#marissa/reader fic in the making!! | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

javier-pena · 6 months ago

Text

quicksand

Pairing: Pedro's unnamed character in Materialists x f!reader

Word Count: 8.2k

Rating: Explicit

Summary: You meet a stranger at a party.

Notes: Last week I saw these behind the scenes shots of Pedro in Materialists and somehow I had to write 8,000 words about that? I'm also not quite sure what happened, it was supposed to be like 3k max. There was also this ask Han @swiftispunk received that I couldn't get out of my head. The title is inspired by Ms Swift's song Treacherous (And I'll do anything you say / If you say it with your hands / And I'd be smart to walk away / But you're quicksand), the rest is inspired by going completely feral whenever new pictures dropped. Tremendous thanks to Dani @alexturner who just beta'd a long-ass fic last week and then this fic this week - you're being way too good to me with indulging all thoughts I have that I have to turn into short stories 🫣 My dear, sweet anon who kept sending me encouraging asks, this is for you!!

***

There’s laughter coming from downstairs, deep, rumbling laughter impossible to ignore. Your whole body seems to shake with it, your heart stutters in your chest angrily, and you press your hands over your ears. But the loud voices are still there, mocking you with their indifference to your pain. You bury your face in your cool satin pillow and sob into it, ruining the expensive fabric. You don’t fucking care.

All your friends warned you this would happen and you hate how they were right. “You’re nothing but a toy to him.” Shut up, Marissa, you’re just jealous. “Maybe you should look for a boyfriend who’s closer to you in age.” Maybe you should look for a boyfriend, period. “You’re only a fuckmaid to him, do you realize that?” That was the point you stopped listening to them and, at the same time, it was the point you should have started listening.

You are nothing but a toy to him. You should have looked for someone closer to you in age. You are … no, you can’t bring yourself to even think the word, because the truth hurts too much. The truth and your blindness and your stupidity and the fact that you’re throwing your life away for a man who breaks every promise he makes and who treats you like a pet. A beautiful, expensive pet that can be ignored whenever it’s convenient.

“Come with me to the Keys,” he whispered into your ear, his breath hotter than his steadily cooling release sticking to your thighs.

“What?” you asked, heart clenching painfully. When was the last time he cared enough to make you come? Months ago?

“Come with me to the Keys,” he repeated. “The change of scenery will be good for us. I’ll show you around. We can go deep sea fishing. I’ll buy you some dresses and bathing suits. Just take my card tomorrow.”

He brushed your hair away from your neck, kissed the skin there, cupped one of your breasts, squeezed it hard. “Piers,” you warned, tried to get away from him. But there was nowhere to go.

The truth is you had been looking forward to his trip. Had been looking forward to having the apartment to yourself for a while. It’s not like you would’ve done anything in particular except just breathe for once.

“Don’t be like that,” he mumbled against your neck, squeezed your breast again. “Don’t you want to sip on a nice cocktail? Wear a risqué outfit for me?”

No, you didn’t want that. But if you didn’t say yes soon, he’d get angry. “Okay,” you gave in. “But you have to promise me that you’ll spend one day with me. No business.”

What’s easily promised is easily broken.

Today is supposed to be your day. And for once in your life, you thought it would be. Piers took you out for breakfast, right by the water. You watched the sunshine dance across the waves. Then he showed you around town, took you to his favorite spots in Key West, even held your hand. And you thought, This is it. I’m finally worthy of him. Then came the call, followed by those emails, and suddenly Piers was like, “Sorry, babe, I have to meet them, they’re important business partners. Why don’t you go to the beach club, buy yourself a nice massage? Here’s my card.”

Here's my card. You’ve never hated three words more.

What you didn’t expect was to come home to a party. At least twenty men were milling around the house Piers liked to refer to as his “Key West Residence”, a late 19th century villa. Twenty loud men, rich like Piers, most of them his age, leering at you as you stepped through the front door, mistaking you for tonight’s entertainment.

“Babe!” Piers boomed, spilling half his drink while opening his arms as if he meant to hug you. The glances didn’t stop. “Go upstairs, freshen up, put on something nice, and then let me show you off.”

You managed to complete the first step before breaking down on your bed. You’ve been sobbing ever since.

Something breaks downstairs and some of the men roar. You bury your face deeper against the pillow, terrified to go back downstairs, terrified to stay up here. Whatever you do, it will be the wrong thing. You close your eyes and think about what it would be like if the men downstairs vanished. If you had the house to yourself, sharing it with a person you loved and who loved you in return. You could be having dinner on the patio now. Before that, you might go for a swim in the pool, knowing the only eyes on you were your partner’s, the only glances you received were welcome.

You sit up straight. You might hate it when Piers’ business partners look at you like you’re a piece of meat, but Piers hates it too if they don’t do it without being invited. Twenty men imagining all the vile ways in which they could fuck you is the last thing you want right now, but it’s also the last thing Piers wants.

You stumble into the bathroom and wash your face with ice cold water, willing the puffiness of your eyes to recede. You put on your most expensive makeup, the kind that only comes off with intensive scrubbing, then you pick your most revealing bikini and put it on. If those men stared at you like that in a long sundress, their heads will probably explode if they see you like this.

Chin held high, beach towel thrown over your shoulder, you make your way downstairs on high heels the same shade of black as your bikini. You feel utterly stupid, like you’re giving them exactly what they want, but the flush that spreads across Piers’ cheeks when he sees you is worth it. There are some whistles, a few crude comments, one man slaps your ass, but you make it to the pool. None of them are brave enough to follow you outside.

The water is cool against your skin, doing its best to extinguish the fire that burns within you. The flames don’t die down completely but they’re certainly soothed. You start to swim, one length, then three, and soon the party resumes and the men pick up their conversations again. This almost feels normal; this almost feels like a life you could enjoy. Except that you’re alone. And not in a way you crave.

You stop swimming and start drifting on your back, watching the sky above turn from a gentle blue into a soft pink, a bright orange, a deep purple. Soon, the sun will go down and the party will pick up speed. You should go, put on a dress, let Piers show you off, vanish before they’ve had too much alcohol.

You climb out of the pool, squeeze water out of your hair, wrap the towel around yourself. No one is paying attention to you now, so you pick up your heels to carry them back upstairs. There’s no way you’ll make it back to your room without one or two unwanted glances, without the odd rude comment, but you can live with that. You step onto the patio, eyes firmly fixed on your destination, then start walking through the gathering, careful not to look at anyone, careful not to be seen.

Someone sees you though. It’s not Piers, and it also isn’t one of the men who look at you and lick their lips. It’s someone watching you from the shadows, someone on one of the chairs in the parlor. Keep your eyes on the stairs, you tell yourself. Nothing good can come from this. While you were in the pool, Piers must have turned on the music, old jazz songs he always plays when he wants to appear sophisticated. The tinny sounds of saxophones make your ears ring, irritating you more than the heavy smell of cigar smoke that seems to be seeping into every corner of the house. You feel horrible between all those men dressed in their suits, even with the towel covering most of your skin. And you wish that one man would stop watching you because it makes you feel hunted, makes your body beg to run and hide.

At the foot of the stairs you pause, your heart in your throat. A man brushes past you, pretending like there is only so little room he has to press his palm against the small of your back. You turn around looking for Piers, ready to pretend you have a horrific migraine and won’t be joining him after all, when your eyes land on the man who is making the hair at the back of your neck stand with his unrelenting gaze.

You can’t see him properly because he’s half hidden behind the door to the parlor, a room that’s devoid of proper lighting and full of cigar smoke. But you see his dark eyes on you, feel them look right through you, see you for who you are, while he laughs at something the man next to him is saying. You crane your neck to get a better look at him but two other men walk past, obscuring your view. When they spot you and start to make their way toward you, you bolt up the stairs. At least no one will dare to follow you up here.

*******

“There she is!” Piers announces later, opening his arms wide again. He doesn’t spill his drink this time. You step into his embrace and let him kiss your cheek. “Took you long enough, doll.” You hate it when he calls you that, but you keep on smiling. Then he leans closer and whispers, “If you ever pull a stunt like that again, I’ll make sure you’ll regret it. Letting another man touch you! What’s wrong with you?”

So it did bother him after all. It should make you feel proud, but it only makes you feel empty. “I’m sorry,” you whisper back and kiss him. Someone at the back of the room whistles.

“Just try to behave for the rest of the night,” he says coldly, then smiles at you and asks in his loud business voice, “Isn’t she lovely?”

Some of the men nod but none dare to look at you directly. Not when Piers has his arm slung around your shoulder anyway.

“How about a drink?” he asks you and when you nod, he takes your hand and leads you toward the bar at the back of the parlor. You follow him, shivering slightly from the evening breeze blowing in through the open French doors. The smoke in the room makes your eyes sting.

With practiced ease, Piers fills a sparkling glass with vodka and soda, adding a bit of lime juice. You try to ignore the man who is standing a little bit too close to you, whose eyes hang a little bit too low.

“Here you are.” Piers hands you the glass. “I have something to discuss with those gentlemen over there,” he nods at two men standing by the door to his study, “but I shouldn’t be too long. Try not to cause too much of a scene while I’m gone.”

You close your fingers around the glass and nod. All you want to do is run.

As soon as he’s gone, they start to close in on you. It’s what Piers wants. He wants others to desire what belongs to him – his apartment, his car, his life. You’re part of all of that. He wants these men to desire you, to think they can have you. You should have listened to your friends, to Marissa and Annie and all the others. If you had, you might hate yourself less.

You know they all want to talk to you and they won’t take no for an answer, so you start to make your way toward the open French doors to escape into the garden. If you stand right at the edge, you can hear the waves whisper and feel the ocean breeze on your face. And if you keep still long enough, they might forget about you.

You don’t even make it out the door before your eyes start to wander from the lush green bushes and trees outside and land on a man sitting in a leather armchair close to the open doors. You don’t know if it’s the same one whose gaze you felt on you earlier, but there’s something about him that makes it hard for you to look away. He’s in the middle of a conversation, one leg comfortably slung across the other, ankle resting against thigh. One of his hands is spread on his knee, his fingers stroking and tapping the expensive fabric of his back dress pants in a nervous tick. His other hand is wrapped around a glass full of amber liquid that he takes a swig from right as you walk past, pretending not to notice how the muscles in his neck work as he swallows, pretending not to notice the gold ring on his little finger that clinks against the glass as he lowers it again.

Your own drink untouched, you stand on the patio, off to the side where you hope no one will notice you but where you can look at that stranger from time to time. You don’t think you’ve seen him before, but you don’t usually pay a lot of attention to Piers’ associates. None of the men here this evening look familiar. Still, there is something about the way this man runs his fingers through his dark curls from time to time, the way he tries to smooth the wrinkles in his white shirt, the way he takes a drag from a big, dark brown cigar once in a while that makes it impossible for you to look away. Until another man demands your attention.

“Hi there,” he says, his laugh showing off perfectly straight, perfectly white teeth. “I’m Hutton.”

You think about saying, “And I’m not interested,” but to Piers that would probably count as causing a scene. And Hutton looks like he’s one of the younger men here, probably in his late 30s. There are worse guys to talk to. “Hi,” you reply with a sweet smile.

“Lovely evening, isn’t it?” He steps closer to you, encouraged by your smile.

“Yes,” you reply. “So how do you know Piers?”

If he’s annoyed by you bringing up your boyfriend right away, he doesn’t let it show. “We work together,” he answers, which could mean anything in Piers’s world.

“And what brings you to Key West?”

“The scenery,” Hutton answers, not even trying to hide his hungry gaze that glides over your naked shoulders and cleavage.

“I thought it was business,” you say, your smile faltering slightly. “Seeing you’re here.”

“I try not to mix business with pleasure.” Hutton leans against the small sliver of wall between the French doors and the corner of the house. “It’s neither good for business nor pleasure.”

You hum, trying to take a step back. You’re already at the edge of the patio though, and you almost stumble off it, losing your footing.

Hutton grabs your arm and pulls you toward him. “Careful there, pretty girl.”

You try to pull your arm back but he won’t let go. “Thank you,” you say at the same time as he says, “Have you ever thought about exchanging Piers for a younger model?”

It didn’t take him more than a few words exchanged to get to the point.

You yank your arm free but he grabs it again. “Stop it,” you command in your strictest voice but he only grins at you.

“Don’t be like this. I’m only fooling around.”

“Then let go of me.” He doesn’t.

You’re about to throw your drink in his face, even if it means Piers will be angry with you again, when someone steps out onto the patio.

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

He’s standing right there, one hand in the pocket of his dark pants, the other holding his cigar. Shame washes over you and your palms grow sweaty. You really don’t need this right now. But Hutton immediately lets go of you and turns to face the newcomer.

“We’re good here, thanks,” he says, his jaw clenched.

The stranger takes his time to take a drag on his cigar, lets out the smoke while looking up at the now deep purple evening sky. “It’s a lovely evening, isn’t it?” he asks and Hutton lets out a sigh.

“Are you just going to keep standing there?” he asks.

The stranger shrugs.

You glance into the parlor, at all the men milling about, wondering if you could make your escape without anyone noticing. But there is something in the way the stranger holds himself that makes you want to stay and find out how this ends. Piers, by now, would have rushed past Hutton, a snarl on his lips, his anger directed at you. The stranger just stands there, his shoulders relaxed, acting as if he doesn’t even particularly care that you and Hutton are out here on the patio as well. It’s a different kind of threat … a different kind of protectiveness.

Hutton turns to you. “Are you coming?”

You shake your head and with a roll of his eyes and an annoyed, “Whatever,” he vanishes into the house, leaving you alone with him.

The silence unbearable, you say, “Thank you.”

He takes another drag on his cigar, then comes closer to you. You ignore how your heart flutters at his approach. He reaches for your hand and for a wild moment you think he’s going to grab your arm too, but he only takes the drink from your hand, sniffs the contents of the glass, then dumps it over the edge of the patio. “Let’s get you a proper drink,” he says.

You’re too stunned to do much more than follow him back into the house and toward the bar. Around you, the volume has risen since you stepped out onto the patio, but you don’t care as much as you did before. It’s hard to care about anything when your stomach is in a tight knot and when you feel like the world around you has gone completely quiet.

The man steps behind the bar, gently places his cigar in an ashtray, then regards the collection of bottles before him with his hands on his hips. “You don’t look like a vodka girl to me,” he mumbles, and you feel your face grow hot. You don’t know why. “Here.” He pulls out a bottle of whiskey and a bottle of vermouth. You only now notice how big his hands are, and your mind immediately starts to replay the evening. His hand on his knee, his hand around his glass, his hand … You shake your head, but the shiny gold ring on his little finger glitters enticingly as he unscrews the bottle of vermouth to smell the alcohol within. It’s like you’re a magpie, enchanted by everything that glitters.

“Sweet enough,” he concludes, pouring a little vermouth and a lot of whiskey into a martini glass. Then he goes through all the bottles once more until he finds one of lavender bitter and adds it to the mix.

“What is that?” you ask.

He shakes his head. “I’m not done yet.” There’s a small jar of cocktail cherries he unscrews. With skilled movements, he skewers two of them onto a silver cocktail stick before handing you the glass. The mix inside is orange on top, a reddish purple deeper below. It looks like the sunset you watched earlier.

“What is it?” you ask again.

“Taste it,” he tells you, an eager glint in his eyes.

You take a careful sip and widen your eyes in surprise at the strong yet sweet taste. “Oh, this is really good!”

“It’s sweet, like you,” he says, then seems to change his mind, adopting a matter-of-fact tone of voice. “It’s a Manhattan. That’s where you belong, not in this tourist trash kind of town.”

That makes you laugh. “Hey, I like it here.”

The bar is still between you but he leans on it to get closer to you. “I bet you would also like Manhattan if I showed you around.”

“I’m from Manhattan,” you tell him. “I live there, actually.”

“I do too,” he responds. “Funny how we should run into each other here, of all places.”

You inhale shakily. You don’t know why. “If you hate it here so much, what are you doing here?”

He smiles at you, and you’re sure your heart stops. “I heard you talk to that other guy. I’m not here to have a conversation like that with you.”

You take another sip from your cocktail even though it makes your head spin. “What are you here for then?”

“That’s just another way of asking me what I’m doing here, angel eyes,” he points out. He does it so smoothly you almost don’t notice the diminutive.

You straighten your back, only now realizing you were leaning on the bar close to him. He mirrors you, then walks around the wood between you so he can stand directly next to you. “You tell me what you want to talk about then. After all, you approached me, you made me a drink, you wanted to whisk me off to Manhattan.”

“That was before I realized how worldly you are,” he says and his smile turns sly.

“Oh?” you make. You swallow. “Am I too difficult for you then?”

“I like a challenge.”

This is where you should stop. This is where you should thank him again for rescuing you, and for the drink, and where you should walk away to find your boyfriend, who surely has to be done with his meeting by now. But how can you step away when he’s still smiling at you as if he’s having the time of his life, when you felt drawn to him all evening, when having his eyes on you makes you feel truly seen? Yes, he isn’t exactly subtle in the way he flirts with you, but there is a kindness in his gaze you’ve never seen on another man before. And then he touches you, straightening the strap of your short, tight dress, and your whole body comes alive.

“You know smoking is bad for you, right?” is the only thing you can come up with, willing your voice to remain steady.

“I like things that are bad for me,” he replies.

It’s such a cheesy line, it makes you want to bury your face in your hands. But, god, does talking to him make you feel good.

“Ha!” He points at you. “That’s the first genuine smile I’ve seen all evening.

“Call me ‘sweet’ again and you might see some more,” you retort. All you want to do is to tell him you don’t mind his harmless flirting, that whatever this is between you is fun, but it comes out heavy with implications. Implications you can’t take back because you don’t want to.

He brushes your hair behind your ear and you think you might die. “You’re very brave.” It’s a statement. “I saw you walk to the pool earlier in –”

“I know,” you interrupt him. “I saw you watching me.”

He brushes his thumb over your bottom lip. “It made me want to kiss you.”

You freeze. There is nothing you can say that won’t end badly for you. “So you made me a drink instead?”

He plucks the cocktail stick out of your glass and holds it up to your mouth. You close your lips around the first cocktail cherry and pull it off slowly, your eyes fixed to his. It might just be the low lighting but you think his pupils dilate. He drops the stick back into the glass and takes a big swig of your drink, his eyes momentarily leaving yours. You do your best not to watch his throat as he swallows.

“You really are something,” he concludes, putting down the glass on the bar.

You feel lightheaded, as if you’d just made out with him for half an hour. “I’m also in a relationship.” The words are out before you can stop yourself. You didn’t mean to say them.

“I don’t give a damn.”

You giggle, actually giggle, like a schoolgirl with a crush. “You sound like the hero in one of those ancient black-and-white movies.”

“Or maybe I’m the villain.”

This time you do bury your face in your hands. “Oh, stop it.”

“No,” he simply says, and you get it. You want to kiss him too.

Instead, you glance at the small gold wrist watch on your arm. “It’s late. I should –”

He interrupts you. “Don’t –,” but you don’t let him finish.

“Thank you for the drink. And thank you for making me laugh. You made this whole thing bearable.”

You don’t know if you should shake his hand or kiss his cheek so you don’t do any of it. You pat his arm, once, trying not to notice how it feels against your palm, then walk toward the stairs, your heart breaking with each step. If you were single, you wouldn’t have hesitated to sleep with this man. If you weren’t Piers’ girlfriend, he would never have looked your way. It’s better to end it here.

The quietness of your room engulfs you, just like the soothing coolness of the pool earlier. As soon as you close the door behind you and lean against it, you can breathe. Yes, you can still hear the sounds of the party, but they’re muffled. You can finally hear yourself think again and you exhale shakily. You almost made the biggest mistake of your life. The adrenaline rush you got from it makes you snicker.

Piers isn’t entirely faithful. He attends parties with strippers, he looks at other women, you know all that. But it doesn’t mean anything because at the end of the day he comes home to you. What you just did … it goes beyond everything Piers has ever done, and you wouldn’t have been able to look at yourself in the mirror if you had spent one more minute in the presence of that handsome stranger. Even if your flirting made you happier than Piers has in months.

There’s a knock at your door and you jump. Expecting Piers, you open it without a second thought. “I’ll be right …,” you start but forget every word in the English language when you come face to face with the stranger.

“Hello,” he says, and that handsome smile is back on his face, even if he keeps a careful distance. “You vanished so quickly it made me wonder … did I do something wrong?”

“What?” you ask because it’s the only word you can remember.

“I’ll go back downstairs if you don’t want me here,” he goes on, “just say the word.”

They never come up the stairs. Never. Who does he think he is? “You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m just tired.” You try to close the door in his face, but he steps closer, bracing a hand against the wooden doorframe. “Excuse me,” you say insistently.

“Can I come in?”

Into your room? “Oh, I don’t think that would be a good idea,” you reject him. You laugh, but it sounds insincere. “You should go back downstairs.”

“Alright,” he agrees, “but you have to say it like you mean it.”

“Listen here,” you start in your best no-nonsense voice. He tightens his grip on the wood and you hear it creak, despite the noise downstairs. “I want you to …”

It’s no use. You don’t know who he is, you don’t even know his name, but you also know that if you don’t let yourself have this, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.

“You need to say the words, sweet –”

“I want you to kiss me.”

You both freeze. His mouth hangs open, still in the middle of forming the next word he wanted to say. You tense, well aware that you said something you can not take back.

The few seconds that pass feel like an eternity. Then he pushes himself past the doorframe into your room, into your personal space. You smell the heavy scent of cigar smoke on him, you smell leather and lavender and citrus. You see his smile that turns into something more determined the closer he gets to you. You notice the stubble on his cheek, the glint in his eyes, the small dark spot on the collar of his white shirt. You feel … you feel his body pressing against yours, his hand pressing against the small of your back, his breath on your face, and then everything is reduced to his lips on yours, your breaths mingling, his … his tongue coaxing you open, not gently but insistent, and you not hesitating to open yourself up for him.

It's as if you’re watching it all from above, you pushing him backward, him closing the door with a hard slam, the both of you pulling at each other while kissing and kissing and …

“Careful,” he chuckles when you bite down on his bottom lip. “You said kiss, not –”

“I don’t give a fuck what I said,” you interrupt him, pulling his shirt out of his pants.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he says and grabs your wrist.

You groan. “Don’t tell me you’re having second thoughts.”

He pulls you in for another kiss. “I’m not. You’re just … We’re doing this on my terms or not at all.”

Something throbs deep within your core.

He tightens his hold on you. “I’ve had all evening to think about this. To picture all the things I want to do to you.”

“It’s not going to be just kissing then?” you ask, relishing the chuckle you draw out of him.

“I knew I wouldn’t leave here tonight without feeling your pretty little cunt clench around me.”

It sounds like a line straight out of a porn movie. You should laugh, tell him to take you seriously. But all you can do is whimper at the thought of him sitting in his chair downstairs, talking to one of Piers’ associates or even Piers himself while thinking about being buried deep inside of you. Every other man would send you fleeing. Not him though.

“Who are you?” you whisper.

“Does it matter? Once I’m done with you, you’ll have forgotten your own name.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. “Those are some big words,” you point out.

He lets go of your wrist, then bunches the fabric of your dress up in his hand until he can reach below the hem, his broad, warm hand landing on your naked skin, his ring digging into your soft flesh. You gasp.

“Do you really think I’d disappoint you?”

“No,” you say too quickly, too rashly.

He grabs your dress again. “How about you take this off for me?”

