without their warmth. He moves closer to put them back, his face inches away as he tucks you in. “What’s wrong?” It’s low and sweet, like how he was on the phone. It makes you cave.

“I couldn’t get off.” He doesn’t react, like he was expecting you to say that. Which would be crazy. Right?

“Tha’ righ’?” You nod in the darkness, almost pouting in pain. “I tried in the shower and it didn’t work. Sorry, I can sleep in the sitting room if it makes you uncomfortable.” You feel him shaking his head, the whooshing of air surrounding the two of you.

“You want help?” He can’t be serious. “You’re joking.” Instead of responding, his hand brushes your face, much closer than you originally thought. You inhale at the sudden rush of his scent, hips canting in the air in a biological response. He’s leaning over you, too out of reach.

“Christ, you’re gaggin’ fer it.” Your mouth drops, a perfect opportunity for him to brush the rounded O of your lips. He dips his middle finger into your mouth and, against your better judgement, you suck. “Look at tha’, so sweet fer me.” It’s encouragement to suck harder, rewarded with one of his groans. The moonlight catches the blue of his eyes, alight with hunger. You moan, and he evilly tugs his finger out of your mouth and into his own. Its a brutal show of spit swapping, leaving you panting. “John, please.” He gets the memo, sliding the finger under your pajama shorts. And then he just explores. Manipulates your folds this way and that, missing your clit by miles.

“This a gyno exam that I didn’t-,” but he cuts you off with a rough kiss, his thumb pressing on your clit as he finally pushes a finger into your messy hole. It’s as possessive as your kiss at the wedding. He sucks on your top lip, then pulls away before you enjoy it too much. “So fuckin’ wet. This all fer me?” You nod desperately, hips moving to join the rhythm of his fingers. He finds your G-spot with ease, stroking you with a ‘come here’ motion as you rock against him. “Missed you, baby. Y’r cunny miss me?” And all you can do is plead, chests brushing against each other as he kisses his way down your neck, sloppy and unrestrained. “Yes, yes, missed you.” He grunts his approval.

His other hand moves to stablize his weight, forearm digging into the bed as his fingers curl around the crown of your head. Your hands find purchase in his hair, tugging him back to your lips when he gets too far. A second finger, his ring one, meets his middle. You haven’t sex in a while, the only explanation for how full you feel.

“Gonna hav’ t’ work ya open ‘fore you take my cock.” He whispers like it’s a note for him to remember, not meant for your ears. “Someone’s, oh fuck,” he circles your clit harder, tightening the coil in your belly. “Someone’s confident.” Is what you finally bite out, panting hard. He chuckles, nosing at your neck before kissing you again on the lips. “You opposed t’ future orgasms, baby?” You shake your head, babbling nonsense as he fucks you deeper on his fingers. Your cunt is begging for release, squeezing so hard you can’t breathe.

“Gonna come.” He nods, licking the sweat behind your ear before nipping at your jaw. “Let it out, sweetheart,” and you do, spasming on his fingers. He works you through it, slowing his motions with practiced ease. You breathe a sigh of relief, the tension in your body having disappeared. John captures your lips, allowing you to tug him closer so he’s inbetween your legs. You rub your sweat-soaked body against his, whimpering at the sensitivity of your skin. He shushes you, petting you with hairy paws as your breathing calms. “What a good girl fer me.” He whispers, almost condescendingly. You mewl at his tone, cat-like in his arms.

“I hate you.” You lie. All he does is kiss your forehead, then your nose. “Sure ya do, sweetheart. Feel better?” It turns you to butter. All you can do is nod, bashful at his tone. “Maybe.” He kisses your cheek, then rolls to the side, tugging you into him. “Sleep.” He commands.

It’s the best sleep you’ve gotten all week.

This is John’s mansion: https://search.savills.com/property-detail/gbsshsslh240021

Disclaimer that i have no clue how to write the differences between Gaz and Price’s accents so your patience and possible suggestions are much appreciated.

🚨

i have no more room on my tag list. pls turn on notifications. if you’re not tagged, that’s why!

@heretoreadanddrinktea

@peachyxrosie

@joufrance

@galactict3a

@exactlyyoungchaos

@trulovekay

@alleycc

@abox-of-rocks

@orangehibiscus

@mismatchsposts

@nova-willow-541

@throwing-up-butterflies

@grossitsluca

@evans-dejong

@popcornlauncher

@earthcole

@backfromthedeadhehehe

@baduzzxy

@thegreyjoyed

@cutelibrariangf

@dearghostling

@mrsmalfoy1005

@all-by-myself98

@snburntandsad

@baklovers

@rmikaelson01

@leon-thot-kennedy

@the-gods-gloted-but-they-burned

@barcelonaaababe

@brokenandemptyhearts

@sleep101

@ontopofthefridge

@lilynotdilly

@teenagellamaangel

@harperdoodle

@ii-angelsrolltheireyes-ii

@violetisheresworld

@lolwey

@polyfandom-blogs

@burrowedinnature77

@sharkerino

@ashy-kit

@aikojwhpa

@thriving-n-jiving

@krispymagazinepizza-blog

@grayskel

@rpgsandstuff

@hisuccubus

@lumi-kalyke

@gimmeabreak1

396 notes · View notes