“No,” you repeat, biting the inside of your cheek so you don’t laugh at the look of shock on his face. Then you turn around. “I can’t really open the zipper without some assistance.”

He runs both his hands over your naked shoulders and down to the middle of your back. You expect him to take his time, but he yanks the zipper down so quickly you think you hear fabric tear. You almost don’t have enough time to slip out of the thin shoulder straps before he falls to his knees behind you, pulling the dress with him. His hands are on your butt cheeks now, massaging, grabbing you as if he’s set on memorizing every detail. He slips his thumb under the hem of your panties, dips the tip into the wetness there.

You gasp at the same time as he whispers, “Knew it.”

You pull him away from you and turn around, well aware you’re completely naked except for your panties. “Well, it’s hardly surprising,” you start, your voice airy, but then it dies down completely at the sight of him kneeling in front of you looking up at you with so much heat in his gaze you’re getting burned. How did you get here?

You want him to tease you back, but he only pulls you close, his hands clasping your hips insistently, and kisses your belly, right above the hem of your panties. Then he kisses your thighs and your sides, and your belly button, and then he pulls down your panties and buries his face in your wetness with a relieved sigh. Your hands shoot forward and grab his curls, dig into them, desperate for purchase, as your head swims from the overstimulation. You would like to focus on the feeling of his hair between your fingers. You would like to focus on his tongue swirling around your clit. You would like to focus on the growl he makes when you run your nails over his scalp.

You think you’re laughing. You think you say, “Does that still count as kissing?”

“Yes,” he mumbles against the soft skin of your thighs. His curls are already a mess, his face is flushed, but when he glances up at you, his eyes are bright with determination.

“I think you have to show me that definition of kissing someday,” you go on, glancing up at the ceiling. You can’t look at him directly, it feels too intimate.

“That’s enough talking,” he decides and licks a broad stripe across your drenched folds.

You tighten your grip on his curls in response because your legs start to quiver. You hope he doesn’t notice, but his fingers dig into your thighs to steady you. The edges of his ring are cutting into you almost painfully – you want more of it. His hair wrapped around your fingers you pull him closer into you and he moans against you … actually moans. You push away those thoughts that make you compare him to Piers, how Piers would never moan if he was between your legs, how Piers never eats you out. This isn’t about him – it’s about you.

There’s something in the way that stranger rolls and flicks his tongue that tells you he won’t make you wait for an orgasm. You want to hold on longer because you can’t bear the thought of this being over already, but there is something in the way he devours you that pushes you toward the edge at a rapid speed. You don’t even hear the sounds of the party anymore, the laughter, the music; it’s just him and his deep sighs and moans.

You’re almost embarrassed by how fast you come. One second you’re appreciating the way his tongue flicks your clit, the next you can barely stay upright when your whole body releases months and months of built-up tension. You quiver in his grip and he holds you close, licking and licking until you can’t take it anymore. You think you mumble, “Fuckfuckfuck,” but there is no way to be sure. All you know is that you just had one of the best orgasms of your life.

You laugh as if the weight of the world has been lifted off your shoulders. What else is there to do? “So this is doing things on your terms?” you ask.

He sits back on his heels and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. You think you might explode at that sight. “No, that was for your benefit. The rest is going to be for mine.”

Your breath catches in your throat as you glance over your shoulder at your bed that’s rumpled from you crying on it earlier. If he can make you feel like that with just his tongue, what will he be –

“No, sugar, not like that,” he tells you, immediately pulling your attention back to him.

Your throat is dry when you ask, “What then?”

He stands and cups your cheek, his hand pleasantly warm. You lean into the touch immediately. “Don’t be so impatient. Enjoy the moment for a while.”

“What moment …?” you start but you don’t get far. He claims your mouth in a searing kiss that makes you wish you had been paying more attention to what he was doing when he was eating you out. You kiss him back, slinging your arms around his neck, the soft fabric of his white shirt rubbing against your naked chest. He licks across your bottom lip until you open your mouth for him, and then he claims you like no one has before. You fear that if you start thinking about how you can taste yourself on him, you’ll go insane.

“You’re so easy to kiss,” he mumbles against your lips. You’re not quite sure how he means it, but your chest still expands at the compliment.

“And you’re very handsome,” you retort lamely.

“Is that what you’ve been thinking about telling me all evening?”

“No,” you reply too slowly this time.

He kisses your temple, then brings his mouth right next to your ear. “I’ve been thinking about watching myself fuck you.”

He doesn’t give you time to process, takes you over to the vanity that stands opposite your bed, its mirror dull in the dim light of the room. Even when he places your hands on the table top, telling you to hold on, you still don’t think he’s serious. You look at yourself in the mirror, at the makeup smudges below your eyes, the birth mark on your throat that you hate, how your mouth hangs open in a way that looks so very unsexy. Behind you, that stranger you invited into your room, this man you know nothing about, is unbuttoning his expensive dress pants, his white shirt obscuring the view. What does he see in you that makes him want you like this?

“Do you know what you’re doing to me?” he groans, his eyes fluttering shut.

He’s holding himself now, but you can’t see his hand moving without turning around. And he didn’t tell you you’re allowed to look. Your palms begin to sweat against the wooden surface of the vanity, at the thought of him telling you what you are and aren’t allowed to do, at him praising you for doing well and punishing you if you don’t. You don’t recognize that side of yourself.

His eyes are open again and he searches for yours in the mirror. “I asked you a question.”

You swallow hard. “No, I don’t,” you say, fighting down a giggle. It’s nerves.

“I’d better show you then,” he concludes, and he pushes inside of you with one hard stroke, filling you faster than you can spread your legs.

You both take a moment to breathe. He adjusts himself, you try to get used to the angle, the feeling of fullness. You haven’t seen his hard cock, but you know he’s more than Piers, so much more the stretch is almost uncomfortable. The wood beneath your fingers starts to swim when your vision blurs and –

“No, none of that.” He grips your chin and lifts your head, forcing you to look at yourself in the mirror. “I’ve also been thinking about you watching me fuck you.”

His hand looks so big holding your face like that, and when you swallow again, he can feel it against his fingers.

His own face is right there next to yours, his eyes firmly fixed to yours through the glass. “You’re a big girl. I’m sure you can take it.”

Before you can think of anything to say, he pulls out of you and thrusts back in in a tentative motion that is enough for your eyes to flutter shut in pleasure.

“No, no, no,” he whispers into your ear. “Keep them open.”

You do as you’re told and he rewards you with a sharp bite to the spot where your neck meets your shoulders. Your hips thrust back of their own accord, meeting his in a quick snap.

“You make such pretty sounds,” he mumbles against your skin.

You hadn’t even realized you were making any, too transfixed by watching him move behind you. Whenever your gaze wavers and flutters to your own face, embarrassment sends adrenaline shooting through your body. But he … watching his shoulders and arms tense and relax beneath his shirt that looks all too tight now, watching him meet your gaze, eyes full of lust … you don’t know why you would fuck anyone any other way than this.

He straightens his back, changing the angle slightly, and now you do hear yourself groan. He grabs your chin tighter and pushes two fingers into your mouth. “You know,” he says, and his hips snap with more force, faster, making the vanity rattle beneath your hands, “if you were mine, I’d let no man touch you. I would’ve broken his arm.”

It takes you a few seconds to figure out what he means; you’re too busy relishing the taste of his skin on your tongue. There must have been a man who touched you … when you were coming down the stairs … You can see it all clearly now. He would grab that man’s arm, calm and collected, twist it, make him shout in surprise … you can almost hear the bones snap.

“Oh, look at that,” he groans, and you do. You look at yourself in the mirror, unashamed, eyes wide. You watch how you eagerly suck and lick his fingers, watch it as if another person was doing it. You’re trembling in his grip … or is he making everything shake with his thrusts that are coming faster and faster now as he fucks you, taking what he needs? “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” You almost don’t hear him, too transfixed by how depraved he’s making you feel. “You’d get off on that, a good man protecting you. Shame I’m not good, really.”

You don’t care. You’re done with those men who act politely, who treat you with care when they know Piers is around, but who talk about you taking it up the ass when your back is turned. You’d much rather have this, a man who isn’t scared to say these things to your face. Even if he thinks he isn’t all good, he still protected you.

He pulls his fingers out of your mouth and you whimper at the loss, watching how a thread of spit connecting his digits to your lips breaks. With his other hand, he suddenly grabs one of your breasts, squeezing your hard nipple with practiced ease, and you arch your back with a moan, exposing your throat to him. His fingers close around it, hard, restricting the airflow, his ring pressing against one of the most vulnerable spots of your body in a way that doesn’t leave any room for doubt – you’re doing this on his terms.

He tightens his grip on your throat until you start seeing stars, the loosens it. “I’m going to make you come now. I want you to watch yourself. I want you to see what you look like coming around my cock.”

If you could, you would nod, but he isn’t looking for your consent. He rolls your nipple between his thumb and forefinger one last time, then lowers his hand to find your clit. When he touches you, you make a sound like never before, one that’s feral and animalistic and can’t possibly be coming from you.

He shushes you, his breath tickling your neck. “You don’t want anyone to hear us.”

You don’t? You have no idea. You can’t form a single coherent thought as he pounds into you, making sure you’ll be able to feel him long after he’s done with you.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Your voice is breathless after that scream, hoarse and raw. Your gaze flickers to his fingers curled tightly around your neck.

“Keep your eyes on yourself, baby girl,” he orders.

Baby girl.

That’s what does it. You watch your eyes widen and your mouth fall open as your body shakes first from his thrusts and then from wave after wave of pleasure. He was right. You love this. You love watching yourself come while he forces you to watch yourself, love to watch your orgasm play out across your face. He’s watching you too, licking his lips hungrily, never faltering. But you can see it in his eyes, the way he’s memorizing every detail of your orgasm.

“Well done,” he says once you’re done and moves your chin so he can kiss your lips.

Then he suddenly pushes you down so your chest connects with the table top. You grunt in surprise, then in pain when he rolls your head to the side so you can still somewhat glimpse his reflection above you.

“My turn,” he growls.

His teeth are digging into his bottom lip, his eyes are firmly fixed on his own reflection, and he holds you down with such a strong grip you can’t move, but also in a way that’s so casual it makes you feel like he’s using you. Your heart stutters with longing so intense at that thought that the feeling spreads to the rest of your body and becomes so intense he feels it in his own. At least you think that is what’s going on when he smiles down on you.

The position you’re in and the tenderness between your legs steadily turns from pleasurable to uncomfortable to simply too much. But he doesn’t finish. He keeps going and going, not as fast as before, seemingly transfixed by what you’re doing. You reach back for him and he grabs your wrist and pins it to the small of your back.

“Please,” you whimper, and it makes his intense gaze falter for just one second.

“Almost there, baby girl,” he replies, “you’re doing so well. Just keep taking it a little while longer.” You think you could bear anything if he just kept talking to you like that.

Then suddenly it’s over. There is one last thrust that pushes you onto the tips of your toes and then he stills. The only movement comes from his hips that are twitching as he empties himself inside of you. You don’t even dare to breathe, watching as his reflection slowly relaxes and he closes his eyes for a few seconds, trying to catch his breath.

Finally, he pulls out of you and you try to stand, but he pushes you back down again. “Stay. We’re not done yet.”

Your legs tremble in anticipation, but your mind is blank, unable to imagine what else he could have in store for you. You don’t feel anything at first, you just hear him moan, and then you realize he’s kneeling behind you, cleaning you up with his tongue, eagerly licking his own release off your skin. It makes you feel so lewd you forget about everything, even Piers. Especially when he doesn’t stop at your thighs but moves further and further up your legs until his tongue and nose are buried in your folds once more and he’s spreading you open with his big hands.

You can’t help it.

“Fuck, fu- I- I’m gonna –”

There’s no time for you to finish the warning before you’re coming a third time, your hips desperately twitching against the vanity. He licks you through it, catching every last drop you’re giving him on his tongue. You can’t tell for sure but you think he’s chuckling and for some reason the shame you feel turns you on even more.

When it’s all over, he peels you off the vanity and pulls you into his arms, brushing your hair out of your face that is sticky with sweat. “You sure are a greedy little thing,” he says before he kisses you tenderly.

You swallow a sob and give him a sigh instead.

“Half the people downstairs probably heard us.” There’s a big grin on his face at that thought.

“I don’t give a fuck,” you repeat your earlier sentiment, surprised to discover that it’s true.

“Someone wants to get caught,” he teases and kisses you again.

“What I want is for you to fuck me like that again.”

“Oh, baby girl.” You almost hate how he’s already figured out what hearing him call you that does to you. “There are a million more things I want to do with you. This was just a taste.”

You’re not sure if you can believe him, but you decide to indulge that fantasy. You put on your sweetest smile. “Can’t wait.”

He lets go of you and walks toward your door. “Why don’t you give me a call once you’re back in Manhattan.”

A red warning light switches on somewhere in your brain. “But I don’t even know your name.”

“Something tells me you’ll find out.” And with that, he’s gone.

#materialists fanfiction #materialists #pedro pascal character fanfiction #pedro pascal #is this anything?#quicksand

343 notes · View notes

the-goddess-of-mischief-writing · 1 year ago

Note

WAIT I HAVE A THOUGHT! ok i have two i think it could turn into more but price using his military rank to either a) get someone to back off of sunshine!reader and marissa OR b) sunshine calls him captain during sex OR c) HE USES IT IN BOTH OF THOSE SITUATIONS IN THE SAME FIC 👀👀 …are those weird? idk but if you feel up to it this is a request for you to work your magic on this please and thank you

A/N: uhm, don't look at me nonnie, I got too carried away🫣

Rank me

Summary; As a Captain, Price has an air of authority not everyone does. One day when he returns from base, he finally makes you admit why you find that trait of his particular attractive

Pairing: Cpt. John Price x reader (sunshine!universe)

Rating: Mature

CHAPTER NO/ONESHOT: Onehsot

Word count; 9.3k

Warnings; smut (18+, no minors please), captain!kink, vaginal fingering, p in v, unprotected sex, slight edging, d/s themes,

Author; @the-goddess-of-mischief-writing

SUNSHINE UNIVERSE MASTERLIST

You sit opposite John, elbow resting against the armrest, head propped up by your fingers. He's seated in one of the two armchairs on the other side of your coffee table while you're sitting on your couch. A folder rests partly on the armrest of his seat and the unoccupied armchair beside him. A few more maps, although closed, were placed on the table.

You're not nosy with John's work, so the seemingly inconspicuous folders aren't what's gotten your attention. The man reading through them does.

John's elbow relaxes on the armrest while his lower back is curved, sunken into his seat, legs spread with feet planted firmly on the ground.

You'd tried to remind him of his posture, knowing he probably would complain about his back if he sat like that for too long. When you had, those blue eyes had flickered to yours with an appreciative look as he repositioned himself straight. However, he didn't last like that for long before slowly melting downwards again, retaking his 'I have a bad back but won't do anything about it pose'.

Although, as you now watch him working, it isn't a chide resting on your tongue.

John has returned to active duty, the past week being his first one back since he extended his issued downtime by a week after his most recent deployment, the one during late summer. You learned there's a big difference between active duty and deployed, never even coming close to either despite that martial course you took a few years back. The former meant you often were stationed on your home base, able to go back and forth home if you desired, much like ordinary work. The latter entailed 'a little field trip' as John worded it.

Today, John came to your place as soon as he got off from base, much like he'd done a few times during the week.

You didn't fuss about spending less time with him than when he was on leave. Not only was it John's job, but there were no regulations for contacting him, so he called the days you didn't meet. Often, the description of his day was brief, only defined somewhat if anything varied from his typical routine. John was usually more interested in how you were and whether you'd done something interesting. If your day had been equally bland, he enjoyed just listening to whatever was on your mind. Today, however, no phone call replaced his absence.

You and John planned to spend the weekend together at your place, and much like he'd promised, he called you once on his way. But, rather than a simple heads-up, he also informed you he would bring some paperwork, his superiors pushing a last-minute request upon him as he was about to leave. You suspected he was permitted to leave base with the documents through his involvement in the 141, not solely because his response ideally -another word for required- would be reported back tonight.

You've learned a great deal about how John likes to work, even if you've been fortunate to develop your relationship with him in a particularly deployment-free time window of his.

He prefers keeping work and home separate, not wanting the two words to bleed together in favour of your relationship. John explained why when you didn't understand his frustration about bringing some work with him back home during your earlier call.

Deployments cut into your shared time as it fits, the two of you having to work around it rather than the other way around. Therefore, he intends to limit work to base to savour your time while on active duty or ahead of a leave. If that meant staying a day or so longer after returning from a mission where logistics needed to be taken care of, as he'd done during the summer and your first extended period apart, he said he would make that choice. And if there's an increased load of executive planning and paperwork due to an upcoming operation, his approach is the same.

He explained that, in the past, he'd very much blurred the lines, seeing how being alone and doing nothing for long periods left him restless. But with you in the picture, John tried to balance it. And just like that, you understood his dilemma tonight. He didn't want to make it a habit: filling the time he spent with you working.

You'd tried to compromise, not that you technically could, as he needed to finish his report no matter what. But, you tried to ease John's mind, telling him that sometimes it happened, just like it probably would for you. That was why you also proposed spending time in each other's company by working on your separate stuff, so he didn't feel like he took time away from you.

For you, that was just fine. It had already been an informal workday for you, meaning no meetings and no contact with clients, simply organising stuff and getting ahead on projects for the upcoming week. Continuing with that for a bit longer was no problem.

Your sluggish day of labour was apparent, as you hadn't even changed out of your sleeping shirt. Neither had you scampered to get a pair of pants when John knocked on your door, favouring to simply greeting him as you were.

He'd been surprised at seeing your state of undressed, rather bare-legged with only underwear beneath his black t-shirt, one of those he left behind earlier during the week.

Though not surprised like him, you were as delighted as all the other days he'd stopped by, spoiled rotten with seeing him dressed like this.

Like most days this week, that implied some getup per military standard. Today, John wore fitted cargo pants and an army sweater that got the quarter-zip open, offering a view of the tight-fitted shirt beneath it.

He'd greeted you in his same old fashion, a 'hello, love' as he stepped forward and over the threshold to meet you with a kiss. What followed, however, was a hummed 'can get used to bein' greeted like this' against your lips as he parted from you.

He'd ushered you backwards to let him enter and hide you from any potential neighbours passing by your entrance to see your scantily clad figure.

You didn't object as he closed the door behind him and put down his bag before kneeling to unlace his heavy boots. Instead, your eyes had flittered over his haunched form as he rucked loose his laces before standing straight again, hooking the back of his shoes beneath his toes and stepping out of them.

He'd followed you into your living room then, deciding to sit opposite you to avoid disturbing the corner you'd set up on the couch, where your computer and blue-light glasses waited.

Currently, your laptop rests on a pillow in your lap. The glasses you'd invested in, purely because of the copious amount of time you spent before a screen through work, resting on the bridge of your nose. Yet, you're currently using neither as you should.

The same black standby screen stares at you now as when you'd gone to greet John when he arrived two hours ago. And, your glasses don't serve their purpose of shielding your vision from electronic lights, concerning your attention is directed towards the burly figure of a man sitting so leisurely opposite you.

You hadn't seen John in his work clothes many times. Technically, you'd never seen him geared up and probably never would. So, the closest thing you would get was the standard dressing code he needed to adhere to on base. Up until this week, you'd barely even seen that.

Whereas now and for a few months ahead, the military would cling to him whenever he came around straight from work and spent the night, leaving in a similar-styled fashion in the morning concerning active duty often meant early mornings on base for John, either for a workout regime, meetings or supervising cadets. Between those instances, while unwinding with you, he changed into something more comfortable.

That was why your time of admiring John in these clothes was brief. And yet today, you got to indulge in one of the considerably fewer instances when he didn't immediately change after greeting you and borrowing your shower. In fact, this night was a total break in the routine.

Your eyes drop to the bag beside the armchair John occupies.

He'd said he would take his usual post-work-freshening-up shower after finishing the most pressing report. But, he'd gotten stuck in the typical workflow that was difficult to break, reaching for another map of documents rather than the bag resting by his feet. Maybe you should've reminded him, but you didn't.

The honourable reason? You didn't want to disturb John when noting the pile of documents to read had staggered to a measly two compared to the stack he'd brought. The selfish reason making your attention stray considerably more than his laser-focused one? You wanted to savour his appearance a bit longer.

You knew the visible neckline of the shirt beneath his sweater teased about what was underneath, namely a compression shirt fitted to accentuate John's muscled torso rather than hide it, a sight drool-worthy by itself. But the jumper wasn't a villain for hiding it. In your opinion, it added to it, making the blue-eyed man appear even broader than he already was, as if he could envelop you simply with his frame, tucking you within the expanse of his shoulders.

Despite how John managed to look so good in clothes produced for durability rather than fashion, it wasn't necessarily the clothes making you unable to rip your eyes off of him.

As always, your eyes drag over John's body until your gaze latches onto the embroiders littered over the sweater.

On the upper part of his chest, in an easily read, nothing fancy, standard military font, the precise writing of Price is visible. The lettering, placed square in sight on his right pectoral, stands out in a lighter blue text rather than the dark navy composing the sweater. On the opposite side, in the same-letter style, SAS. Sewn onto the right arm of his jumper is a badge-like British flag, so his unit's emblem. Symbols stating his rank also adorn his clothing, marks that your civilian eye probably wouldn't be able to interpret if you didn't already know he was a Captain.

That is why you like seeing John in his work attire.

The air around him changes. His typical calm stoicism tenfolds, acting as a reminder that his presence demands respect.

It wasn't a shift that screamed for attention, not hollered as a command to notice. You believe it's because it simply blends with John's personality at home so well. Either his work-life had engrained it into his DNA, so it always was a part of him no matter where he went. Or those traits had always been his fortes, even before serving in the military. You didn't know for sure which was correct.

Nonetheless, John's calm, secure and disciplined persona reached new heights. He looked like a man in charge.

It was almost mortifying how affected you got when he dressed like this. And yet, it was just something about John in dark blue or army green attires, with his rank so underwhelmingly stated but so evidently sensed, that made a part of you quiver in excitement.

Yeah, that Captain John Price was a weakness of yours was clear as fucking day.

"You doing good over there, Captain?" Blue eyes shift from the papers he held over his lap to meet your gaze.

You always revel in how swiftly his attention shifts to you when you use his rank. You didn't do it often. After all, at home, he wasn't Captain. But sometimes, even you used the alias.

"Mm, all good, love". John's answer was slow, eyes flickering over you before nodding, his eyes falling to the paper before him again.

"The Captain fancying a cup of tea?"

This time, John didn't move his head. He only glanced up, almost watching you through his eyebrows. "Wouldn't mind". The reply was short, his voice rough. Not grumpy, annoyed or anything like that. Simply profound.

You flash him a smile, pushing your computer aside and setting your glasses on the keyboard. As you stand from the couch, you stretch your legs.

You catch John's eyes lowering and you bet he didn't abstain from trailing them down your bare legs as you jostle the tingles out of them. Smiling to yourself, you head into the kitchen.

Fine, sometimes you may use his rank solely for his reaction.

You argue he shouldn't react like that. It's understandable he barely reacts to it when the boys of 141 use it just as much as his government name when addressing him. He must be used to it. So sure, surprise could be the reason in your instance. At the same time, it shouldn't, regarding it holds no value, no substance, when you use his rank.

Still, you've noticed it seemingly carries some weight.

The most common reaction you'd gathered was how swiftly you earned his attention. Nearly every time, you suppressed a grin at how it worked like clockwork. A sharp flicker of his eyes, gaze intense. You've also noticed how his head cock, eyes seemingly searching yours before they often slipped down your figure as he returned to whatever had his attention previously. And then it was how John eventually answered you. Sometimes, he cleared his throat before speaking, others not. Both choices provide a reply of comparable nature. Without exceptions, his voice was deep.

John's smokey, baritone voice was always pleasant to listen to. There were no edges, even though he wasn't afraid to remain silent between his sentences. And when he filled those with the occasional hum, a purr threatened to spill from your lips to how the low cord melted like liquid gold into your ears. And yet, his voice usually became gruffer when he spoke as a Captain in a professional setting.

You'd registered it when he once had taken a phone-call to book a time for a meeting with someone named Laswell or when he reprimanded one of the guys in a borderline-serious manner when you met them at a pub during one of their parallel leaves. The firmness in those deeply spoken sentences wasn't present when you dropped a 'Captain' while talking to him.

But there was something else. Something under your skin just begging you to consider it's awfully close to a particular lustful drawl of John's. The one you regard as utterly and painfully arousing. If not for the truth, then for your lustful desires.

You lean against the counter as you wait for the water to boil, arms crossed over your chest.

Facing the living room, you watch the only fascinating thing there.

John just about placed the stack of papers he'd been reading back into its corresponding map, leaning forward to position it on top of the rest. Leaning back again, you notice how he sighs from the quick movement of his chest while opening the last lacklustre folder beside him. Leaving it open, John takes out the reports by gripping its stapled corner, swiftly picking up the reading again. As he does, he notches his thumb beneath his jaw, index finger swiping back and forth over his lower lip, brows pulling together.

If not for the kettle signalling it's ready, you would've gotten stuck there, rooted in place as you take in the sight of the incredibly handsome man, your handsome man, so engrossed in his work.

Preparing your respective beverages is easy. The task is something you've done countless times by now. So, within minutes, you're heading towards the seating arrangement with your respective mugs.

John notices your presence before his attention shifts to you, noticeable from how he pulls his stretched-out leg back towards him so you can step between his seat and the coffee table. Yet those blues flicker to you with an appreciative look right before you turn to settle his cup of tea on the tabletop.

You set the mug down momentarily, reaching for a protective coaster. Placing the circular piece of wood close to the cup, you rearrange it to rest atop it instead.

That could've been it. You could've just wandered back to your seat, either in an attempt to work or admire the view again. But no.

"There you go, Captain". You shift to face John with an innocent smile, gesturing to the cup from where steam curls upwards, filling the closest proximity of air with a spicy but soft scent of herbs. His hand has fallen from his jaw. Now, it rests on top of the folder at the armrest as he gazes at you, blues-eyes truly observing you.

You don't know why the seemingly innocent eye contact makes you squirm. But from how John watches you, a feverish sensation rushes through your body, heating you from the inside under the scrutiny of his gaze.

The concoction of having John dressed like he is, watching you as he does and your lecherous imagination does wonders to lighten your belly on fire. You bite your lip, about to return to your seat, when John sits up, abruptly halting your attempt.

The swift thought of 'he's reaching for his mug' is wiped away immediately as he instead reaches for you.

He circles the back of your neck with his big hand and tugs you down enough to meet him in a kiss. A soft, surprised noise vibrates against his lips, your eyes widening in reaction to his unexpected action, as opposed to his, which slips close.

"Such a darlin' to me, you know that?" John hums the word against your lips. And even if you like doing these small things for him because you see how much he enjoys them, your breath hitches, making John's eyes flutter open.

When meeting your still wide-eyed expression, his lips bow upwards beneath his beard before his hand falls from your neck. This time, he reaches for the mug.

As you straighten, your cup clutched against your stomach, John slouches backwards again.

"It's nothing", you reply to the man who looks too fucking indecent for still being fully dressed from the way his thighs fall outwards.

"It's everythin'", John insists. Your heart makes a dangerous leap as his baritone voice travels straight down.

The way he's watching you doesn't help at fucking all as you feel a surging need to squeeze your legs together, something that would be embarrassingly noticeable from John's position.

Rather than answering, mouth incredibly dry all of a sudden, you only return his appreciation with a small smile.

That his eyes follow you when you head back to your seat is apparent, your heart continuing its elevated rhythm with each step you take and his attention on your back. But when you sit down, facing him again, he's back to reading, the mug resting against his thigh.

Much like John, you should go back to work. But you don't need to look at your computer to know your last sliver of motivation has disappeared. Your attention undividedly on something else entirely.

You shuffle in your seat, one leg bent and resting on the cushioned seat beneath you, the other pulled close to your body with your foot planted on the couch. It makes you lean slightly to the side and the pillows you'd stacked for a makeshift edge towards the couch's middle.

Unable not to, your eyes flitter over John's form as you nurse your drink.

His legs spread wide, trapping your gaze to glide over his crotch more than once, especially as he readjusts his position, hips doing that slight upwards jut as he makes himself more comfortable. You also follow his action of occasionally raising the mug to his mouth, his eyes never leaving the paper as he does.

You watch as he sets down the documents on his leg to switch to the next side with the same hand, not desiring to go through the action of leaning forward, putting down the cup of tea, only to retrieve it to situate himself again.

Eyes remaining on the cup, you remark how John's big hand wraps around it, having no trouble encasing more than half of it. You compare it to how you hold your cup. One hand grabs the ear while your other hand curves along the opposing side.

When he raises the mug to his mouth, you follow the move, gaze lingering on his face even though he lowers it not soon after.

You map the line of his beard, the purse of his lips, and how his eyes move from the left to the right as he follows the sentences on the paper.

And then, John's eyes flicker upwards, catching your blatant staring. Amusement flickers to life in those blues when you don't even try to play it off before he adverts his gaze down to the paper.

"You're starin', love". John remarks. The cup of tea is brought to his lips as his attention remains on the document.

"Just enjoying the view", you shrug. Not untrue.

John's brows arch. Not much later, as if wanting to finish a sentence, his head tilts upwards to look at you. "That so?"

"Mhm", you flash him a brief smile before you raise your mug to your lips, sipping its contents. His eyes narrow briefly.

Even though you can't think of anything odd in your reaction, John apparently does.

"Is there somethin' more?"

Your heart jumps. "No, you're free to continue working", you try deflecting John's attempt at making you explain what's on your mind. Apparently, you only succeeded in catching his attention more.

"I'm done". John states, making your brows jump and eyes flicker downwards, not having noticed he was on the last page of a considerably thinner stack of papers, unlike the previous ones.

"Weren't you instructed to report back?" Your gaze shifts back to his face.

"Taken some notes. I'll send a mail later before goin' to bed". John replies promptly, meanwhile restoring the papers in their proper order. As he places the stack back in its map and drops it on top of the other finished ones on the table, he speaks. "Now I want to hear about what you're tip-toein' around 'cause it doesn't seem like nothin'".

"No, really, it's nothing important".

John cocks his head, brows raising in a silent inquiry.

You refuse to believe it's the 'men in uniform' curse amongst civilians. You know that's not the case, seeing how you don't find all soldiers good-looking just because, only John. Even so, you detest the thought of seeming disrespectful, fearing you reduced his career path to a mere point of attraction. It was one thing allowing it to fuel your imagination. But to admit it aloud? To John? Yeah, no.

You reach for the case of your glasses, popping it open with ease and inserting the specs. Placing them on top of your now closed laptop, you scoop them up and stand, about to discard the items in your bedroom.

The action was not impulsive. You always put your device on charge once John arrives. Today, it understandably changed to when he finished the reports he'd brought. Yet you didn't get that far, stopped unexpectedly by his voice.

"Sit". Your body stalls, brows raising. When you don't do as John says, his head cocks, fingers rapping against the armrest as he motions to the seat you just stood from with a nod. This time, you follow his request. "Talk to me, love. What's on your mind?"

Your fingers clutch your computer briefly before you reluctantly set it down on your coffee table. You sip your tea, searching for your words.

Upon your silence, stalling, an urging 'hm?' stems from John.

"I just, you know, think you look good today".

"Do I look any different today than otherwise?" He inquires. You don't think he means to interrogate you, but it feels just like that from how he watches you closely from his seat. It makes you squirm, raising your mug to your lips again before you answer.

"Well, you got those on".

John hums softly, a sound of acknowledgement. And, ever as keen, he figures out what your haphazard motions to his attire imply. "You like the clothes". It's more of a statement than a question, but you give him a nod anyway.

"They look good on you".

"That's what got you so worked up?"

"I'm not-"

"You are", he muses, cutting off your sentence as he leans forward, forearms resting on his knees as he places his mug on the coaster. "Those glasses you're religiously stubborn about using have been more off your face than not despite that laptop of yours being right in front of your face", he points out.

Your brows pull together, lips parting as a protest isn't far away. But John beats you to it.

"No need denyin', I've noticed you starin' at me more than that screen of yours. Then we can't forge 'bout your teasin'".

This time, your brows genuinely furrow. "I haven't teased you?".

His head tilts to the side. "No? Could think I never left base with how much you've used my rank tonight, love".

Oh, oh. John thinks your use of his rank is teasing. So it must mean something different when you use it. Not just in your imagination, then. Regardless of discovering this, you don't know how to react to John's admittance. You still feel like a mouse being toyed with by a cat.

He watches you expectantly as if waiting for you to speak up. Instead, your fingers only rap against your mug before raising it again.

You tip your cup, yet no liquid reaches your lips. Your eyes flicker downwards as you lower it, noticing its emptiness.

The nervous sips you'd taken off your tea have apparently drained it quicker than you anticipated.

Much like a mouse making a break for it each time the cat releases it, you don't hesitate to stand and head into the kitchen to discard your mug, seizing the chance to escape John's heavy gaze and probing for enough time you don't fumble for an answer.

What you don't expect is the footsteps following you into the kitchen. But you should've. The cat never lets its prey get too far away.

Naturally, you look over your shoulder.

John moves so assuredly. There's a slight sway to his hips, strides not hurried despite covering the same distance as you in a much more rapid fashion. Confidence, he oozes it from the very way he carries himself.

There's no denying that such a mass moving with such practised ease is on the verge of terrifying. But the thrill harbours an indisputable excitement, especially as your eyes briefly meet John's blue ones, calm but bright with intrigue.

You turn forward as you reach the kitchen counter, putting your mug in the sink, attempting to hide how he affects you. But believing you could hide from an elite soldier in plain sight is foolish.

The hairs on your neck stand when John steps up behind you.

He sets his mug beside yours before his hands settle on the counter. With one hand at either side of you, his shoulders haunch to eclipse yours, making your heart thump in your chest.

"Indulge me. What about the clothes you like so much it got you behavin' like this?"

"Uhm-". Your thoughts screech to a halt as you flail for something to say. Admitting just how much John in these clothes affects you brushes on mortifying. "The way it fits you, I guess", you settle on in the end.

"You guess?". John repeats close to your ear.

Pride and a certain level of amusement roll off of him in waves, seeping right through your back, worming itself to your front only to nestle in your chest. Rather than installing the same emotions in you, they fuel your desire and jittery nerves.

"Love?" He gently encourages you to detail your answer, causing you to bite your inner cheek, rolling the meat between your molars. You may be tentative to admit your inner thoughts. But, it's still John with his incredibly calm and soothing self that puts you at ease and finally makes you relent.

"They just make you feel stronger, more authoritative-"

"Authoritative?" If you would've faced John, his inquisitive look would've met you. And yet, you don't even need to, feeling it burn into the side of your head as his ducked head angles towards you. You see it out of your peripheral, how he gazes at you, but you persistently stare directly forward as you give him a slight nod.

You swallow, worrying that you overstepped as you tried explaining the indecent thoughts wrecking your brain without spewing their true nature as blatantly as they arise.

Assuming that's the reason for John's momentary silence, he surprises you when he finally speaks.

"You know, love", he hums, airy and amused. Your eyes drop, following his hands as they trail up the stone counter until they settle on top of yours. His fingers worms in between your slender ones. "I have noticed how remarkably much you've been staring, how handsy you've been when I come home like this".

Body lightening on fire, a warm rush sweeps through you, the sound of blood suddenly pounding noticeably in your ears as you duck your head. Had you? You hadn't even thought so.

"Nothing to fluster about".

"Well, I do", you bite back, but there's no venom to your words, only embarrassment that you hadn't hidden your desire well enough, even if it was to an elite soldier you'd lost to. The mouse would forever lose to the cat.

"Why?"

"Because it's wrong, John. Just because you fit too bloody good dressed like a Captain, it shouldn't turn me on this fucking much". Thank god you're not looking at him. You would've sunken through the floor.

"I remember you mentioned somethin' like that the night we met".

"I said that you suit being a Captain, not that it turns me on". John's exhale borders on a groan and your brows knit together when you catch it.

"Remember you called me that as well". John brushes past the admittance in your sentence as if it's nothing. "Caught me off-guard the first time". He nudges your head from the side, hands tightening over yours.

"Why?" You breathe, realising his voice has dropped into a husky depth. It only did that when his arousal stirred, which sparked your curiosity enough to repress your humiliation.

"Sounded so wrong from you, a civvie callin' me by rank. But I couldn't deny I liked it". John's face falls into your neck, placing a kiss beneath your ear as he drops a fraction of his weight against your back. Still, it's enough to cage you to the counter and feel his hardening cock against your rear. Your eyes widen. "And then you said it while I was stuffin' that cunt of yours. Bloody hell, I almost lost my head when you called me Captain all stunningly dishevelled beneath me". A surprised gasp rips from your throat at John's words curl along the shell of your ear while he shoves his growing erection against you.

"What are you saying?" Your chest heaves at the end of your sentence as John rubs himself against the plush swell of your ass from behind.

"I'm tellin' you, despite how wrong it is, that I like when you call me Captain". He husks into your ear, using your wording from earlier.

John steadily grinds against you, pressing you further into the counter's edge. Instinctually, you arch against him, but one of his hands swiftly grabs your hip, forcing you down.

"Love, I wanna try somethin' out", he hums. "Tell me if it gets too much. Understood?" There's no hesitancy in John's voice, only an alluring reassurance and passion that pikes your interest.

"Yeah, alright".

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, John, I understand". You whine, curiosity eating you from the inside, yet he only tsks at you.

"You know what to call me". You inhale sharply. Fuck, could he be talking about? He is. You swallow, mind reeling as you realise John's alluding to something you've only entertained as fantasy. And yet, his rank solely remains a heavy, dirty thought. "Come on, love, know you want to".

You swallow, eyes wide and staring forward. John must sense your hesitancy as his hand rucks the shirt you're wearing upwards, baring your ass. Attempting to coax you, he shoves his bulge straight into your scantily covered pussy.

"I want you to say it, m'not goin' any further until you do. Both of us must want this". That does the trick. You wouldn't pass up on this chance.

"C-Captain".

"Whole sentence, love".

"I understand, Captain".

"Good girl". He praises you. "Now, you'll take what I give".

"Oh", you breathe out as a violent shiver runs down your spine and the muscles attaching to the back of your head quiver.

John's not only igniting something so perfectly inside your body. He also flips a switch in your head with his commanding voice, precisely the one that made his authoritative nature as a Captain so attractive.

"From your reaction, it seems you don't mind bein' ordered around". John breathes into your ear. "Is that correct?"

"Don't mind".

The man behind you releases a hum as he tests your reply by nudging his foot against your right ankle. You can feel him smirk at how you react, widening your stance one foot at a time without any resistance. Even when John presses himself against your back and continues forward by bending over you until you're flat against the kitchen counter, you don't resist him.

"So pliant, aren't you?" One of his hands releases yours, yet you continue pressing it against the stone. His fingers trail up your now bent arm, over your shoulder and along the curve of your body until his fingers curl around your waist.

You nod swiftly, only catching the faintest reflection of the movement even though your cheek rests against the polished stone surface. He chuckles at your hasty reply, the sound cracking up the length of your spine.

"Mhm, stay like that now". John instructs, standing straight with a squeeze to your hand that, up until now, remained intertwined with his.

His fingers run along your clothed spine until it reaches your bared lower vertebral, then your ass until it dips between your legs from behind, pressing into the seam of your underwear.

"Fuckin' hell, you've gotten this wet already? So desperate for your Captain, eh?" You whimper as he pushes against the damp fabric, the material pressing into your folds.

"Yes, John-Captain!" You correct yourself as he slaps your pussy upon the slip-up. The tap of his palm doesn't hurt but acts as a reminder. Nevertheless, it sends a jolt of pleasure up your spine, making you squirm.

"Two rules, love", he remarks. "One, for now, it's Captain. Two, if you don't keep still, I'll stop touchin' you, leavin' you all pent up, just like this, right here", he makes clear. As if daring you to obey, a gentle test calculating how much you really want this, his thumb shallowly probes against your core. Your eyes snap shut, teeth digging into your bottom lip, a forced exhale escaping your lungs as you concentrate on not rocking backwards while fabricating a reply.

"Y-yes, Captain".

As if content with your words and actions, John steps away. Despite the loss of contact, you remain in your position.

Your pulse thrums as you listen to John, picking up on the shift of clothes and the sound of a zipper. Your anticipation skyrockets as he doesn't hurry his movements, taking his sweet time before he touches you again. When he does, he pulls down your panties until the elastic band digs into the middle of your thighs.

A shuddering breath escapes your lungs when nothing separates John's fingers from your exposed wetness. He runs two fingers up and down almost leisurely until one digit firmly pushes against your clit in a circular sweep. The sudden attention to your throbbing bundle of nerves sends neurons flying.

You don't even know on what scientific level it's possible to stop an involuntary reaction, but just as you feel your lower back muscles tightening, you slam the flatness of your palm against the counter with a 'shit' as you try.

You wouldn't count it as moving, but you did twitch upon the surprising pressure against your clit. And as John pulls away, placing his hand on the small of your back, you whine in defeat, knowing he caught it too.

"What was that?".

"Nothing, nothing, please, Captain, I'll be good". You don't even realise what you say yourself as you plead with John. He couldn't leave you there. You would possibly explode.

He only tuts, hand pressing firmer against your spine. Your heart drops for a second until he speaks. "I'll let you of this once".

"Thank you". John groans behind you, curse breathed beneath his breath as his character breaks for a moment, caught off guard by your rushed response. It's not long, but it's a reminder that it's still John behind you.

A swift pressure change against your spine indicates he's gathered himself again before he picks up where he left off.

His finger starts trailing up and down your folds again, but you remain in your position in spite of how your legs quiver in want, a desire for more.

Your wet, sopping, John's digit coated swiftly in your slick as he teases you.

He toys back and forth before his finger slips down. This time you've already braced yourself when he circles your clit. You force yourself to hold still as you whine at the contact, wanting nothing more than to rock backwards.

Noticing your struggle and stubbornness, John's free hand grabs your hip, kneading the flash with gentle squeezes. "Mhm, just like that, love, doin' so good for me".

His baritone rolls over your back, making you shudder, skin knotting with goosebumps. He never once stops the slow movement of his finger, causing you to clench around nothing continuously, especially as he starts flicking the tip of his finger.

You press your forehead against the counter upon the small, sharp jolts of electricity firing pleasure through your nervous system. But it's so fleeting it doesn't have an opportunity to build into anything damning as John pulls away from your clit, falling back to running his digit along your folds.

John stays clear from your throbbing bundle of nerves, rotating his hand as he teasingly concentrates more and more attention on your entrance. You release an anticipated breath as he brushes over it repeatedly until you bite your lip. You want to tilt your hips to make him slip inside. But you withhold the urge, thankfully reaping the rewards before you get desperate enough that your body acts on instinct.

John puts the slightest pressure behind the dragging motion. At first, only the tip of his finger enters you before he pulls it back, doing the same thing a few times until he pushes its entirety inside.

You moan even though it's not nearly enough to stretch you so deliciously you feel full. But it just feels good having something sliding in and out of you. Though one soon turns to two when John pulls out, a second finger prodding your pussy before both slip inside.

Squelching noises fill the air as he fingers you, his other digits pressing against your ass. You pant, unable to keep your noises at bay as he finally relents somewhat in his fleeting touches and indulges you with some relief. But it's not nearly enough.

The pace remains slow, his fingers imitating a stroking motion even inside you rather than plunging deep and fast or wriggling forcefully to spur an orgasm. Now, you only feel your high building oh so slowly that it's frustrating how flat the exponential curve is.

And yet, as if projected from your body, you can see the scene you're a part of and find it unbelievably arousing.

John, with his cock freed from his pants and occasionally brushing against your rear, otherwise fully clothed, almost lazily pumping his fingers in and out of your hole as you bend over the counter, panties around your legs, doing your damnedest to keep fucking still.

You moan at the image, hands pressing flat against the counter before curling into fists. It's so fucking erotic that you feel John's fingers suddenly sliding more easily in and out despite the way you clench around them.

"You're practically drippin', love", he teases you, fingers leaving your entrance for a few seconds, not hovering far from your pussy, until they return with a press against your clit, a new chillier slickness coating them. The acknowledgement that you're wet enough it nearly dribbles from you wears your patience to the breaking point.

"Captain, I can't take it, fuck me already". John doesn't reprimand you for your demand, only chuckles as he steps close, cock pressing against your asscheek.

His fingers have dropped from your clit, but his touch is soon replaced with the head of his cock as he guides it to your folds, running it up and down to coat himself in your slick.

You let out a shuddering moan as John pushes slightly against your entrance, tip breaching your hole, only to slip out and repeat the movement. Regardless that he's in charge, your frustrated cry is all it takes for him to push into you properly with an amused huff that sharply pivots into a grunt.

"Yeah, just like that- arch for me… good girl…". John groans, and you take his urge to meet his thrust that you're finally free to move as you wish.

You gape as he bottoms out in one slow press, hips pressed flush against your ass. You feel his legs tremble, his hands flexing on your hips, but he stays still for your sake of accustoming to his girth.

"So good for your Captain". You whimper at his words, making him chuckle breathily. "Oh, you like that, eh?" He feigns ignorance of what he'd learnt: that you absolutely do. He grabs a fistful of your ass. "Dirty girl…". You gasp as he spanks your rear, the smacking sound making you clench around him.

"Need you to move". You whine as you wriggle your hips. But John bends over you, burly frame forcing your upper body flush to the cool tabletop.

"Come on, love". He scolds huskily against the shell of your ear, warm breath cascading past your cheek. Parts of his hands grip your ass while the rest cover your hips, the meat spilling between his fingers. But he remains still, deep inside you, not moving until the proper phrase falls from your lips.

It's easier to give in this time, having been shoved over the edge previously, ignoring the immorality of using his rank in this setting and whatever pride left in your body. Mentally, at least.

Physically, it takes you a few seconds, preoccupied with basking in what's happening. Bent over the counter with the biting kiss from the cold stone dulled from the shirt you borrowed from John. Yet the harshness from the unmoving material doesn't fail to make itself reminded against your soft body despite the shielding material. Effortlessly sandwiching you is the similarly firm body of John, considerably warmer but still effective in immobilising you.

"Captain, please". His rank is honey, saccharine and dripping effortlessly from your tongue once you find your voice through the arousal. "Please move".

"Mm, that's it", he croons, granting you the movement you want as he straightens, not before kissing your clothed shoulder. Exegrated to make up for the fabric separating you.

It starts with calculated thrusts that make you keen and almost roll back and forth on your feet from the steady and slow pace. Then John picks up the speed, rutting against you with powerful snaps of his hips. Your fingers scramble, finding purchase on the counter's edge, curling over the side to have some semblance of grounding force.

It doesn't take long before you moan unabashedly at each stroke, fluttering around his cock as he works his length in and out of you, driving his hips forward and back in a steady beat. Along the erotic sound of skin slapping and wet noises is the filth spewing from his lips.

"This what you wanted, eh?" He gruffs. "With all those looks?" He gets a moan in response as you turn your head so your cheeks rest against the counter, watching him through the corner of your eye.

John's jaw hangs slack, hair falling along his forehead as he must be staring at where the two of you connect. He looks raptured, almost dazed. He said he wanted this as well and by the looks of it... yeah, he really did. You don't know how you haven't noticed. But, fortunately, John sets your knack of reading people to shame compared to his skill.

You're snapped out of your thoughts as one of his hands leaves your hips and you see him raise it at an angle. You whine, arching towards it as much as possible with the unbudging surface beneath you. It drags his eyes upwards, noticing how you're watching him.

His lips tug upwards, eyes never leaving you as his palm swats your ass. A reactionary moan spills from your lip as your legs press against the outer side of his thighs at the sensation, brows knitting together from the stinging pleasure.

It spurs John to rut harder, causing your body to fucking sing as your head gets steadily dizzier.

He releases a breathless chuckle at your inability to conjure anything apart from keening sounds and guttural moans as your body goes lax, eyes fluttering close, body jolting at the new pace he sets.

But he doesn't appear much more put together as he witnesses how you allow yourself to let go, giving the reins entirely to him.

You catch how John's sentence breaks into fractions, groans and heady sounds spilling from his lips between sentences to rile you up even further. In the end he can't release much more than growling sounds as he folds, resting his chest against your back, using his weight to forcefully push his hips against yours, making his balls tap against your clit each time.

John barely pulls himself back enough to push forwards again, but it's enough to repeatedly batter the head of his cock against the spot making your legs tingly and toes flex before curling.

Once again, your hands search for something to grasp upon the pleasure coursing through your body. One manages to bend backwards over your shoulder, catching the lapel of John's jumper, and the other slides feebly across the smooth countertop.

Your orgasm is building, breaths turning stunted, muscles seizing.

You feel John's rhythm stutter as you clench more frequently and reactionary in response to his ruts as you near your release. His head ducks to rest between your shoulder-blades, warm puffs of air seeping through the oversized shirt you're wearing. His teeth bite down on the excess fabric, grunts vibrating against you.

John's getting close, throbbing violently inside you, hands digging into your hips even further. When he angles his thrusts downwards, a dirty grind at the end of each penetration, he hits so many pleasurable spots that you release an unprompted cry.

You don't need much, so close to your edge that your head thrash that you wedge your hand beneath your forehead to not knock yourself out cold. So when John grits a heady sentence through his teeth and the fabric trapped between them, that's it.

"Come on, love, be a good girl to your Captain. Wanna feel you squeeze 'round me".

Your eyes snap close as you jerk against him, ass pressing upwards before involuntarily trying to escape his persistent thrusts as the pleasure explodes. But your hipbones are already aching from the counter and you can't flee how John continues to cram his girthy cock into your twitching hole, so you just let him extend your orgasm until he reaches his with a growl.

John curls around you, hips pressing snuggly against your rear as he spurts his release deep. You feel his warm spend inside you, releasing a shattered moan as your eyelids flutter but, in the end, remain closed.

The stone isn't as cold against your forehead anymore, the surface likely warming from your panting exhales.

John's chest rises and falls against your back. He massages your hips almost unconsciously, small flexes of his fingers. Your hand, previously fisting his jumper, falls to your left hip, squeezing his wrist before your fingers graze over his knuckles and card between digits, easing his grip. It seems to bring him out of his post-orgasmic rouse as he softens the action until he stills completely, now cradling the likely-to-be-discoloured area.

"Fuck", he exhales as he releases your shirt from his teeth. The wet spot where his saliva has sept into the fabric is significant as it falls back against your skin.

You reply with a soft confirming sound, craning your neck to glance at John.

His face has risen and is now close to yours. However, what catches you off-guard isn't the proximity but his gaze. It's dark and glittering, a spent smile noticeable through his facial hair.

He kisses you despite the awkward angle. The hair that's

fallen out of place and endearingly covers his forehead brushes yours.

The interaction is brief before he rises, bringing you with him from the forwards-bent position that's not as comfortable for either of you when the lust-driven haze fades. In the movement, John slips out of you before stepping back. Not soon after, he pulls your underwear into place.

The hem of his shirt drops around your thighs once you stand again and it doesn't catch on John's hand. You run a hand through your hair, letting it fall to the kitchen counters, noticing your balance is still wobbly. Your other hand assist your balance by resting on the kitchen counter as you take a moment to collect yourself.

You take a moment to collect yourself before you turn to face John with a sigh. He's just popped the button on his cargos back in place but doesn't care about tucking his t-shirt into the waistband of his pants again.

As John runs a hand through his hair, the other naturally falls to your hip to steady you as his gaze locks with yours.

"All good?" His voice is gritty, pleasure still intertwined with the soft check-in.

"Mm, yeah", you smile sluggishly, your voice breathy. "You?"

"All good. I wasn't too much?" There's a glimmer of concern in his eyes, one you shoo away immediately.

"No, god, you were not too much, John, you were... really good". You reach out to touch John, hands slipping between the layers of fabric on his torso. He melts under your touch, relaxing the arm that had raised so he could tame his hair, letting it curve around your neck. With the back of your head nestled perfectly in the crook of his arm, he tugs you closer to him.

"Didn't know you had such a thing for men in uniform, love". He chuckles, lightening the mood as he looks down at you.

"You in uniform".

"Compliments your take on a gallantry medal?"

"Mhm", you hum against his lips. "My Captain deserves them". You cheekily use the nickname you'd moaned shamelessly only minutes prior, making him huff an amused laugh that puffs against your mouth.

"Not gonna hear the end of that, eh?"

"At ease, soldier, I'm only gonna use it when I wanna get a rile out of you". You press a kiss against John's lips and he reciprocates it. In the end, a smile splits yours open, one you greet him with as you lean away, creating a bit of space between you. "But what would they think of that? Esteemed Captain Price with a captain kink". He pinches your rear, and you squeal, a sound that fades into a giggle as the hand previously on the counter settles on your hip.

"Watch it". The edges of John's eyes are still creased in the corners as he says it, a smirk playing on his lips.

"Just curious", you defend yourself with a shrug. "But I can't say I'm surprised you like the power-trip". You give the blue-eyed man a playful purse of your lips.

He cock his head, brows arching. "Why?"

"Being a good Captain must come from somewhere. You like ordering people around", you muse.

"Delighted to be your entertainment". John exhales through his nose.

You try to lean up to kiss his furrowed expression away, but by tightening his arm around your head and leaning backwards, he avoids your attempt.

"Don't be pouty. You seemed to enjoy it just as much as I did. Admitted you do". You chide John lightly and he drops the faux offence, delight and piked interest present in his eyes.

"Mm, 'bout that. Didn't know you liked bein' ordered around that much". You smile shyly, head notching forwards, not far from resting against his chest from your closeness.

"We all have our moments of something, don't we?" You look up at John through your lashes.

His arms slide down until his hand envelops your neck. A hum fills the air before he leans down, pressing his lips against yours briefly, soothing any possible apprehension in your answer framed as a question rather than a statement.

"Would you like me to do it more?" You crack into a smile at his question, eyes fluttering open to meet his blue eyes.

"Yeah, I would like to. I-I adore when you're sweet on me, John, but I also like when you're rough. Just, you know, take what you want sometimes, do as you please". You shrug, catching how John releases the air from his lungs in something akin to wonder and desire.

"You trust me enough?"

"If your men trust you on the field, I think I can trust you in this situation".

John lets out a long groan, head tipping backwards as his eyes shut tightly. "Don't bring the lads into this, don't want that association".

You chuckle in earnest. "What? You're their Captain first and foremost".

"Not this type", he huffs, head falling forward. Looking at you again, the hand on the side of your neck slides to your hip, both hands now anchored there.

"Alright, alright. Only want you to myself anyways". You lean up, planting a series of kisses against John's lips until he reciprocates, the frown disappearing from his brows.

"Already got me, love". His voice softens, making you smile in return.

Just as you're about to reply, the sensation of fluids flowing out of you makes you reactively twitch and clamp your legs together, hands flexing on his stomach. John notices, suppressing a smirk as he fishes your hands from beneath his jumper.

"Let's get you cleaned up." John enlaces his hand with one of yours, tugging you along as he heads towards your bathroom. "Still need to have that shower".

"You like seeing me wet, don't you?"

"Never said we would shower". John sends you a humoured look over his shoulder, making you roll your eyes. "Watch that attitude of yours. Things like that get you a lesson in discipline in the army".

"Because that would be my biggest problem and not sleeping with a Captain, who I much rather get disciplined by." You quip with an amused look.

"Careful with what you wish for, love". John returns, the reply accompanied by a wink. As you chuckle with a shake of your head, John pulls you forward and into his side, planting a kiss on the side of your head, effectively ending the conversation as you step into the bathroom.

660 notes · View notes

lostreverb · 4 months ago

Note

Haiii I love you and your Warren stuff, I absolutely require more but I have no ideas to ask you to write ^^"

-Duckie 💜

please please please (short n' sweet)

(warren lipka x fem!reader) in where you swear you have good taste in lovers, but your new boyfriend makes everyone think otherwise (wc: ~3.2k) (this fic is a part of my short n' sweet collection!)

content: fluff, angst, established relationship, swearing, drugs (weed), nsfw actions implied

note: ILYT THANK YOU for the request!! (so so sorry this took so long!) also using a song about barry keoghan to write about a movie he was in just feels so good to my brain idk. (also ermm... UK is supposed to be the university of kentucky idk if ppl call it that just go with it)

the dim light of the living room provided a warm atmosphere for the party you (somewhat) spontaneously decided to attend. your girlfriends had been pestering you to go out recently and you figured coming along this time would get them off your back, at least for a bit. you and your two closest friends lounged on plush couches, drinks in hand. as you sat, listening rather than speaking, your friend marissa’s voice cut through the chatter. the walls seemed to close in when she asked the question you had been dreading:

"so who's this guy you're dating again?"

"uhm... he-" you shifted in your seat, feeling your unease gradually intensify. "he goes to UK.."

another friend, cleo, who sat further down on the couch, leaned forward with a laugh. "come on, girl," she teased. "why is this like pulling teeth with you? stop being so vague and just spit it out."

typically, you'd never be one to hide information about a guy you're dating from the girls but you knew how they were gonna react. you had been avoiding the topic for weeks.

"cause' i know y'all don't like him!" you snapped. "y'all don't like him and i honestly don't want to be lectured-"

"we're not gonna lecture you-" marissa interrupted, her voice softening, trying to reassure you.

"how could we not like him if we don't even know him?" cleo added.

you rolled your eyes. your friends, as sweet as they were, could be very blunt with their opinions on guys. especially ones you dated. sure, your last ex did end up hooking up with his overly flirty biochemistry lab partner, but that wasn’t until after you broke up. a week after, to be exact—but still, it wasn’t like he cheated. and the one before that, the one with a slight drinking problem, couldn't really help it. addiction ran in his family (that's what he told you at least) plus he was irish! who were you to deny him participation in his culture? your friends couldn't be right about everything and you certainly didn't want to entertain the thought they could be right about-

"warren? warren fucking lipka?"

you felt your face heat up at marissa's reaction.

"yes, warren… lipka," you murmured, feeling the air grow heavy as their disapproving stares settled on you. this felt so much worse than how you’d imagined it in your head.

"deals-weed-and-sells-burner-phones-out-of-his-dorm warren?" marissa asked in disbelief.

"didn't he just break the record for most yellow cards in a single season?" cleo added, one eyebrow arched in skepticism.

"he doesn’t deal anymore—and he’s going through some stuff," you huffed, frustration bubbling up as you tried to defend him. warren had never really loved soccer, and after losing all respect for his father following his parents' messy divorce, he’d grown to despise the sport. as for dealing, you’d convinced him to stop after a close call with the cops. besides, he couldn’t stop getting high off his own supply.

"y/n, don’t take this the wrong way… we just don’t want to see you get hurt again," marissa said gently, her voice full of concern.

"or end up as a pothead," cleo chimed in, more bluntly. "you… haven’t smoked with him, have you?"

you didn’t respond, suddenly paralyzed by the sight of a familiar face, standing idly by the drinks table. spencer reinhard. if he was here, then that meant…

a pair of hands covered your eyes, followed by the smell of old spice and a hint of weed. "guess who?"

ah, shit.

"hey…" you said nervously, glancing around the room. of course, he's at the one party you decided to attend.

"you're supposed to guess- whatever- guess what, babe?" warren grinned as he plopped down on your side of the couch, far too comfortably for your liking.

"what?" you asked, trying to keep your voice level.

"got my hands on a couple of pre-rolls," he said, pulling out a small baggy with a smirk. "i told my guy about you, and he threw in some edibles as a gift."

"told him about me?"

"yeah, he couldn't believe it. luckily, i had that polaroid of us—"

you froze, knowing exactly what he was referring to. the first time you had sex high with warren, you came up with the "great" idea to take pictures together afterward. you thought you had hid them, but he must've swiped one without your knowledge.

"you had what?"

"don't worry," warren said quickly, holding up his hands in mock surrender. "i covered the lower half with my hand- are these your friends?" he glanced at the others. "you guys look a bit tense. you interested?" he waved the baggy slightly.

"no." marissa said sternly, her eyes narrowing as she shot him a cold look. cleo, sitting beside her, simply ignored him, her expression unreadable.

"jeez, what's their problem?" warren muttered.

"warren, go hang out with spence…" you desperately wanted him to leave.

sensing your discomfort, warren shrugged. "fine," he said, standing up. "we'll be out back. let me know when you wanna go- i’ll give you a ride."

you watched as warren walked away, a pang of guilt settling in for how dismissive you had been. you were only trying to protect him until you could get your friends to understand. yes, warren was incredibly chaotic, but that was part of what drew you to him. he wasn’t just some lazy stoner; he wanted to push boundaries and break rules. he yearned to live a different kind of life, to do something extraordinary, unbothered by what others thought.

but he cared what you thought, and you had just pushed him away.

you rose from the couch, glancing over at your friends. the need to apologize was growing by the second, urging you to make things right. "hey guys, i'll see you around. i think i need to-"

before you could finish, warren was suddenly at your side. "we've gotta go, come on."

"what? why?" you asked, confused.

"LIPKA!" you heard someone roar from an open door. "I'M GONNA FUCKING KILL YOU!"

warren’s strong grip clamped around your wrist, pulling you out of the house. as you stumbled behind him, you took a glance back and saw the angry figure charging toward you, recognizing the unmistakable frat symbol on his shirt.

when you finally reached the car, spencer was already in the driver’s seat, watching behind you. without hesitation, you scrambled into the backseat and warren followed, the frantic moment pushing you into the vehicle.

"GO, GO, GO!" warren shouted, a hint of laughter in his voice. the engine roared to life, and the car surged forward, its tires screeching against the pavement.

the escape left your heart pounding furiously, and you struggled to process the chaos you had just experienced. the boys erupted in laughter as the car sped away. warren leaned forward, playfully thumping spencer on the shoulder.

“serves that fucking asshole right!” he exclaimed, his grin wide with satisfaction.

“what happened?” you asked, still trying to catch your breath.

warren pulled out a wad of cash, holding it up with a triumphant smirk. “i sold that dumbass jake a baggy of flour.”

you sighed, rolling your eyes slightly, your friend's comments echoing in your mind. warren glanced at you. his mouth opened as if he was about to say something, but he quickly thought better of it. you both stayed quiet the whole ride to your college apartment, avoiding the tension that hung between you like a dark cloud.

when spencer finally pulled up to the curb, you both stepped out of the car, the cool night air doing little to ease the knot in your stomach. you walked ahead, the familiar path to your apartment feeling longer than usual, while warren followed closely behind.

as soon as the door to your place clicked shut, warren got straight to the point.

“what’s going on?” his eyes were fixed on you, searching for answers.

“warren, i’m just tired-"

“that’s bullshit, y/n, and you know it,” he shot back, stepping closer, the intensity in his gaze making it impossible to look away. your relationship was still fairly new and you had never seen him like this. not with you, anyway.

you stayed quiet, biting your lip as you searched for something, anything, to say that wouldn’t make things worse. but the words wouldn’t come, trapped somewhere between your throat and the overwhelming pressure in your chest.

warren ran a hand through his hair, the frustration evident in the sharp tug of his fingers as they glided through the long strands. his voice dropped to a softer tone, almost vulnerable, as if the question he was about to ask took everything out of him. "are- are you embarrassed of me?"

"baby… no-" you began, but your voice faltered as you caught the frown on his face. it was a small, almost imperceptible pouting of his lips, but it spoke volumes. he didn’t believe you. and deep down, in a place you didn’t want to admit even existed, you weren’t sure if you believed yourself either.

warren shook his head, his eyes narrowing as he leaned back against the wall, his arms crossing defensively. "you never even let me come over when you head back home."

you opened your mouth to respond, your mind racing to come up with something that would make this better, make him understand. "that’s because-" you started, but he cut you off.

"you think i’m gonna embarrass you in front of your parents," he said, the words spilling out in a rush. "'our poor perfect daughter is dating a fuck-up.' i’m not a fuck-up! i just have different plans for my life than you boring-ass people!"

"warren, i never-" you tried to interject, but he was on a roll now, the floodgates of his emotions opening wide.

"and i can’t fucking be perfect all the time!" he yelled. "i’m fucking human!" he continued to ramble, his words tumbling over each other, his breaths coming quicker.

"warren-" you tried again, but he didn’t seem to hear you.

"WARREN!" you finally shouted, your voice slicing through his seemingly never-ending rant.

he stopped mid-sentence, his eyes snapping to yours, his chest heaving with the effort of holding back whatever else he was desperate to say. "WHAT?!" he barked.

you took a deep breath, steadying yourself. "fine, next friday, i’m supposed to head back home… it’s my dad’s birthday dinner… you can come and meet my family."

warren’s eyes narrowed suspiciously, and he let out a sharp, bitter laugh. "i don’t need your pity invitation,"

you stepped closer, your eyes locking onto his. "i want you to come!" you insisted. "it’s never been about you. it’s just… my parents can be a bit judgmental," you lied, the words tasting bitter on your tongue, but you couldn’t bear to tell him the truth.

warren studied you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. finally, he let out a heavy sigh. "you promise?" he asked, stepping closer to you.

you reached out, taking his hand in yours, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "i promise," you said softly, hoping that the warmth in your voice would be enough to convince him, even if you were still trying to convince yourself.

he lazily guided your arms around his back, his touch gentle as he pulled you into a sweet embrace. his warmth enveloped you, and as his arms tightened around you, a familiar sense of safety washed over you. being in his arms never failed to make you feel protected, cherished, as if nothing in the world could touch you.

despite the conflicting feelings that swirled inside you about how others perceived your relationship- their judgments, their whispers-none of it seemed to matter when you were wrapped up in him like this. in the quiet moments, when it was just the two of you, all you felt was the love you had for him, pure and undeniable, drowning out any doubts or fears.

you felt warren shift in your embrace, his body tensing slightly against yours. instinctively, you pulled away, your brows furrowing in confusion as you noticed the sudden change in him.

"babe?" you asked, tilting your head as you looked up at him. "are you… hard?"

warren’s cheeks flushed as he offered a sheepish grin, his voice dropping to a low murmur. "you just look so fuckin' hot right now…" it more had to do with you raising your voice at him for the first time but he would never admit to that.

a surprised laugh escaped your lips. "ohhh my god," you said, shaking your head. "weirdo!" the playful insult held no real bite; if anything, you were relieved that his thoughts had shifted to something less serious, even if it was a bit… unsavory.

"sorrryy," warren drawled out, his grin wide.

you rolled your eyes, a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. "alright, come on-" you began to turn around when, without warning, he scooped you up, tossing you over his shoulder with surprising ease.

“warren!” you squealed in surprise, but your protests were ignored as he held you securely, his strong arms wrapping around your legs as he carried you toward your room with a determined stride.

"to the bedroom!" he declared, as he marched forward, your laughter echoing through the hallway.

as he carried you into the room, you could feel the tension of earlier melting away, replaced by the warmth of his affection and the thrill of being so completely swept up in his arms.

you’d been worried about how warren would fit into the evening at your parents, thinking to your friends criticisms, but to your surprise, the atmosphere had been light and warm, the conversation flowing easily. it turned out that your dad had been friends with warren’s father during their college days- which served as an easy topic to build off of. although warren wasn’t particularly fond of talking about his dad, he managed during the talk, his jokester personality doing wonders with your parents.

after dinner, the mood was relaxed, everyone contentedly full and in good spirits. the suggestion to watch a movie came up, and it was quickly agreed upon. as you and your mom went to sit on the couch, your dad motioned for warren to join him on the porch. there was a certain seriousness in your dad’s tone that made you pause, a small flicker of worry sparking in the back of your mind. but you brushed it off, telling yourself it was nothing. probably just a typical fatherly chat.

still, as the minutes ticked by and they didn’t return, the worry began to gnaw at you. you exchanged a glance with your mom, who raised an eyebrow, her expression mirroring your own unease. finally, unable to ignore the growing curiosity, you decided to check on them.

you slowly slid the glass door open, stepping out onto the porch, the cool night air brushing against your skin. “hey-” you started, peering around the corner, only to freeze at the sight before you. “oh, what the fuck? dad!”

your dad, looking far too amused for his own good, was holding a joint, a cloud of smoke curling lazily in the air around him. he chuckled at your reaction as passed the joint off to warren, who accepted it with a grin, taking a casual drag as if this were the most normal thing in the world. he would've killed you if he ever caught you smoking but here he is.

"what?" your dad replied with a shrug. he glanced at warren, who was now chuckling along with him, clearly enjoying the situation. "it's my birthday! i think i deserve to treat myself"

behind you, your mom appeared in the doorway, having followed you outside when you didn’t return. she took one look at the scene and burst into laughter, the sound infectious and disarming. you found yourself laughing too, the absurdity of it all breaking through your shock.

“i can’t believe this,” you muttered, shaking your head, but unable to wipe the grin from your face as you watched them both continue to banter as if they were old buddies.

the car hummed softly as you drove through the dimly lit streets. warren sat in the passenger seat, his arm resting casually on the window ledge as he glanced at you.

"you know," he began, speaking a bit slurred as his hand played with one of your loose curls. "your dad is seriously cool… like, really cool. and, uh, i gotta say it- your mom’s a total milf."

you felt your eyebrows shoot up in surprise, and you glanced over at him, half-laughing, half in disbelief. "warren, please, don’t fuck my mom."

warren's eyes widened, and he quickly waved his hands in front of him as if warding off your words. "whoa, whoa- no, i didn’t mean it like that!" he stammered. "i meant it objectively, you know? respectfully. she’s a milf, sure, but like… it's cool to see where you get all your killer looks from," he added, trying to recover.

you couldn’t help but laugh, shaking your head at his desperate attempt to backtrack. "nice save," you replied, your lips curving into a smirk as you focused back on the road.

warren chuckled, visibly relieved that you weren’t upset. "i mean it though," he said more softly, his voice carrying a sincere note that held more layers than he could express in the moment. "you’ve got great genes."

you pulled up in front of warren’s house and parked, turning off the engine, the sudden silence filling the small space between you.

he took a moment before unbuckling his seatbelt, his movements slow as if he was reluctant to leave. he turned to face you, his expression earnest now. "thanks for the ride," he said, hand reaching to scratch the back of his head. "and, you know, for trusting me. i don’t take that lightly."

you met his gaze, feeling a warmth spread through your chest at the sincerity in his eyes. "of course," you replied softly. you can't believe you ever doubted him. "i trust you, warren."

there was a brief pause, a moment where the world outside seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of you in the quiet cocoon of the car. then, without warning, warren leaned in, his lips brushing against yours in a tender, lingering kiss. it was soft, sweet, and filled with unspoken promise (and of course weed).

when he pulled back, a small smile played on his lips, and he reached up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. "see you tomorrow?"

"yeah, see you tomorrow."

warren opened the car door and stepped out, turning back to give you one last look. "goodnight,"

"goodnight," you echoed, watching as he walked up the path to his front door. he paused at the entrance, giving you a final wave before disappearing inside.

you sat there for a moment, the smile on your face widening as you replayed the evening’s events in your mind. the earlier worries and doubts that had clouded your thoughts now seemed distant, almost silly. maybe, just maybe, you didn’t need to be so worried after all.

#i love warren sm omggg #this took way too long #evan peters #evan peters fandom #american horror story #evan peters fanfic #evan peters imagine #warren lipka fanfic #warren lipka x reader #warren lipka #american animals #evan peters x reader #evan peters x y/n #evan peters x female reader #lem's short n' sweet collection

129 notes · View notes

greenishghostey · 2 years ago

Text

Snap & Bite

Pairing: Eddie Munson x fem!reader

Summary: You'd known Eddie since he moved to Hawkins back in 3rd grade. You guys weren't friends - he likely didn't even know your name anymore. But it's amazing how much you can connect with the town freak when sitting outside the principal's office.

Word Count: 3,618

Warnings: None! This is just a good ol' fluffy meet-cute oneshot

Author Notes: Right, this was meant to be short and sweet but its over 3k, but still, enjoy! I'm not sure if this idea has been done before. But I hadn't seen any fics relating to bonding outside the principal's office which would be on brand for Edward.

///

You had never, in your many years of education, been sent to the principal’s office. Keeping your head and staying out of trouble was all you wanted since school was already rough enough. Being one of the few artsy and “out-there” kids in bumfuck Indiana made you a prime candidate for teasing and general unwanted attention. Whether it was about the few streaks of paint that had gotten on your jeans or the fact that you weren’t willing to help anyone with their art projects - it didn’t matter; any facet of your being was an issue in the eyes of Hawkins’ graduating class of 1984.

None of it had been your fault - well, at least not entirely your fault. Marissa Shannon, in all of her venomous, permed glory, chose a dreary Wednesday to push you to breaking point. Normally, Marissa would make passing comments about you, maybe a few to your face, and be done with it. However, today she had taken it upon herself to cross one boundary you held dear. She touched your stuff, your art stuff.

You were hunched over your various research notes - a mix of library printouts and battered textbooks, working on one of the essays that would be presented alongside it all. You had only just finished the second paragraph when water soaked the entirety of your desk. The paper immediately darkened, the book covers curled even more, and there was no way in hell you were going to save your essay.

A huge puddle formed across your work, and Marissa’s surprised giggle had you almost seeing red. You didn’t say a word, only staring at her for a few seconds. The urge to retaliate didn’t come in the form of words but rather actions. You picked up your plastic pallet full of almost dried-up paint and hurled it at Marissa’s chest, coating her white polo in various shades of green and brown.

Her shrieking and lunging at you was the last thing you saw before being sent to Principal Higgins’ office by Mrs Gilmore - not before she made it clear that she “was so so disappointed in you”. Apparently, the whole situation had only been an accident. That may have been true, but it didn’t change the fact that Marissa laughed at you. That was the part that cut the deepest. Even when it wasn’t intentional torment, she still couldn’t say a simple sorry.

The walk of shame to the office was silent. Your sneakers dragged along the floor, and you shoved your hands in your hoodie pockets. So much for keeping your head down. You’d made it to the final months of being in Hawkins and just had to lose your cool. Also, staining a rich girl’s white top - that was gonna bite you in the ass later.

Outside of Higgins’ office, there was a small row of uncomfortable plastic chairs against the wall. Those chairs weren’t somewhere you wanted to find yourself. Since freshman year, you’d only seen bleeding boys, crying students and pissed-off parents sitting there. If they called your mom, you were so dead.

Graduation could not come soon enough. It would be such a sweet relief to leave for art school out in Chicago. You were still dragging your feet when the school receptionist, Ms Prince, nodded in greeting and gestured to the chairs.

A voice, a boy’s, piped up when you walked through the door, “the hell you doing here?” Your gaze snapped up to meet the wide, confused stare of Eddie Munson.

Now that you thought about it, you had also seen Eddie sitting on those chairs a lot. He tended to lounge back outside of Higgins’ office - whether he was all beat up or just twiddling his thumbs. Everyone and their mother knew that the boy’s very existence was enough for teachers to send him to the principal's office. It surprised you that he actually showed up instead of going to hibernate in his van.

You and Eddie were in the same grade and had been since he moved to Hawkins back in third grade. Back then, he was a weedy little kid with shaggy hair who everyone thought was mute or deaf because he never spoke. There had also been a rumour that he was actually a girl, but his parents had wanted a boy, and that’s why he had to live with his uncle. In retrospect, you realised that third graders could be fucking evil. Around sixth grade was when Eddie “the freak” came about. Eddie got taller than the other boys in your class and decided that he’d had enough of cowering in corners. You remembered the first day that he talked back to Ricky Galloway, the ringleader of the bullying.

Admittedly, Eddie’s comeback to Ricky wasn’t anything amazing; it was some snarky comment about the school’s baseball team always losing. Eddie promptly had an entire lunch tray poured over his head, but he had that manic smile on his face. The smile that made everyone uncomfortable. The smile that made people scared of him.

Eddie was the antithesis of what you wanted for your last few months in education. So, you ignored his confused question and sat down a few chairs away from him. Talking the town pariah would likely only get you into deeper shit. Your attention turned to a loose thread on your grey hoodie, twirling it around your fingers. The quiet was actually really uncomfortable, but you weren’t going to change that.

“You okay?” Eddie’s voice cut through the hum of the fluorescent lights above you. He really couldn’t sit still or keep quiet for more than a minute. It wasn’t that he was annoying - you found him strange in an intriguing way. But you just weren’t in the mood to talk at any length. Besides, he didn’t know you.

“Yeah. ‘M fine.” You sighed, eyes still focused on fiddling with the thread.

“Then how come you’re here? You’re like one of the super quiet girls.” Eddie pressed, also fidgeting like you. He was playing with the heavy, silver rings on his right hand. You’d noticed his eclectic taste in jewellery as it evolved - the pig head ring was actually kind of cool.

You appreciated that Eddie was still nice, even after curating his infamous title and reputation. He was only the mean and scary dude when it was called for. It was more of an armour rather than his actual personality.

“Got in an argument with someone in class.” The thread broke away from the seam on your hoodie. God fucking damn it. “Gilmore sent me straight here.”

“The art teacher?!” Eddie sputtered, his voice growing up an octave and making you jump. “Shit, what’d you do? You gotta be her favourite for sure. You shiv someone with a brush?”

Normally, Eddie’s attempts at lightening the mood wouldn’t have bothered you. It was just him trying to seem less scary. But you were sitting there being reminded of the fact that you were the favourite of the artsy kids. You were one of the super quiet girls, and you had snapped. Hit your boiling point, and it wasn’t quite finished yet.

“What? Because I’m the weird little art girl, so I can’t possibly just argue with someone? Is that it?” You spat, finally turning in your chair to meet Eddie’s wide gaze. “Or, or, no, is it because I’m quiet? Being quiet isn’t because I want to be. It just makes everything easier. You might want to give it a try sometime.” That final comment tumbled from your lips before you could fully think about it. Eddie didn’t deserve to be talked to like trash when he was just trying to be friendly. You took a deep breath, deciding to apologise and explain yourself better, but a snort cut you off.

Which grew into a full-body laugh. Not like the crazy cackle he did at the basketball team across the cafeteria. This laugh had his eyes wrinkle at the corners and an unrestrained smile worm its way across his face.

You hadn’t had or said anything even a little funny. You’d nearly ripped his damn head off. “Wh-what - am I that pathetic?” Eddie tried to contain his barks of laughter, pressing them down into more of a giggle. No one would ever believe you if you said that you’d seen Eddie Munson giggle.

“Nah, not pathetic at all.” He sighed, finally catching his breath and wiping at his eyes. “I get chewed up by everyone here every day. But, you know, you’re the first person to do it and actually make a decent point.”

“What do you mean? I basically just told you to shut up.”

“Well, yeah, but you said it in a weird way, and you’re right. Shutting up is easier.” Eddie’s eyes softened as he let his head fall back against the bullet board behind him. A small smile remained on his lips as he went back to fiddling with his rings. You sat in stunned silence, unsure whether or not to keep the conversation going. He’d be well and truly put in his place by you snapping at him, but now you wanted him to talk again. Eddie always spoke in a somewhat cryptic and odd way. You assumed it was because he saw the world a little differently from most people.

“Wasn’t weird, just very direct… and a little mean. Sorry about that. It’s been a shitty day.” You confessed, bringing one of your knees up onto the chair to rest your chin on. Shooting Eddie a tight-lipped smile was the best you could offer, in addition to an apology.

Another snort came from him; it wasn’t in malice. He was genuinely a bit amused by you. “Thought we were giving quiet a try?”

“God, you suck, man.” You breathed out a laugh. It was so fast that Eddie nearly missed it, but it caught in his ears and rang through his head. The icy exterior that you were putting up had started to be chipped away - not quite at melting point. “Right, here’s a question, why are you here?”

“Oh, just the Wednesday usual,” Eddie stated matter of factly. “Breathed too loud in math.” Part of you knew that his answer was going to be some degree of teachers being assholes. In junior year, you’d watched Eddie, full of the cold, be marched out of Physics because he kept sneezing. He didn’t even try to defend himself when it was something he couldn’t help. Eddie just dragged himself out into the hallway, waiting to be told off.

“And - and I made eye contact with Gina Lawson.” He added, beginning to speak more with his hands. “That girl hates me. I think she’s convinced by all that cult leader crap that goes around.” Eddie shrugged, trying to brush off the knowledge that his very presence had made a girl so uncomfortable. He had fun when it came to messing with guys who thought they were God’s gift but scaring girls always made him feel a little gross.

“Nah, Gina thinks your trailer is kitted out with furniture made from cheerleader skin.” You joked. “Way worse than just the cult stuff.” You had fully turned in your chair towards Eddie. Talking to him was actually helping you feel a little better about everything. His lightheartedness allowed you to have a much-needed cooling-off period.

“Huh, that one’s news to me, actually.” Eddie beamed like he was pleasantly surprised by this new stain on his reputation. In your mind, you could imagine him doing a paraphrased version of that one Sally Field speech on one of the cafeteria tables, “I can’t deny the fact you hate me!”

“Yeah, the girls have upped the ante with you. The skin furniture and blood drinking are the locker room favourites.” Last week before gym class, you had overheard a few girls talking about Eddie and “his cult”. It was like the guy was some kind of vampiric leper that also ate puppies on the weekend. You had to wonder if people could actually hear themselves talking about Eddie. Every rumour and claim was more outlandish than the previous week’s.

“See, that’s how I know it’s all made-up shit.” Eddie grinned, pointing a finger at you.

There he went again with his odd way of speaking. Truthfully, you found yourself enjoying the fact that he could keep a conversation going so smoothly, if not a bit strangely. “What part? Is blood drinking your hard limit?” You giggled.

Giggling wasn’t something you were really known to do. Especially in front of a guy. Wednesday was panning out to be fucking bizarre.

“The blood is for the sacrifices. Obviously.” Eddie said snarkily. You feel him implying “duh”. “You know how hard AB+ is to come by these days? That’s the man downstairs’s favourite.” You had to give Eddie a lot of credit for being able to commit to a bit. If anything, though, you were actively encouraging him to keep it going. This was the most you’d laughed in a while.

“It’s AB- that’s the rare type.” You interjected. Catching Eddie slightly off guard if his curious look was anything to go by. He did this thing where he tilted his head like a confused shaggy dog. “AB+ is pretty common. It’s negative that’s the hard to find one. My mom’s a nurse, so yeah.” Your voice trailed off slowly. He didn’t ask about why you’d said that. You shouldn’t have just shared the information. Eddie didn’t care. You had probably ruined the bit; you never were the best with jokes.

“Learn something new every day, huh?” Eddie smirked. He had also shifted in his chair to face you fully. “You ever think about joining a cult? We’ve only got one other girl, Abby, and zero medical knowledge between any of us.”

His response took you aback for a few seconds. Eddie met your awkwardness head-on and with encouragement.

“Hmm, tempting. Can I be the official pentagram artist?” You asked. The air of comfort that now filled the stuffy waiting area outside Higgins’ office was a welcome change. Maybe facing the principal - and then your mom later - wouldn’t be so hard.

The big, almost goofy smile you had become familiar with in the last few minutes appeared on Eddie’s face again. You weren’t entirely sure why he was smiling and laughing with you so much. The laughter was usually directed at you. But he would have understood that better than anyone. Eddie had the town church group ready to throw him in the lake to see if he was a witch at a moment's notice.

“If there’s anyone who gets to take that title away from me, it’s gonna be you.” Eddie asserted. “I remember seeing some of your stuff before. Like that one - the picture of the lake last winter when it nearly froze over. That was yours, right?”

How did he know that was your work? You hadn’t put a name on it when Mrs Gilmore insisted on displaying it outside her class. Your dad had let you swipe his good camera for the day since you needed to find some artistic inspiration around Hawkins. The town was very much lacking in any form of aesthetic intrigue, so you marched yourself into the surrounding woods. It was a really cold winter last year, and as Eddie reminded you, the lake had the perfect layer of glittery ice and frost over it. The backdrop of leafless trees and the brilliant, crisp blue sky made for a gorgeous contrast and arguably one of the best paintings you’d ever done.

A painting that Eddie remembered fondly.

“Yeah, that one was me. How’d you know that, though? I didn’t let Gilmore put my name near it.” You questioned, filled with curiosity now that Eddie was deciding to fully let his mean and scary mask slip away.

Eddie’s eyes widened suddenly, and his jaw twitched. He knew you hadn’t put your name on it, but he thought you would have at least forgotten that tiny detail. Now he had talked himself into a corner that you had him pressed into - with no escape other than the plain truth.

“That art contest we had in middle school, eighth grade. You won it with that drawing of big cleaning in the woods near the trailer park.” Eddie admitted, back to fidgeting slightly, but this time with the ends of his hair. “You paint trees and clouds the same way.”

It was true; you did. Back in seventh grade, your art teacher caught onto your love for the subject and taught you neat little painting tricks for landscapes. To this day, tree trunks and every form of cloud was painted in that same style. It was a subtle little marker of your work. No more than some purposeful brush strokes, a bit of smudging and an ungodly amount of colour mixing. The fact that Eddie - the guy who you assumed didn’t even remember your name - remembered how you painted fucking bark was-

It was-

It just was. That was all your mind could string together from the information.

“I’m really surprised that you remember that. Like, no one’s ever noticed any of the little things I do.” You gaped, still in shock at Eddie’s words. “The way I do clouds is something that Gilmore fucking despises, actually. Says I shouldn’t use my hands so much.”

“Well, that makes it even more sick.” Eddie smiled, knocking his knuckles against the chair between the two of you.

“You entered that art contest too, though, didn’t you?” You asked, raising your brows at the now shy boy beside you. You remembered that he entered, but you couldn’t remember what he had painted.

Eddie was picking at the stray threads on his ripped jeans now. “Ah-ha, yeah. I did the gnarly-looking dragon painting. Had messed up wings and bloody teeth and everything.” He laughed nervously as he recalled his early attempt at art. Eddie had gotten a hell of a lot better with his drawing since then.

“I actually really liked that one. You actually did something you thought was cool instead of just the standard fancy-schmancy art choices.” You reassured with a soft chuckle. “It was that other thing, though, yeah? Because it had two legs instead of four.”

Eddie was going to start getting dry eyes with how much his were widening that afternoon. First, you play along with his super mega satan blood cult schtick. Now, you remembered that his painting wasn’t of a dragon but a wyvern. A big difference that not many run-of-the-mill folks would know. A winged lizard thing was a dragon, end of story. Centuries-old folklore be damned.

You stared as Eddie hastily started pulling off his leather jacket and heavily decorated denim vest. He was damn near ripping the clothing off so he could get to the patch of skin on his arm that might impress you a little.

“What the fuck are do-” You started hesitantly. A guy started hauling his layers off. You’ll be a bit on guard even if said guy was Eddie - the apparent big softy.

“That drawing I did. I did a better one last year.” Eddie explained, down to his long-sleeved black t-shirt and quickly yanked one of the sleeves up. The majority of his arm was exposed before you saw it. On the back of his bicep was a hissing, scaly wyvern tattoo. “Can’t believe I forgot where I got the idea for this bad boy from.” He grinned, proudly thrusting his arm closer to you.

You quickly leaned over the empty chair, itching the get a better look at his arm. Tattoos always interested you, and you planned to get one once you got to Chicago next year. They were still illegal to get in Indiana, but it didn’t surprise you even a little that Eddie was covered in ink.

“Dude. You drew that?” You chirped, grabbing Eddie’s arm and moving it so you could see the full wyvern. “This is fucking cool! Did you do the shading and detailing too?”

Eddie could feel a distinct, yet somewhat foreign, heat crawling up his neck. You had his arm in a firm grip, which was skin-to-skin contact. He was eighteen; sue him. He nodded enthusiastically to your artistic questions about that particular tattoo and if he had others.

Neither of you took notice of principal Higgins exiting his office to call one of you inside. He stood there, tiredly watching two of the oddest children he had ever met bonding over illegally done tattoos. After about thirty more seconds of observation, Higgins cleared his throat loudly, causing you and Eddie to flinch back into your seats.

“Good afternoon, students.” Principal Higgins greeted coldly. “Munson, you first. Get moving.” He gestured for Eddie to follow him as he floated back into his stuffy little office. It stank of stale cigarettes and cheap air freshener - to try and cover the cigarette smell.

Eddie raised his eyebrows at you and gave you a little wave as he stood up - collecting his various layers of jackets as he went. You weren’t entirely ready to have your interaction with Eddie Munson finish there.

“Hey?” You whispered, waving your hand to get his full attention. “Good luck in there.”

Eddie only snorted and shot you that genuine toothy grin you had started to like quite a lot. He pointed into Higgins’ office, then at himself, then mimed a noose around his neck. All of it done with a mischievous glint in his warm brown eyes.

You giggled again. Eddie “the freak” Munson was the first person to make you giggle.

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson x reader fluff #eddie munson fluff #my writing #fluff #fic #eddie

761 notes · View notes

wordsarelife · 2 years ago

Note

I love your fics!! Could you do a Lockwood x reader fanfic for illicit affairs? Like the reader could be related to someone high up in DEPRAC or Fittes and Lockwood doesn’t want people to know they’re tgt bc he’d be accused of trying to get favours or smthin but reader rlly wants ppl to know n is getting fed up with hiding. A healthy dose of angst would be 10/10 <3

ILLICIT AFFAIRS

pairing: Anthony Lockwood x reader

warnings: mentions of sexual themes

summary: you want to make your relationship public, anthony doesn’t. you don’t think you can accept that any longer, but at least for tonight you can

note: i loved this ask!! illicit affairs is one of my favorite songs of ms taylor!! i’ve decided to split it into two parts, just because it feels better for me. part two will be out tomorrow!!

part 2: tomorrow

"why does it matter anyway?" Anthony asked and you could hear the desperation in his voice

"it matters to me, Anthony" you answered calmly, tired of all the fighting you both had done in the past week. it wasn't like you always fought, this wasn't a usual state for your over two year relationship.

you were used to a loving, considerate boy and you knew that he would do anything for you. just not that one thing and that's why it wasn't enough for you.

you continued to fight while you walked around the room, collecting your items of clothing.

"y/n, please" Anthony sat down on his bed "we've been over this, I explained it to you more than a million times"

"I know" you replied tiredly

"let's just not fight anymore" he stood up and brought you close to his body

"okay" you muttered and you hated yourself for always giving in. you just loved him too much to maintain you restrain.

you put on your jacket and walked to the door

"make sure nobody sees you leave" it almost pained him to say what he always said

"no one will see me" it pained you to reply what you always replied

***

you were sitting at the large table in the entrance hall of the house you lived in. you nearly jumped to your feet when you noticed Anthony and his friends walking into the room.

they were led into the hall by your father, the son of Marissa Fittes. that was merely Anthonys problem about your relationship, he didn't want anyone to think he was just dating you for favours, you had told him a million times that that was rubbish and he argued a million times that it would matter. you could never agree on the matter.

you noticed Penelope walk in behind the agency and you felt it was rude to just sit and watch, so you stood up, flowing the material of your dress, as you joined your sisters side.

"I'm sure you've already heard of them, but these are my daughters" your father introduced you both "Penelope and y/n"

you expressed your greeting, Anthony's eyes staying a bit too long on your face. your father cleared his throat and you lost the boy's attention.

“Lockwood and co are our special guests for the ball tonight, that’s the least we could offer, after the job they did for us last year”

there had been a rather big problem in one of the houses your family owned. the haunting had be caused by a scandal, a forbidden relationship that escalated in the walls of the house and led to one of the affair partners dying at the hands of the other. your family had been able to suppress all the runout and stop any information on going out, but they had to get rid of the problem nonetheless.

that had been when your father had found the little three people agency. they had promised to get rid of your problem as quietly as possible. nothing ever got out.

that’s actually how you had met Anthony. because unbeknownst to your father, and not allowed you often spend time in the garden of the haunted mansion. that’s were you had first met Anthony, you remembered it like it had been yesterday

***

you were sitting in the garden, picking flowers. the golden august sun was displaying on your features and warming your skin. your dress was flowing a bit from the wind and your hair would now and then flutter in front of your face

"oh hello" a voice suddenly said, noticing you between the high grown grass

it was a boy, he was about your age and despite the summer heat, he was wearing a suit and a long black coat on top of it

"hi" you smiled, laying your head to the side and further inspecting him. his hair was short, and his skin was light, which made the dark circles under his eyes even more prominent.

“eh— i’m Lockwood, Anthony Lockwood” his hand jolted forward and you shook it while you grinned at him

“n/n” you said “just n/n”

ever since then he had found you intriguing, how you would sit in high grown grass in front of a haunted mansion, peacefully picking flowers. that’s why he loved you, you mostly did the things you did out of pure joy for them.

after your first meeting it seemed that Anthony Lockwood would just not leave your mind. you had found out later that it had been similar to him, always thinking about you in that dress, sitting in a field of flowers.

so you started to meet every few weeks, casually talking on your run to arif’s, or meeting each other on the street. coincidental meetings turned into dates and you spend more and more time with each other.

but as much as you wanted to tell the whole world, Anthony wanted to keep it a secret. even to Lucy and George, you weren’t more than friends to them.

***

“can i come in?” you asked after you had knocked on the door softly. there were some muffled words you couldn’t quite make out, but it sounded like a yes, so you slowly opened the wooden door.

“n/n” Anthony smiled, ushering you into the room he would spent the night in, and closing the door behind you “what are you doing?”

“i wanted to see you” you spoke softly, gripping his tie with both your hands. his hands wandered to your waist almost naturally “and i wanted to ask you if you’d like to accompany to the ball later… maybe we could slip away later”

“it’s a bit risky, don’t you think?”

“isn’t that what makes it fun in the first place?” you brought him down by his tie, his lips meeting yours. you deepened the kiss, walking you backwards and enjoying the control you had over him

Anthony laid on the bed, while you sat on top of him, straddling his waist. “we shouldn’t do this, y/n”

you raised your brows, slipping off your dress, leaving you only in your underwear

“okay, maybe we can be quick”

you giggled and rushed forward, crashing your lips onto his.

maybe you would always give in when he was telling you to, but at least you had the same hold over him, neither one could resist the other and that was part of the dangerous game you were playing.

and you didn’t know it yet, but you were about to lose.

#lockwood and co #anthony lockwood #anthony lockwood x reader #george karim #netflix #ali hadji heshmati #cameron chapman #ghost hunting #ruby stokes #lucy carlyle #forbidden love #secret relationship #illicit affairs #taylor swift #lockwood x reader #anthony bloody lockwood #angst #illicitaffairsseries

170 notes · View notes

this-is-spn20 · 1 year ago

Text

Yandere!Sam Winchester Headcanons

A/N: yes i know I dipped out for a few months but I got inspo for this from browsing another fandom and tried looking for yandere fics of our favorite boys but couldn’t find any! If you want something right, you have to do it yourself lol. Requests are always open!

Spread Love!

-Marissa

WARNING: These headcanons are written with an unaware/unwilling reader! There will be the theme of stalking, harassment, unwanted attention, manipulation, and abuse (not sexual). Please do not read this if you are not comfortable with these graphic stories. Your consumption of media is not my responsibility.

***MDNI***

I DID NOT COME UP WITH THE LIST. ALL RIGHTS GO TO @dear-yanderee !

Word Count: 4,428

Suggested song while listening: Be My Queen by Seafret

---------------

Sam may be (slightly) delusional, but he’s smart. And can be a bit sadistic, but he’s smarter than the average person, that’s for sure. Using his computer knowledge to spy on any and all social media you have. Hacking into your account while you were sleeping (he never made the effort of watching you in person, no no doll, you could possibly see him and it’d ruin everything. Just wait for him, Just a little bit longer.). He knew when you were sleeping because your laptop or phone wouldn’t have any activity for a while, meaning he could snoop around for a bit before you woke up. Took him weeks to dig through every square inch of your online life All your records, he’d print them out and clear his history so as to not set off Dean’s alarms or interest. Even though Dean knows something is up.

Compared to Dean, Sam just knows how to persuade you into liking him. Incorporating himself into your life without you knowing. Making himself ‘small’, a background character. That dickbag that bumped into you while walking in the park when there was CLEARLY enough room for him to pass by without nearly knocking you down (he didn’t even bother being gentle), well at that time, you didn’t know what a bad day truly was. Hell, if you’d just run up to him and cursed him out, you probably would’ve saved yourself a lot of grief. Probably. (Honestly, it probably would’ve made him more intrigued.)

Working double, sometimes even triple shifts, are bad enough. But when your job is to stock shelves in the only (and by proxy) biggest store in town, it’s just more strain and stress. So when some big old, lanky, buff asshat shows up in your store and almost completely wrecks one of your perfectly stocked shelves, you get a tiny bit upset. As you take two carts to take all the stuff down, your boss radios you to tell you to have two more shelves stocked up before your next break for the big sale. And to tell you that you’re on call for the rest of the week. Whoever that asshole was, you wished to see him so you could tell him about himself. Or beat his ass. Or both.

Little did poor, naive little you know that over the course of those first five, horrible, months that Sam was programming your mind already. You never saw his face, but he was showing that, while he could make your life so unbearable at a moment's notice, but he chose to do good. To do right by you. He showed how bad it could get before he swooped in and put on his deadly charm. First coming up to you in the store while you were stocking an aisle and asking where the candles were. When you told him, he thanked you and struck up a conversation. Using everything he knew you’d like to hear to rope you in. He made sure the first time you met him, you’d never forget him. Ever.

Now you’re just his little doll. Doomed to be locked up in the dungeon until you proved to be good for him. Then love, you’ll be allowed in his room! You may even get your privileges back. Only if you’re a good girl for him. Just for him. He knew it was only a matter of time now before you break. He just had to be a little more patient. Then you were all his.

But we’re getting ahead of ourselves. Let’s start over, shall we darlings?

Affection: How do they show their love and affection? How intense would it get?

Giving gifts is his forte. When hacking into your computer, he made sure to make a list of your likes and dislikes. He knows your favorite movies, political views, your full name and date of birth, your blood type, your father’s dog’s name, everything. He saw the things you liked to buy online. Things you saved to your carts but could never afford to buy at the moment. So whatever is in your cart from whatever website, no matter the price, Sam takes it upon himself to buy the items and have them sent as gifts to your house. Anonymously of course. He loved seeing your face light up with surprise terror as you opened your door to yet another package on your porch with more items you planned on buying at the end of the month. If you could afford it of course. You wondered who was sending these packages. Someone you knew? But, you rarely showed anyone these wished possessions of yours. Was someone… watching you? I mean you always felt this… uneasy feeling in your chest lately. Maybe you should schedule a check-up with the doc.

Giving gifts is his forte. When hacking into your computer, he made sure to make a list of your likes and dislikes. He knows your favorite movies, political views, your full name and date of birth, your blood type, your father’s dog’s name, everything. He saw the things you liked to buy online. Things you saved to your carts but could never afford to buy at the moment. So whatever is in your cart from whatever website, no matter the price, Sam takes it upon himself to buy the items and have them sent as gifts to your house. Anonymously of course. He loved seeing your face light up with surprise **terror** as you opened your door to yet another package on your porch with more items you planned on buying at the end of the month. If you could afford it of course. You wondered who was sending these packages. Someone you knew? But, you rarely showed anyone these wished possessions of yours. Was someone watching you? You always felt this… uneasy feeling in your chest lately. Maybe you should schedule a check-up with the doc.

First, it was some makeup and a few nice dresses you wanted. You figured you’d still somehow ordered them. Even though your bank account didn't reflect such purchases. Still not convincing, even to yourself but, it was better than dwelling on ‘what-if’ questions. But as the gifts kept coming you got more and more… **concerned.** You’d confronted your coworker later the day after your umpteenth package. You told him that you appreciated his company while stocking the shelves, but you didn’t feel anything for him. To your annoyance, your coworker responded in complete confusion. When you told him to stop feigning ignorance he was positively confused. You and he didn’t know each other that well outside of work, so for this to be coming from you made him a bit angry. When you plainly told him what you thought had been doing, he told you to be careful, but he wasn’t the one doing it. In hindsight, you thought it was nice of him to express his concern. When he offered to walk you to your car that night, you were skeptical, but you let him do it.

Sam didn’t take too kindly to that.

But Sam decided to cool down on the packages. Now he thought was the time to make himself more involved in your day-to-day life. Small run-ins, nothing alarming but you knew who he was now. It started with him paying for your favorite drink at the local cafe you loved so much. He kept his cool and acted like it was just such a coincidence to run into you! How have you been holding up? He even took to finishing your book collection for your most recent series. Maybe taking to replace your worn books. You didn’t notice until you picked up one of your favorite novels and had to crack the spine. Indicating it was brand new. Things really got intense when you walked out to your car one morning and saw all your tires were replaced. When you got in, a note on your steering wheel simply said, “Your tires we going bald. You’re welcome.” You started getting more scared as the days passed. This person managed to get into not just your car, but also your house. A safe place. Your heaven. At least that’s what it used to be.

You were terrified to leave your house every day.

Blood: How messy are they willing to get when it comes to their darling?

Well, Sam being Sam prefers to keep his hands clean as much as possible. Plus him hurting anyone close to you will make you even more challenging to get. He also knows what losing someone feels like. Even more than you actually. Why would he choose to make things harder between you two if being with you and only you is his ultimate goal? Come on, don’t be silly. It’d do nothing for him to see you so hurt. Who wants to see their soulmate in pain?

Unless it was absolutely necessary.

Like maybe one day you’re feeling a bit rowdy. You have a lot of fight, Sam had to give that to you. But why are you so insistent on staying apart? He can’t love you from afar, he refuses to live without your love. He’ll do anything to keep you with him. But as patient as Sam could be, there are only so many times you can push his buttons, love. Now if you keep fighting, I’ll have to punish you. We don’t want that, do we? After all, broken bones take a long time to heal… But don’t you worry princess, he’ll fix you right up!

With mandatory bed rest included.

Cruelty: How would they treat their darling once abducted? Would they mock them?

Sam is a very loving person, so he wouldn’t really mock you at all. If you’re not trying to escape. If you are, you can expect to be tsked at and hear phrases such as

“Oh darling, I thought you knew better than to try something so stupid.”

“If you wanted to wear your chain today, you could’ve asked love.”

“Princess, you can’t get away from me. I will always see through your little plan. Your eyes tell me everything.”

If you’ve managed to piss him off (which takes a lot of effort so… go you?), you can expect him to leave you with more cuts and bruises than you could imagine. Just remember love, the more you fight, the angrier he gets…

And no, your begging and pleading will get you nowhere. But it hurts him more than it does you. You deserved it. It was for your own good darling. Trust him.

Darling: Aside from abduction, would they do anything against their darling’s will?

No. Absolutely not. Sam knows love will come with time. He would never hurt you by doing anything you didn’t want him to. Including simply touching you (but isolation is a bitch babe.). Honestly, the only thing he is willing to do against your will is feed you. Especially if you go on a hunger strike. He will not allow anyone to hurt you. Not even you, and damn sure not him. He’d probably force-feed you through a tube. Same thing with being hydrated. He can't let his good girl starve now, can he? What kind of man would he be to let that happen, princess?

Exposed: How much of their heart do they bare to their darling? How vulnerable are they when it comes to their darling?

Sam gives his whole heart and soul to you. He is a straight sucker for you honestly. He dotes on you a lot. Tries spoiling you with things he knows you’ll like. If you weren't in chains…

He tries to get you to open up to him by telling you everything about himself. To hunting, to what his favorite pair of socks were in middle school. Sam shows you sides of himself that not even Jessica got to see. He doesn't want to scare you so he almost shrinks himself to be smaller. Less threatening. Less dangerous. Honestly, if you’re smart, you could use this against him. You can start slowly opening up to him. Give as little information as possible and start planning your escape. Sam won't trust you to be out of the dungeon, or even your chains, for a while. But you’ve got nothing but time daring.

Fight: How would they feel if their darling fought back?

At first, it’d be almost amusing. If it didn’t happen so much he’d probably get a chuckle out of it. He hates having to use forceful ways to calm you down but he has no choice. He’s used more chloroform than he’d like but it was worth it. But the chemical burns on your face make him really emotional. He may look into paralyzing spells to quail your attempts. If he does find such a spell, you’re fucked. Not completely, but it's not looking good for you, love. He feels like you both are in some loop. Like a cat-and-mouse game, though it’s getting tedious.

There is one upside to this though. These attempts of escape and fights give him an idea of how your brain works. Your fight style, and the ways you attempt to run from him and the bunker, give him more useful information and ways to stop your plans. Eventually, you can’t get out of the dungeon without at least 5 alarms tipping off Sam before you can even turn the door nob. Do with this information as you will, darling.

Game: Is this a game to them? How much would they enjoy watching their darling try to escape?

This is not a game to him. This isn't amusing in the slightest bit. Watching you try to get away from him hurts him deeply. You two are soulmates. Why can't you see this? Why run from him when he can give you the world. He waits on you hand and foot. He caresses you with the lightest touch. He gives you almost everything you ask from him. He will bring you the biggest, brightest star in the universe if you just love him, and let him love you. Open up to him. Adore him, like he adores you. Get lost in him and everything he is, like he does with you. You’ll do that for him, right doll?

Hell: What would be their darling’s worst experience with them?

Believe it or not, but your worst experience with Sam wasn't when he occasionally snapped at you for your smart mouth. It wasn’t when he forced you to eat to keep yourself alive for him. Always for him.

It wasn’t even the time he came back from a hunt gone wrong and an argument with Dean once again, and Sam had come into the dungeon for the first time in a week. When he tried to land a kiss on your cheek, you’d headbutt him. Sam snapped and hurled harsh words your way, and you were struggling against the chains, Sam had enough of your shit so he grabbed your arm and slowly, very, very slowly twisted it behind your back until, through your screaming, you heard a sickening crack from your arm. Your ear-splitting screaming was heard throughout the whole bunker and you collapsed into darkness. Praying that this was your end. But when you woke up to some beige room on an old musty bed with a cast on your arm, you couldn’t stop the sob that ripped through your chest. Only for Sam to immediately wrapped his arms around you and coo at your tears rolling into his shirt. Declaring he’d never bring harm to you again, although the scars covering your skin told you otherwise.

No, you see, the worst experience for you, dealing with Sam, was the day you realized you needed him. That you loved him. How could you not see it earlier? Sam’s doting nature, his soft smile, the obsession adoring look in his eyes, his velvet touch. Everything that was him. You loved him. You loathed him. He took everything from you, yet had given you so much. He gave himself to you. Trusted you with his very soul. And here you were. Being selfish, greedy, mean-spirited, reclusive, disrespectful, and just plain stupid. Sam could have anyone he wanted. But he wanted you, and you had the audacity to not love him back? Stupid and horrible. You hoped it wasn’t too late to win his heart.

Wait. This… isn’t right. Is it?

Ideals: What kind of future do they have in mind for/with their darling?

He wants to enable you in all of your passions and hobbies. He wants the not-exactly-white-picket-fence-lifeTM with you. You and the front porch relaxing, watching him work in the front yard and you smiling at him ever so brightly. He wants to watch you take care of your plants and gardens, in a huge house that he worked so hard to get for you. For the both of you. Watching you take care of your many dogs and cats around the house.

And running after you around the living room and kitchen, just to catch you. Him carrying you up the stairs while looking into each other's eyes. Him smirking down at you, knowing it's gonna be another long night of passionate sex and lovemaking. In the morning, waking you up with gentle kisses and licks and biting. Teasing you out of your dreams. Dreams filled with nothing but him. Going into the kitchen to help you make breakfast. You lightly scolded him after him messing up, because he could help thinking how sexy you look in his shirts. Passion-filled make-out sessions with teenage-level humping and grinding. Sam always finds himself in these fantasies, only to snap back into reality all too soon. Then he remembers you must be so cold and hungry in that old dungeon. But he knows that one day he’ll get to live out all of that with you and so much more. Not today, but one day.

Jealousy: Do they get jealous? Do they lash out or find a way to cope?

Well, he doesn’t have to be jealous because you don't even go outside…

Though he does keep a close eye on Dean. Knowing how he can be.

Kisses: How do they act around or with their darling?

Sam is ecstatic when you finally allow him to touch you. His hands have been itching to cover every single inch of your body. He loves the way your skin feels on his hardened calloused hands. Your skin was still a bit rough from the scars Sam’s hands left behind. Those same hands touching you as if you were the best prize on earth. And to Sam, you definitely were. Kisses galore. When you initiated the first kiss, it was hesitant and a bit clumsy, but Sam cherished the way your lips trembled against his. Nothing mattered to him anymore at that moment. Only you. Always you.

Love letters: How would they go about courting or approaching their darling?

As stated before, Sam relished the fact that you (subconsciously) knew he was always there. Sam always found a way to be a background character in your life. A supporting role. If you will. Always the blurry face in the crowd. But always there.

Mask: Are their true colors drastically different from the way they act around everyone else?

Oh yes. He is very much different in different environments. He’ll coddle and hug and kiss you near death. He’s almost always in a good mood when he’s spending time with you. Happy BoiTM. When he’s with Dean, he’s pretty normal. They typical brother teasing, the good moments, the bad ones. Sam acts like he always acted before you came along and rocked his world. The same goes for Donna, Jody, Alez, and Claire. The interactions are the same. But when with you, he can't focus on anything else but you. That's also the reason why he won't bring his research into the dungeon/room when you're there. He wants to show you that he can separate work and home life. With you, he lets his obsession love for you run free. He just can’t hide how he feels about you, love. Also, cause he can’t focus with you around.

Naughty: How would they punish their darling?

Isolation mostly, yet if you show yourself to be resistant to that, he’ll use physical pain and manipulation.

Oppression: How many rights would they take away from their darling?

Almost all of your rights are taken from you. You can’t use any means of communication (unless you found some way to get hold of a spell.), You aren’t allowed to use any electronics unless Sam is practically attached to your skin. The only thing you can do is use the bathroom alone. Sam will allow you a few minutes in there depending on what you’re doing. But he’s taking everything that helps you escape out of there, even the mirror… You can’t be alone when you shower though. Sam will stand there, in the hot and humid bathroom and watch your every move as you shower. When you’re done, he’ll help you dry off and help you rub your lotion on your now rough and scared skin with nothing but utter devotion swimming in his eyes. Your night clothes will be put on by him as well. All of this will be done with the lightest, silk touch.

Patience: How patient are they with their darling?

Extremly patient. Most days, he’ll put up with you and your shenanigans. But some days, when he’s in a bad mood or just generally tense, he’ll have a shorter fuse. You’ve learned to follow his orders on these days. Lest you’d like to go back into the dungeon…

Quit: If their darling dies, leaves, or successfully escapes, would they ever be able to move on?

Sam would never let you go easily so I’d say death really could be your only escape, and even then, thats not a guarantee. He could always make a crossroads deal, or bargain with Crowley. Hell he’d even try bargaining with Death himself. He’ll torture a thousand demons to get you back. Sam will walk through Hell, Purgatory, and Heaven to get to you. Sam will go as far as kill himself in hopes he can follow you to heaven be with you eternally. Sure he’d feel guilty about leaving Dean, but he’d be with you. He can live with that. After all, how many times had Dean left him, only to beg Sam to move on?

Now if you had escaped and were able to stay hidden, either by the help of some angels or demons or the other he’ll search the ends of the Earth to find you. If he wasn’t able to find you by himself, he’d enlist in Dean, Jody, Donna, Claire, Alex, Charlie, and other trusted hunters, hell he’d even ask Rowena to help. If all of them together weren’t able to find you, Sam would never get over you. He’d grieve you every day while you celebrate getting away from him.

Regret: Would they ever feel guilty about abducting their darling? Would they ever let their darling go?

While Sam would never let you go, he’d feel incredibly guilty about taking you away from your home, your friends, your family, and your life. With him, Dean, and John constantly moving around due to hunting, he knows exactly how you feel.

Stigma: What brought about this side of them (childhood, curiosity, etc)?

Yes, in fact, his childhood and early adult life were a factor, constantly losing new friends to the hunting life, and then losing Jessica, his father, Dean more than once, and more people he could count. This, as one would imagine, would leave an impression on even the toughest people. Not to mention being bullied at a young age and not being accepted in any social groups just for being who he was. So when he first saw you, he knew he wanted you, and he wouldn’t risk you not accepting him, or being taken from him.

Tears: How do they feel about seeing their darling scream, cry, and/or isolate themselves?

Hearing you scream and cry makes his whole body shiver as tears sting in his eyes. He’d do anything you’d like to see you only smile for the rest of your days together. Hearing your sobs late into the night makes his body feel as if he’s being dipped into the hottest lakes of fire. You could swear one day, you could hear the cracking of his heart as he watched you cry one day. You’d also notice how his tears would fall at the same time as yours did.

Unique: Would they do anything different from the classic yandere?

On days when you’d been extra good, he’d take you for a ride in the Impala up to his favorite stargazing hill and bring a book and blanket. He’d read to you as you zoned out watching the stars glitter in the skies. Wondering how peaceful the star would be. Millions of miles away from you. You’d appreciate the little bit of freedom, even though you still had to wear a collar. But at least your wrists could get a break from those iron chains.

Vice: What weakness can their darling exploit in order to escape?

The more you behave, the more Sam takes you out. Not in public places just yet. But it will come with time. Just stick it out and eventually you go to pubic places together and then you can plan your escape and get away from Sam once and for all. But keep in mind, if you fail and get caught, Sam will likely never take you out again. And if by some miracle he does, he will literally handcuff your hands together.

Wit’s end: Would they ever hurt their darling?

If you piss him off enough he’ll slice your skin to ribbons and remind you what happens to bad girls. If you keep disobeying him he might just break a few of your bones. You can’t escape if both of your legs are broken, can you darling? He’ll break your mind by either isolation or some sort of mind spell.

Xoanon: How much would they revere or worship their darling? To what length would they go to win their darling over?

He damn near kisses the dirt you walk on. This man is devoted to you. He’ll bring you every star you desire, he will kill every monster, buy everything you can ever want, hug you for however long to make you happy and feel safe. Anything doll, name anything and he’ll do it.

Except kill Dean. Nice try love.

Yearn: How long do they pine after their darling before they snap?

Sam would spend no more than a few months to a year pining over you. Using his time wisely before he just couldn’t hold himself back anymore. Even still, he was as calculated as ever in kidnapping retrieving you.

Zenith: Would they ever break their darling?

Yes. You’ll be broken beyond repair if you don’t get out.

-------------------

A/N: I hope you all enjoyed these headcanons! I'm back baby! Requests are open!

Spread Love,

-Marissa

TAGGING: @imaginestuffs @naturalswifty89 @fooshigoomies @of-a-chaotic-mind @as-lost-as-sams-shoe @starlordsimp1358 @slytherinlyn16 @trickstergoddessblog @desimarie12 @lovelynerdylady @samsgirl93 @candy-coated-misery0731 @crazyaboutotps @anjalika03

If you would like to be tagged in all my works just leave an ask!

78 notes · View notes

enam3l · 2 years ago

Note

Oooh while your requests are open what about Eddie buying reader the first big purchase after the band goes big

Eddie and reader had discussed being tight with the money he makes, still not used to their new life, but what if Eddie buys her a new car she desperately needs and it’s not just any car its a super car 😭 like she goes to work in her beat up beetle with the wobbly tailpipe and no air and comes out to a ferrari 😭😭😭😭😭😭

This is so cute! I'm gonna change it a lil if that's okay to fit the storyline so far. Basically, when reader and Eddie meet, Corroded Coffin have already released their debut album so he's pretty set for cash. Although he is still shook he has money but loves spending it on reader (like in their first holiday fic.) Check the comments for theeee car.

driving mrs munson (rockstar eddie x reader) ficlet / fluff

you can see all rockstar eddie x reader stories and lore at #enam3ls rockstar eddie or the masterlist! and check out my new series love, lola

Once you were married, you and Eddie both decided to make Hawkins your permanent residence. Your house had been one that Eddie went past everyday when growing up, always admiring how it stood out from the other suburban cookie cutter houses. Once the band had been signed, as if by magic, for the first time ever the house was for sale. Eddie used the check to buy the house for himself, a reminder of his ultimate goal in life - to fall in love and build a life and family with someone. Now that is exactly what was happening.

Moving to Hawkins marked a the start of something you'd both always dreamed; creating a loving and safe family that you'd both grown up dreaming of. Although you and Eddie had both loved living in New York where you had spent your five years together getting into mischief, it was absent of the people you loved the most. The pair of you wanted the kids you longed for to grow up around their makeshift family. At night you'd hold each other and plan it all. How your kids would only know Wayne as Grandpa (regardless of biology, he was Eddie's father) and have sleepovers at his house. Or how they could walk down the road to play with Steve and Marissa's kids. And how they'd been spoilt rotten on birthdays and christmases by all their adoptive aunties and uncles.

Whilst Eddie had always been back and forth between New York and Hawkins, it had been a very long time since you'd lived anywhere but a bustling city. So long that you'd forgotten about one issue - transport. It took a week before you were clutching your hair in frustration at a small town's answer to public transport. No subways or frequent buses to take you anywhere you desired. Eddie had to hide the smirk on his face watching you attempt to resurrect the battered white (and splattered with rust) Mustang you'd owned since before he knew you. Although he was grateful the old car was literally what brought into his life in February 89, Eddie wasn't keen about letting you continue to drive it. It was unreliable and was beginning to feel like sitting in the Flintstone's car, and whilst he loved being your personal chauffeur, it just wasn't feasible. So Eddie had a solution.

One thing Eddie had found about being a rockstar was people were always trying to sell him things like cars. Ridiculous extravagant and expensive things that no human actually needs. Many parties and events he'd listen to other celebrities boast and croon over their latest purchase. Eddie had always thought it was surreal, looking round the room waiting for someone to reveal it was a prank. These people were buying cars that cost five times the trailer he'd grown up in with Wayne, and they dropped the cash so casually like it was a packet of cigarettes. But all of this did mean Eddie knew where to buy a good car from.

Even before you'd gotten married and moved, Eddie had an inkling you'd be in need of a car once you moved. Therefore, he was thoroughly prepared for the moment. For months when you were out he dropped careful questions when you went past a car.

'That one is cool, hey sweetheart?'

'Could you imagine driving a car that big?'

'I never knew you could get cars that colour...'

So with the help with some very eager salesmen, he'd whittled down the options to one he thought was perfect for you. And for the last month Eddie was waiting on the call to say they'd tracked down the exact car he wanted to you.

As he watched you in the drive away flipping the bird and your old banger, Eddie struggled not to chuckle down the phone to the salesman. The car was ready for him to collect, finally. Eddie grabbed his jacket and keys and went to offer his chauffeur services one last time.

'Want me to drop you off sweetheart?'

Your frustrated little face turned to him and gave a small little nod.

'Okay, get in Miss Daisy,' he chuckled giving a playful smack to your ass.

Eddie dropped you off at Marissa and Steve's with a kiss. Then, sped off to pick up Wayne who would drive the van back for him as Eddie took your new car home.

As he stood in the driveway admiring the beautiful vehicle, Eddie couldn't believe how perfectly the plan had come together. Steve was on his way to drop you home and everything was ready for your arrival. Even though the showroom had it perfect, Eddie had to make sure it was sparkling and had polished it himself. Then, he finished it off with a comically large bow he'd been hiding for weeks just for the occasion. Finally, Steve pulled up (still loyal to the BMW brand). Artfully, he was distracting you with chatter so you had yet to notice the new toy in front of your house.

'Thank you Stevie! See you guys at the weekend!' You shouted through the open window before he sped off. What you didn't notice was the cheeky wink Steve gave Eddie before he left. You walked towards the house, totally oblivious as you fished for your keys until a cough from the the voice you'd recognise anywhere, caught your attention.

'Jesus Ed you near-' your jaw dropped, along with your keys to the floor when you looked up.

There stood your husband leaning like a model against the nicest car you'd ever seen. A Porsche 964.

'Who? What? Whose is that?' you gawped, taking in the lush metallic paintwork. The sporty car was the colour of a glittery purple grape.

'Yours, hot stuff,' Eddie's grin spread right across his face as he threw a set of keys your way. You stood shell shocked, only just managing to scramble to catch the keys before they pelted you in the head.

The keys jangled as you analysed them, he was right - they were yours. Indicated by a keyring with a photo of you and Eddie from a photobooth on your honeymoon as well as another keyring with your new initials on.

Y/I M

When you finally found your voice you scolded him.

'Edward! What the fuck! You got this... for me?'

'Don't full name me, baby! I just bought you a badass car. Couldn't let you out in the death trap anymore,' he frowned.

Of course, that was so Eddie, always looking at for you and putting you first. Your face crumpled, overwhelmed by his extravagant thoughtfulness.

'Eds,' you gasped, 'you shouldn't have! You've just given me my dream wedding and honeymoon and hou-'

You're silenced by Eddie pinching your lips closed, a boyish grin on his face.

'Sweetheart, I'd pay for that all again and more. Consider it a late wedding present or early birthday present. Look, where's my thank you kiss?' He pursed his soft lips.

You launched yourself at him, arms and legs wrapping around him. Mouth pressed to his, then peppering the rest of his pretty face in misses. Eddie's hands tucked under your ass, fingers gripping your soft thighs as he deepened your kiss. He went to rest you on the bonnet until you pulled away, tutting.

'Ah ah ah, don't muss my paintwork!'

'Sorry sweetheart! Do you like it?' he asked so earnestly, as if you'd ever disliked anything he ever gave you.

'Are you kidding, baby? It's perfect,' you squealed, fingers skating delicately over the car. 'Can we go for a drive?'

Eddie's heart swelled watching your eyes wide with excitement, bouncing like a giddy child on the spot.

'Of course! Let's go!'

Your hands lay intertwined with Eddie's on the centre console as you ventured down the winding Hawkins roads. Never in your life had you driven a car this spectacular, let alone owned one. The car glided effortlessly up the off-road path let led to Lovers Lake and you pulled to a stop. Eddie raised his eyebrow in confusion.

'Whatcha doing sweetheart?'

Noticing your wicked smile. Your free hand inched up his chest until you reached his collar, pulling him close towards you.

'Wanna see if this cars big enough to make out in?' your breath warm on Eddie's mouth.

'Fuck yeah,' he gasps before latching onto your mouth.

The pair of you grunted into each others mouths, tongues intertwining as both your hands wondered, tugging each other closer. Eventually you break for air.

'Don't think it's quite big enough for car sexy anymore, will have to bend you over the bonnet,' Eddie smirks nipping at your neck.

You swat him, feigning annoyance but his shamelessness never fails to make you laugh.

'Behave... I don't want to ruin my paint job.'

The pair of your grin at each other, completely smitten. Eddie looks over his shoulder, straight out the rear window due to the absence of backseats.

'We'll have to upgrade you once you're pregnant though,' his face is still cheeky but Eddie speaks with a slightly timid tone. His hand instinctively reaching out, warm and gentle on your soft tummy. You both look down at where his hand rests, butterflies in both your stomachs at the thought of what could be.

my taglist angels: @whoahoney @lukewearingbeanies @esme-viridian @elysian-chaos @munsonology @mseddiemunson @kreepja

255 notes · View notes

lodgeofeilhart · 10 months ago

Note

Hii! Have you seen the series Hanna? I just saw your new post :D

If yes, is there any chance you can please write a one shot with Marissa x Y/N?

HOW, and I mean how the hell have you read my mind!!! OMG, yes, I was actually planning on starting one!!!

You have no idea how happy I am that I'm not the only one who wants a fic like that!!! To be quite honest, I was going to update chapters 15 and 16 of my university fic, which should be very soon, and then start a little draft for the Marissa/Reader fic!! You have no idea how you've made my night with this!! Thank you!! ♥️♥️🥰🙌

#marissa wiegler #marissa/reader fic in the making!!

1 note · View note

becauseicantthinkwritings · 2 years ago

Note

Chelsuuuiii 🥰 you know how AoP is my comfort fic, and I was wondering, how would they celebrate their first Valentine’s? Would they even? … or … or…. What if Reader says something and Billy has to change his plans on the spot… idk.,.. I guess I just miss those two 🥹

So, let's kick this up a notch.

Let's say that their first Valentine's Day comes after they've both decided to be together. We'll consider it something independent of any plotline actually happening in AoP.

Warnings: consensual non-consent (CNC), she definitely very much consents to it, chasing, oral (f receiving), bondage, mentions of sex and a bit of denial.

It starts with Billy seeing an ad somewhere. Maybe on a passing cab, or at the front of a flower shop that he passes on his way to the coffee shop within walking distance of Anvil.

He's busy, but he spends his time at the coffee shop scrolling through Valentine's Day ideas, while he waits for his coffee.

He doesn't much understand the custom, vaguely interprets that it's just a day to boost capitalism, but nevertheless, Billy really doesn't need an excuse to spoil his wife.

I mean, he literally spoils you at every waking moment, but he takes up the challenge. He wants to show you off, and he definitely doesn't want you looking at other people's grand gestures of affection and wishing you had what they did.

He know you better now though, humble and sweet, no need for a flashy date of any kind.

You probably wouldn't even ask him, or say anything, contented to spend more time with him.

Your sweetness makes him hard, and before he forgets, he sends a message to Marissa asking her to remind him when Valentine's Day get nearer.

The flashy displays of affection are a little annoying. It gets worse as the day gets closer, and you find yourself retreating to your office as often as possible to avoid all the abundant displays of hearts and flowers.

Everything is so much better with your husband around, and when you find him engrossed in work at his desk, your arousal is almost too much to bear.

"I don't suppose you could spare the time to entertain me, could you?" You say to Billy, trying not to be too vulgar in his work space- the one you two definitely fuck in a lot more than normal.

But Billy has been itching for an excuse, any reason to stop working, and at your words, he closes his laptop and loosens his tie.

"Fuck. I'm so tired, I can't take this shit anymore." He stands decidedly, grabbing his phone, and approaching you.

He's got a determined look in his eye, as he takes your hand and pulls you out the door.

His hand wrapped firmly around your hip, he steers you into the elevator, barely sparing a glance at Marissa, who gives you both confused looks.

"Where are we going?" You ask, wondering if he was taking you home.

"How do you feel about Switzerland?"

"H- What?" You say, reeling to face him.

He looks calm at the words, his face so still and gorgeous. His mouth curves up into a smile when he sees your expression.

He pulls you tighter into his body, in the enclosed elevator space, and leans in till his lips are brushing yours.

Your eyelids flutter as your nose touches his.

"I want to fuck you in a place with a nice view. Where it's so fucking cold outside that you don't think of leaving my side."

You can't help the shocked gulp you make at his words, heat already beginning to pool between your thighs at the very thought.

It was truly amazing, the way Billy could give you everything you've ever wanted, just by giving you himself.

You lean in to kiss him, and he groans into your mouth, unaware, but coming to a resolute conclusion that he very much wanted you right now.

With no bags packed, and nothing planned, you both hop into the back of his private car, and he pulls you onto his lap so that he can kiss you senseless on the drive to the airport.

You don't know what arrangements are being made, and honestly, neither does he, he asks Marissa to handle everything, and she accepts the task easily.

Marissa only sends photos of the hotels for Billy's approval, otherwise accustomed to his preferences with regards to travel.

It's spontaneous, truly spur of the moment, and you're desperate to unbuckle his belt and pull his cock out for a desperate session of lovemaking like no other.

But Billy has other plans, halting your desperate fingers, kissing your cheek.

"Patience, my pretty little wife, let's wait until we get there."

Which is absolutely ludicrous. Switzerland is near seven hours away. He can't possibly expect you to wait that long, when you were already damp and aching for his cock right now.

But, yes, that was somehow his plan, to watch you squirm, ache for him on the flight, rub your thighs together in your work skirt and tell you all of the things he planned to do.

"I got a room with a hot tub on the balcony. Can't wait to suck on your sweet nipples while you soak in the hot water."

He was too good at that, telling you how he planned to open you up in front of the fire, and make you sit on his face on the fur sheets of the king sized bed.

After your meal, you tuck yourself against him, and before you can say anything, you're asleep easily.

You only wake up when the car you're in comes to a stop.

You blink a couple of times in shock, trying to figure out how exactly you got from the plane to the car without waking.

He's on the phone with someone when you wake, and when you raise your head, he brings a hand up in an attempt to tuck you back against him. You show him you're awake by kissing the tips of his fingers, earning an affectionate chuckle.

There's an indoor garage, which thankfully allows you to avoid the freezing cold of the outdoors.

If anyone is perplexed by your light attire and lack of luggage, nothing is said to you, and you find that letting Billy handle things makes you feel so much at ease.

You marvel, that if you were back in your old life right now, you'd have at least five things on your mind, but with Billy at your side, you couldn't even find it in you to worry about the fact that you had no clothes.

You probably wouldn't be needing it anyway.

It's just about time for dinner when you finally make it up to the room, and after a nice warm shower, he encourages you to order something to eat for the both of you.

Wrapped in the hotel's robe, you pick out different pastas for the two of you, and make a quick note of the length of time it will take.

As soon as you utter a 'Goodbye' and 'Thank You,' you find the phone being pulled from your ear and tossed haphazardly in another direction.

"I've been waiting for hours baby, and frankly, I'm getting a little bit jealous over here."

You ignore pointing out that it was his fault that he had to wait hours, in lieu of asking,

"Jealous? Jealous of who?"

Billy, who has begun to look like a man untamed, tugs at the collar of your robe.

"This fucking thing, gets to touch your skin. I'm so jealous."

Entranced by him, you can't help tugging the tie of the robe free, letting the fluffy white material slip from your shoulders.

"Better?" You ask.

Billy groans, the tips of his fingers grazing your collarbones, drifting lower to cup each of your plump breasts in either hand.

"How are you mine?" He asks, almost in disbelief.

"You coerced me into marriage. Remember?"

You yelp when he gives one of your nipples a little pinch.

"And yet somehow, you agreed to fly to a foreign country, with nothing more than the clothes on your back for me."

"I never said I was smart." You counter, and he laughs into the column of your throat.

"Yeah, but now you're just completely at my mercy. I can do absolutely anything I want to you and you can't do a thing to stop me."

There was that heat, pooling in the center of you once again.

You didn't want to actually do anything to stop him, but a sick little thought squirms its way into your head and you find that you like the idea.

You shove him back, and he gives you a shocked look as he watches you climb off the bed and adjust your robe.

"Prove it." You challenge, giving him a little smile.

"What?" He asks, trying to get specific details from you.

"Prove that I can't stop you if you wanted to have me."

His eyes darken, and he takes a threatening step towards you.

"Is that what you want baby? I'm not gonna be nice about it."

You nod, stepping back.

"I'll tell you if it's too much."

The pull at the corner of his mouth is all you have to go on before he lunges for you, and you duck out of the way of his hand, running to put any sort of furniture between the two of you.

He grins, rounding the side of the couch, and you move in the opposite direction, mirroring his movement.

"You think you can run from me? Think I won't catch you?"

You grab one of the throw pillows on the couch, throwing it at him. He smiles as he smacks it away.

When he leaps over the couch to grab you, you squeak, running into the bathroom for safety.

It's your worst mistake, the bathroom is a dead end, and he corners you easily in the tub.

"Give up." He teases, and you raise your hands to his chest to keep him back as he crowds your space.

"Give up, little wife, and let me do what I want to you."

Your stomach clenches. You almost do it, enjoying the way his lips graze your cheek, desperate to have him, but enjoying the way this game of yours riles him.

"Fuck you." You say to him, and he laughs into your skin as he pulls your robe completely off your body.

"Say less." He teases, and moves his hands to grip your ass in an attempt to lift you.

You go with it, because you can't escape him here, wrapping your legs around his hips, leaning in to kiss him deeply as he walks you out of the bathroom and back to the bed.

When he drops you onto the soft furs, you don't hesitate to roll onto your stomach and try to clamber away. He simply grabs one of your legs and tugs you right back to him, flipping you onto your back again.

You can't help laughing, fighting at his hands when he tries to grab you. You pull at his own robe, pushing it off of his shoulders so that he's halfway bare for you. You try not to give in at the sight of his tattoo, fangs bared and ready to strike just like he is.

When he grows tired of your hands, he grunts angrily, pinning your wrists to either side of your head.

"Where did you learn to be such a brat?" He asks.

You giggle, wriggling under him, trying to get free, enjoying the way your naked body slides against his.

"Maybe it was the seven hour flight that you refused to fuck me on. Or the forty-five minute drive to the airport before that. Or in your office when I was already hot and aching for you, ready for your cock. Maybe it was then."

He flips you over and pulls your hands behind your back. Though you struggle under him, he uses the tie of his robe to secure your hands.

He rises up, leaning over you to whisper in your ear.

"You just had to be a little patient, was that so hard? You can't go eight hours without my cock?"

Definitely not, you want to say, instead you stay silent.

You feel his hands, gripping at the flesh of your ass, working one around your hip and pressing between your body and the bed.

You sigh in bliss when his fingers find your clit, already coated in your arousal.

Billy hums in appreciation.

"Always ready for me, hmm? Pretend all you want, wife, but you want me to have you, just as much as I want to have you."

He pulls his hand away to your disappointment, pulling your hips up so that you're ass is on display for him and your head stays buried in the sheets.

When you wiggle your ass playfully, you're rewarded with a sharp slap to your behind.

You yelp, which only earns you a second strike to the opposite side.

Then, his coarse beard is scraping against the back of your thigh, he kisses over your skin, carefully working you up until his tongue presses to your center, to meet your clit.

Your body trembles, unable to really move as he eats you from behind, his tongue working over your clit and then dancing up to your entrance.

You hear him moan, and you can't help leaning back to press against his face.

He takes his time, despite your desperation, his soft lips kissing your hot center, hands gripping your hips tight to keep you pressed to his face.

Your toes curl, his tongue takes its time dancing in careful circles over your clit and you feel this great wave approaching, threatening to crash.

"Billy," you try to warn, but the sheets muffle the sound.

There's only the sound of the fire crckling, and the smack of his lips, and you let out a low whimper just as you reach your peak.

The wave crashes, and you shudder as bliss swells in your head. Your breaths waver, as the intensity of your orgasm makes your hed spin.

"Oh fuck that's so good." You breathe, angling your head to try to get as much air as possible.

He pushes you over, and you fall easily onto your side. With your arms bound, you can't reach for him like you want to, but he knows, leaning forward to give you passionate kisses while he gropes every inch of your skin.

"I hope you enjoy this as much as I'm going to." He says threateningly into your ear.

You think you might enjoy it more.

Somewhere in the cold of the second morning, after you two have had morning sex in front of the raging fire and sex is becoming just a little too oversensitive for you, do you finally realize what day it is.

You roll in his arms, cuddling into his chest, he stirs a little when you move.

"Somethin' wrong?" Billy asks, voice thick with the most comfortable sleep in his life, wrapped in the sheets taken from the bed.

"Happy Valentine's Day. " you whisper into his snake tattoo.

He chuckles, the sound stirring the carnal parts of you. He raises a hand to cup the back of your neck affectionately.

"Happy Valentine's Day, baby." He sighs, drifting right back to sleep, unable to fight the comfort the warmth of the fire and his wife gives him.

Sorry I'm so late baby.

#ask #idaofinfinity #accidentally on purpose married billy #accidentally on purpose asks #billy russo x female reader #my writings #ben barnes #AoP universe #Valentine's day drabble #billy russo x reader #billy russo #billy russo smut

142 notes · View notes

the-goddess-of-mischief-writing · 2 years ago

Text

Pub Crawl {2}

Oneshot Summary; The handsome stranger isn’t much of a stranger anymore as you get to know him. John Price, is his name, Captain John Price. In fact, the gentleman of a soldier makes you much less calm than what their night out was attempted to be and as the night goes on you realise that maybe the feeling is mutual.

Pairing: John Price x reader

Rating: Mature

CHAPTER NO/ONESHOT: Chapter 2/3

Word; 15k

Warnings; nothing major, implied age-gap

Author; @the-goddess-of-mischief-writing

A/N: *Dropping my 15k flirting Price fic and runs*

MAIN MASTERLIST

Pair. Three of a kind. Full house. They played often, you understood. Cards dealt, a flick of the corner, bets placed.

Johnny seemingly sobered up his ecstatic personality once the games began. No less favouring running his mouth, but less expressive. Eyebrows, for the time being, are set as if carved into stone. A new glint -a competitive one- gleamed like well-polished medals in his eyes. But those sparks also spawned his tell-tale cues.

Ghost had an unfair advantage in your eyes. Those sole expressions previously visible through his eyes swept away as if he put another coverage over his face. An invisible but nonetheless detectable one. But what you evidently lacked in piecing his character together -those blank niches yet to be fleshed out- the other men around the table knew, taking advantage of it as well. Hence, you commenced eyeing the others rather than Ghost to catch his tells.

Kyle kept a constant easy smile in the corner of his lip. His previous persona not having changed much since he brought out the deck of cards. But with contrasts so slight, what you guessed would be signs of... not anxiety, but whatever emotion worked itself through his body in other high-attentive situations wormed itself into his game as well. Attention honed in on the deck, sharp eyes following the card being pulled, flipped and placed amongst the rest. A quick dart of eyes up and down the row. An additional check of his cards.

John... John was good. You noted it quickly. He was expressive but not revealing. A quick pull in the corner of his eyebrow gave you the impression he'd gotten an intriguing set on his hands. With the bet set, no 7am drills for a week, along with the seemingly amused cock of his head when Johnny countered, I'll be washin' for double the time, another card flipped to the community and his action of upping his stake to three weeks, you'd been sure he'd gotten himself a winner. He had won. But not impressively, at least not when he flipped his two cards. A pair of fours, no match amongst the community cards. You'd watched him play closely after that.

Marissa, understandingly more acquainted with their group than you, play against them well. Betting with free drinks and whatnot, occasionally winning thanks to her familiarity with watching them, you suppose. Nor does she react when new names start slipping into the air. Shut it, Soap. Come on, L.T. You can do better than that, Gaz. Nicknames, military ones, they nearly favour using more, you realise. That's why they sound so natural coming from their tongues but never leave Marissa's.

You started suspecting that getting introduced to their real names, apart from Ghost's, was merely first-encounter manners.

It would probably have remained that way if you stayed a stranger.

"Already, Cap'n?" You're brought back from your thoughts as Johnny utters the question, not in the slightest accompanied by the dissatisfaction as a complaint should, but rather the glee of unbelieving bafflement.

Eyes landing on the table, you notice what had caused the Scot's outburst. John had thrown his cards into the discarded pile, signalling he was out. One of the rare occurrences seeing it was only the first round.

But the man at your side only shrugged, and those around the table didn't press too hard on the fact. Bigger chance of them taking home the round when he wasn't in the contest.

However, what you hadn't expected as your eyes continued to follow those still playing, was John shifting closer, clearly showing he redirects his attention to you as he leans on the armrest just beside your own, slouching back somewhat in his seat to not invade your space all too much.

"Ain't too rowdy of a crowd for you, are we?" Your head is pulled towards him first, eyes following a moment after as you watch the second community card be flipped. King of Spades.

Just as your eyes lock, Johnny, with perfect timing, exclaims something triumphantly in incomprehensible Scottish. Your smile brought on by the action is directed towards John, a similar one reflected on his face, along with the tip of his head, expressing a silent 'as I said'.

"Don't underestimate my time spent in companies like these", you reply. The corner of your lip tugs upwards as you lean backwards, the skin over your shoulder blades moulding to the imprint of the backrest until you can feel its slight poke into the bone.

He quirks his brows, head tilting as he dips his head closer. "Do tell?" Curiosity laces John's low-spoken voice, the same interest shining in his blue eyes.

"I-", you start, hesitating to continue. Glancing at the others to see how invested they were in your conversation versus their game. When finding Johnny in an argument with Ghost, and none of the others even batting an eye in your direction to miss their altercation, you turned fully to John, shifting in the seat until feeling the subtle poke of the armrest into your ribcage instead of back. "I've done a few basic military courses through the private sector. Ain't much, but I've done the basic".

"Few basics, eh?" He shifts his foot to lean on the table's leg. The thigh closest to you falls outwards slightly, widening his seated position, accidentally brushing against yours. He moves it away to still have his body directed towards you but not touch it. "Have a feeling there's some advanced there too?"

Your eyes widen, lips parting, a question of how he could've known -because despite being worded as a question, it was a statement- on the tip of your tongue. But before you can ask, John continues, seemingly knowing where your train of thought went.

"In this line of work, you know a fair share about the private as much as the public sector. Those workin’ in private industry are probably familiar faces". You can't help but smile at that. Indeed, your instructors had mentioned their time of enlistment more than once.

Tipping his head, John encourages you to tell him more about what he'd mentioned.

Without hesitating, you did. "Had an instructor who'd worked in intelligence, interrogations more specifically, so I approached him about it. Besides curiosity, I don't know what he saw. But he offered to give me lessons, said he had some connections still in service, contacted them, and some were gracious enough to teach me some things".

"Fuckin' hell", he huffs in surprise, arms crossing over his chest. "Thought I recognised it". It sounded more like he said it to himself, but his eyes never left yours.

"Recognised what?"

"Those eyes, all of you interrogators share them". He leaned closer to you as he said it, one of his hands sneaking from his crossed arms to amusedly gesture towards you, yet the look in his eyes was soft.

"We do not!" You didn't realise you spoke louder. Nor that the round had ended. Therefore, the groups' attention fell on you at your protest.

"What the two of ya talkin' about then?"

Your eyes briefly found Johnny's before skating back to John, who, this time, seemed to be in no hurry at all to answer the Scot. Instead, the amusedly raised brows along the tug in his lips were directed at you as he remained in his position.

Realising he left it all for you to tell them, you sighed. No need to fight it. With the intrigued look reflected in Johnny's eyes, you instinctively knew it wouldn't be possible to brush it off. "Just told John about some training I've done-"

"Come one, love, seemingly ain't no secret if you told me". You sent him a look, annoyed he'd caught how you'd attempted to, not even smoothen over but exclude what kind of training.

You weren't ashamed of it, far from it, in fact. However, you felt yourself shrink into your chair somewhat at the thought of telling the men watching you with intrigued eyes at John's words. They were soldiers. Working, breathing soldiers, for goodness sake. Even if you didn't believe they would laugh in your face when telling them, it felt so... petty compared to whatever they must do, not something that should earn this much attention from them, out of all people.

And yet, it was John's soft nod, one you don't know whether it was even consciously done, that calmed your mind. He hadn't laughed, perhaps in surprise but not to mock you. He'd seemed slightly... impressed.

"Alright", you directed at him, to which he cocked his head, easy smile still slightly hidden by his moustache, then turned towards the rest of the company. "I just mentioned how I've dabbled in the military".

As suspected, they reacted. But not in the way concern had made it play out in your head.

Ever the expressionist, Johnny's lips parted, his complexion drawing together in reflection as if wondering if he'd heard right. At the momentarily distant look entering his eyes, brows knitting together forming harsh lines on his forehead, you assumed he recalled your sentence. But once the Scot realised he didn't imagine the statement, the morph was swift as his complexion settled in astonishment, mouth opening and closing.

Even Ghost revealed more than what you'd gotten used to during the evening, enough for you to paint a picture in your mind of his reaction. It was impossible to catch the whole expression behind his balaclava. Still, despite the blank facade that those hidden features formed for you, the slight widening of his eyes suggested his eyebrows rose and remained pinned higher than their natural place on his browbone intended they should. The tick of his head, just a twitch to the side as his eyes skated over you, assessing, before settling on your features with a narrow, suggesting he verged between not believing and awe of, perhaps, fooling him.

However, Kyle was the sole one whose immediate reaction was to voice his surprise. "Pardon?" His question worked wonders to finally set off the perplexed Scot and make him spit out the words he'd chewed for since you told them.

"Ya mean, what in the steamin' hell did ya just tell us?"

"As unbelievable as me having worked behind the counter?" You offered the wide-eyed man in a chuckle, finding amusement rather than timidness growing in your chest at his actions, to which he jerked his head as if asked the stupidest question.

"More so!"

You exchanged a look with Marissa, who sat relaxed in her chair, knowing very well of this fact.

It had emerged during one of your late shifts, you'd mentioned it in passing, and she'd physically stopped when she heard it. She'd more or less forced you out on a relaxing night, 'of course, it will include drinks', as she'd probed for every last detail with wide and amazed eyes. Never would've believed that of you, she'd laughed in near disbelief, ‘at least I know you'll be able to hold your own behind the counter’.

Johnny picked up your silent exchange, a look from you conveying that this was as bad as when she'd gotten to know and the slight tip of her head 'sue them' in reply, and turned to her. "Ya knew about this?"

"As much as I know about you lot", she flashed him a grin. "If not more, to be honest, yapped about it for weeks", she snickered.

"Oh shush", you feigned ignorance -sure, you'd talked to her about the further training you'd done in intelligence, but only because she'd asked- yet, the blue eyes of the Scotsman jumped back to you.

"Ain't none of that, bonnie, didn't know ya were one of us!"

"Nor am I". You pointed out, underlining it with a finger directed Johnny's way. "Learned a few things through the private sector, never listed. So I never did the official stuff, simply something attempting to emulate it".

"Why?" Ghost's low voice questioned. His dark eyes steadfastly focused on you. You found yourself opening and closing your mouth. Why indeed? You hadn't known what fucking else to do with your life.

"Was curious about the paths I could take", you shrugged. "Realised it wasn't really for me in the long run, but learned an interesting thing or two".

Ghost let out a breath, not a scoff nor a laugh, just a drawn-out gust of air. "Good choice". His words caused your brows to raise, but you didn't press. If anyone knew what they were talking about it, it would be the men around you.

"So what ya learned then?" Johnny leaned forwards on the table, earning your attention.

"Well, I had a standard boot camp, learning the basics of physical training, firearm and close combat".

"Not bad", Kyle nodded, lips pursed. "Didn't think you would've been thought firearms here though, over in the State's maybe...". He trailed off with a shrug as his brows rose and fell.

"As the Captain said-", you nodded towards John, not catching the way his head turned to you as he straightened in his seat somewhat while the others raised their eyebrows or cocked their heads. "-most, if not every instructor, was past military members. So special licenses for firearm exercise wasn't too difficult to get, I suppose".

There was a slight pause as they watched you until Ghost spoke up. "How strict were they?"

"If you mean wheater I had to withstand them screaming at me with no care for personal space and calling them by rank or else, I'll run till my face was in the mud, then strict is the answer to both".

"Explains it", John mumbled under his breath. You spared him a glance, and he tipped his head as he unwinded his arms, letting each rest on their corresponding armrest. His fingers tapped the wood, and when it was apparent that you didn't understand his comment, he offered you a gentle smile as he explained. "Not usual for civilians to call us by rank".

"Oh", god, you felt stupid. "Sorry, sometimes it just happens, I guess". You cringed, frowning, disturbed by having fallen into old habits while delving into the subject. And yet, it hadn't felt unnatural calling John by his rank. It fit him. "Even though I don't meet many army affiliates anymore".

Compared to the first time his rank had fallen from your lips, he didn't regard you with that veiled expression. This time, it was something else, mirth intertwined in the lighter specks of blue in his eyes, whereas something... darker infected the aegean shadowing of his hues.

You don't know whether John got reminded of what branch you'd explored as your eyes remained locked with his, attempting to decipher whatever you couldn't in his gaze. But, as if remembering you hadn't indulged the rest with the fact, he spoke. "You haven't told them about the most interestin’ part".

This time you didn't fight him on indulging the rest. Instead, you turned back to face the rest. "Right, I specialised in intelligence at the end as well".

"Ha, yer the same as the big guy!" Johnny turned to Ghost before his eyes shifted back to you. "Ain't no way I would've guessed that one".

"Infiltration, Johnny, not intelligence", the man corrected him. "I use what they give me". Ghost nodded towards you. You didn't feel like correcting him, more so you knew you didn't need to.

"I 'now ya prick", the Scotsman scoffed with a roll of his eyes. "But ya bloody work with information collection as well, if I'm not wron', standin' there as a feckin' reaper durin' inquests".

You chuckled. "Can't say I got that advantage". Those dark eyes shifted to you, and Ghost didn't need to say anything for you to understand what he thought, the entertained expression in his eyes stating a firm but amused ‘no, you don't’.

"Well, let's see how much you learned, then", Kyle smiled, expertly shuffling the cards before he started dealing them, a card landing before you even before you'd managed to answer the question. "Ain't no backing out now", he smirked, continuing to deal out the cards to everyone around the table.

...

You played well, though you thought it was more so because of you being used to the game than being able to read them. Your collection of their tells during the initial rounds helped, yet it wasn't the sole reason you managed to beat them. Luck played a big part. But that, you wouldn't tell, not when noticing the rile you got on one person in the group.

"Come on then, Johnny, what's your move". You hummed, leaning forwards so your elbows and crossed forearms rest on the table, observing the Scot across from you. His eyes intensely honed in on the fourth community card that just had been pulled.

When his eyes switched to watch you, you promptly saw it. Not the card he'd hoped for. Cocking a brow, you offered him a smile.

"Feck", Johnny grumbled. Sore looser. He grabbed his cards and threw them into the discarded pile, mindful not to let them accidentally flip. "I fold". Joining Marissa and Kyle.

Your eyes flickered to Ghost, awaiting his action. Without delay, he delivered it. "Call".

"Call", John's voice sounded in succession, your own falling suit, causing Marissa to flip the fifth and final community card.

Ten of hearts.

Not a bad card, but since the initial two community cards had been revealed, you'd been set for this round. You rapped your finger against your elbow. Compared to Ghost, who thumbed the edge of his card, you recited your hand in your head. Aces, red and black, heart and spade.

Your eyes were set on the tall man, observing the glimpse down at his cards, the move a quick flick of his eyes before his index and middle fingertips pressed the edges flat against the table as his gaze rose.

Ghost's auburn eyes locked with yours, dead straight, staring back. He'd felt your attention on him, no doubt, yet you didn't retaliate once you had his in return. Instead, you cocked your head just the right amount to not let it rest against your shoulder, practised smile stretching your lips.

"It's your turn, Ghost, in case you forgot". You know he hadn't. But, you also knew that he weighed his options at the moment, cost and benefit, what play was synonymous with what. Ghost's considerations depended on you, what your game was, deceit or honesty. And he knew, much like John had pointed out, how you, those interrogators, worked; it was never either or but a balance of both. The question is what direction the scale tipped towards the most.

"You're good", was all he said, throwing his cards into the growing pile of discarded cards, signalling his fold. Your smile could've grown, showing your satisfaction in how your mask had been better than the faceless man's. But, instead, you kept the same expression as you turned to glance over your shoulder, elbows still planted on the tabletop.

"John?" His attention was already on you. No need to call for it. And yet, you like to see him work, strip your utterance of his name and the redirect of attention on him bare. Attempting to spread the layers until he could read between the lines, much like Ghost.

Unlike his working comrade, however, he doesn't move. Instead, he remains lounging, two fingers resting on the table edge, his left hand on his thigh. And yet, when John doesn't shy from your eyes, you find the opposite of his stoicism.

His eyes seem alive, an entity on their own apart from his being. And yet, you can't discern the story they're showing you.

"Call. Your move". It's like a breeze over your back, like a phantom finger trailing your spine. You pray the shiver doesn't leave goosebumps in its wake.

You take a moment, a last one, to observe him and what dances in those eyes.

Around the blackened void charrs a blue flame seemingly devouring the air, sucking it from deep in your lungs. It doesn't leave you breathless, but it damn well delays your contemplated words, your final play. Instead of rolling from your tongue, they get stuck on repeat in your mind, a manuscript yet to be followed but halted at the knot forming in your larynx.

"Call". The word isn't clipped nor abrupt. Yet, at the perimeters of your spoken choice of play are frayed edges, the consequences of those fires dancing over your features, those you decided not to avoid despite their blaze.

John flashes a smile, probably satisfied with your choice of not folding and letting the game reach its rightful end. "Show me 'em cards".

You do as told, nails catching the edge of your cards and, with a flick of your wrist and right arm settling on the armrest, you open up your upper body by turning it towards him, confident in your four-of-a-kind. Aces, nonetheless.

When those blues flicker down, inspecting your hand placed face-up on the table and having earned several impressed hums and whistles, you dare cock your brows in conviction. Beckoning John to mimic your move and show his lesser hand. However, you witness a swift, minimal quirk of his eyebrows. And, when his eyes seek yours, features morphing to copy your facial expression, you know.

You don't need to look at his cards when he leans forward to flip them, just shy of propping his arms and upper-body weight on the table in contrast to the actual move of a forward shift in his seat. Regardless of the amused flash in his eyes, the quirk in the corner of his lips telling you he’d won, you follow the curses uttered by those around the table as their eyes find the hand his cards, paired with the community ones, created.

A flush, hearts, one that would've been royal if the ace wasn't in your possession.

"Next time, love". John pats your clothed knee as his hand slips down the table top while leaning back again.

"Battle of wits, indeed".

"I'll go prepare the drinks then".

Johnny's voice, subsequently Marissa's, is distant. Your eyes are stuck on the cards flashing red and white, but you don't mourn your loss, all attention on the warmth that seeps through your skirt at his touch.

John's hand momentarily settles at the last tap before he retracts it and drops it on his thigh once more, his fingers tapping a joyful celebration against the muscle.

And yet, the phantom touch, the memory of his heavy and warm paw engulfing your kneecap without needing to try, remains. It unfurls an ecstatic quiver in your chest.

"I'll go see if Marissa needs help". You flash a quick smile, trying not to rush like your heart does in your chest when moving out of your chair.

As soon as your back is turned to the group, feet moving you forward on their own command, you momentarily close your eyes, taking a deep breath. This feeling wasn't new. But hell, it had been long enough since you felt it that you hadn't noticed it since the start. The way your gaze wanted to travel to John. How he kept your attention and his presence in your immediacy never felt odd despite meeting him less than an hour ago. Fucking hell, women, calm yourself...

Your eyelids fluttered open, gaze settling on Marissa a few paces ahead. The breath you held -which hadn't done much to lessen your rapid heartbeat- was released in a last attempt to shake off, or at least tame, the feeling John had awoken. Without success.

As though your eyes now glued to her back worked as a call of her name, your friend's brown eyes flickered over her shoulder with the slight turn of her head. Perhaps she'd thought it was a particular Scot rather than you because her brows raised. Nonetheless, she let you catch up with her as she slowed a fraction.

"Don't", you warn Marissa when her lips part, possibly to ask about why you were here and not at the table. Knowing very well you could always pay later in the evening for the drinks you'd bet and lost.

At your clipped word, she instantly smirked. Yet, she didn't say anything, at least not until you'd put some distance to the men still seated at the table as you rounded the bar. You know something's coming when she leans on it, cocking her hip and not reaching for anything needed for the drinks instantly.

"So, how are you finding them?" The questions seem innocent enough that you can't help but smile and chuckle. A minimal shake of your head accompanied the released breath of nerves mimicking the feeling of jumper cables hooked to a car, a stream of high voltage sent straight through your nervous system.

"Pleasent, quite the characters but nonetheless pleasant". Marissa hums in agreement at your answer.

"Despite their habit of arriving at times when not many others are here, they're hard not to notice". You quirk a brow as she moves to bring a liquor bottle from the wall. Standing still when part of her still was in working mode was never her strong suit.

"Don't think you complain, though", you mused. The nerves in your body slowly reduced at the lack of John's immediate presence and attention on you. Marissa's eyes find yours over her shoulder, and you cock your head, attempting to smoothen down your amused smile as you continue. "Starting to believe Johnny ain't the headache you'd made him out to be".

"Oh, a headache he is", she retorted. But, your grin turned victorious as she turned away again, not succeeding in hiding her smile before it was visible to you nor continuing her sentence before you pointed it out.

"I saw that". With your muted laugh, a finger was waved in Marissa's general direction.

"Pushing it in my face, ain't you?" She faced you as you stepped closer to help her carry some of the bottles needed for the Scot's mixture, a quirk between her brows present. You sent her a mocking kiss, one she rolled her eyes at, yet couldn't help the tug in the corner of her mouth at your antics as she turned with the bottle she'd fetched.

Following suit, you brought the ones you'd grabbed before joining her at the metal countertop, where she'd put forth a glass for Johnny's drink.

At the thought of his name, you glanced towards the company at the table.

The deck of cards was put away, and they sat talking, laughing. Instinctively your eyes sought John, you couldn't hear his sound of amusement, but you could see it. Whatever Kyle had said made him shake his head before tipping it forward, his shoulders jumping. Something warmed in you at the scene, a softer glowing sensation, different from when he'd sat so close to you.

"You and a certain someone seem to get along, though".

"Hm?" Your eyes travelled from John back to Marissa, whose eyes had made the same journey as yours, though her's seemingly only had been a quick shift back and forth. Nonetheless, one with enough time for an inquisitory look to bleed into them. "Uh yeah, I guess he's nice", you shrugged, attempting to bat away the feelings returning in your chest at the swift glance and redirection of the conversation towards John.

Marissa, however, only rolled her eyes. "Oh, for the love of- missy, that's not what I meant", she said, grabbing the tequila bottle and pointing the muzzle at you before beginning to pour the amounts needed for the drink. "I see the way you both don't and do look at him, don't believe that boy you met got even half as much of your attention when he practically was begging for it while dear John simply has to be present".

"Marissa-".

"Oh no, don't deny it". Your friend put down the bottle, grabbing the first mixture you'd brought with you. "I know a bloody skittish escape when I see one, probably threw my name in as an excuse as well", she referred to when you'd left their company previously and joined her instead.

You jerked a hand upwards, mindful to not make the action too big for the men to catch. "Yeah, because when you'd left me alone with them previously, it's gone just wonderful". Despite being nothing more than a memory now -initial awkward instances of getting to know new people brushed to the past- you couldn't deny as soon as Marissa left your hypothetical side, things hadn't... not gone awful, but not as good as you could've hoped.

"You're getting along just fine with them. It's a certain someone you seemingly worry being around by yourself".

"Stop waffling", you huffed at the last part of her sentence.

"What? You seem to get along more than fine with John, you two in your little bubble".

"We don't have no bubble", you scoffed. "And he certainly doesn't feel like I bloody do".

"And what is that?"

"Fine, I'll admit, he looks good".

She doesn't stop blending the drink more than to throw you a quick glance, a smirk adorning her lips. "Oh, I know your taste in men, and so, I know he looks more than just good". You quickly move your elbow, jabbing her in the side. Sadly, the action only brought a huffed chuckle from her as she managed to not spill a drop of liquid. Lucky she'd put down the bottle and reached for the next. "But that's not what I wanted to know".

"Jesus, okay, what do you want me to say so you'll focus on pouring the drink?" You feel jittery at the subject, so in an attempt to occupy your fingers rapping against the not-so-cold anymore metal counter beneath your hand, you move to fetch a pint glass to start pouring Kyle's beer.

"That you admit you don't only think he's nice on the eye, but you're attracted to him". You swallow, your throat dry.

"I-I... yeah". The confession isn't grand, nor does it come with a feeling of lessening the sensation in your chest. "Is that what you wanted to hear?" You mumbled under your breath, eyes flickering towards Marissa. She's put down the bottle she previously kept elevated, both hands now resting on the counter, head turned towards you, eyes fixated on how you rotate the glass in your hand before flickering up to meet your gaze.

"I never think I've seen you this flustered about someone, missy", she comments. "What about the man got you acting like this?"

"Fuck, how would I know?" You can't help the laugh of disbelief. Marissa was right. You didn't usually act like this. Like you'd said to Johnny, working behind a bar had steeled your nerves from copious things, especially when befriending the dark-haired woman standing beside you on top of it. "I don't know how to even begin describing it", you sighed, frustration polluting the exhale.

A pinch of her brows, brief as though not meant to move her eyebrows before she cocked her head. "Try".

Concerning you'd given up on trying to evade the topic at this point, you did as she said without much fuss. "I just kinda... it feels like I'm drawn to him. It doesn't feel like anything special in that regard, but it ain't just a normal feeling, you know?"

"You're overthinking it". Marissa turned her body to you, hip against the counter, arms crossed. "Yes, you're a problem solver. You like to analyse things. Ain't for nothing you find a bloody military course in interrogation fascinating, barely any mans that do. But that puts you at risk of overanalysing, which you're doing right now. This-" she motioned to you and with a nod that passed over anyone's head aside yours that caught her eyes travelling to who you only guessed could be John. "-isn't something that needs to be solved. So go with it, see where it ends up".

"I hate when you offer solid advice, you know?"

"You mean when I've solved the problem before you know how to solve it yourself". Your eyes drop, finding your barely visible reflection in the beer glass, huffing at Marissa's reply.

"Yeah, especially fucking then".

"That's what friends are for", she hummed, and you heard her finish the drink she'd spent remarkably more time on than necessary. "So, what are you going to do about it?"

"About what?" Your head tilted in her direction.

"About the glass you've been holding like a fool for the past minutes", she deadpanned. Although knowing she wasn't serious, you stopped fiddling with it, instead stepping towards the drafting station. "About Price, of course".

"For all I know, he can just behave like a gentleman compared to most". She rolled her eyes at that.

"Can't believe you're sticking with believing that. He's more than a decent man, I agree, but so is the rest of the lot, and they ain't acting the way he does".

"And what's that supposed to mean?"

"He's bloody interested in you, probably feels the same attraction you do".

Your head turned to her, eyes wide as if it would emphasise your slow-spoken words. "He doesn't".

"For someone as bright as you, it certainly is fucking unbelievable how blind you can be", she muttered, causing your bows to furrow.

"What now?"

"I've seen the little bubble the two of you enter when you talk, the guys probably have noticed too, though Johnny is the one whose mentioned it", she hummed. "Pointed it out whilst the two of you chatted during the game, even referring to some conversation of yours' from before that". She sent you a look, continuing by poorly mimicking the Scot's voice. "Never seen Price like that. He's so... easy with her, sure as shiet ain't as close-lipped as Ghost, but he doesn't partake leisurely in and especially doesn't initiate conversations with someone new. Normally likes to keep to himself. Starting to believe the old fecker got heart-eyes".

You hoped how you accidentally set down the glass you had just been about to raise a bit too harshly was enough cover for the shrill-sounding noise escaping your throat.

You don't look at Marissa instantly. Instead, you keep your head bowed slightly, wide eyes staring at the wet remnants of froth from previously poured drinks in the drain beneath the draft. Attempting to steady your heart that had made an unhealthy leap at the words allegedly expressed by Johnny and passed on by your friend.

Loosening the grip on the pint glass, you force down your shoulders as you raise it and your free hand to the lever, slowly tapping the beer.

You send her a quick glance at the instance you do. "Keep your voice down".

"It's already low", she smirks at you.

"Well, then keep quiet altogether".

"Why for?" The smugness in her voice made your molars grind together, eyes flitting to the steady flow before you.

"To not attract attention from the ridiculously handsome man sitting not far away", you noted how she shifted in your peripheral.

"You mean the ridiculously handsome man who hasn't been able to stop throwing looks towards you for the past, like, five minutes? Yeah, you don't need me for that attention".

Don't look. And yet, you couldn't help how your eyes, as if drawn to John like magnets, sought him out. And, of course, your gazes lock the second you find him.

Although half a room away, his gaze felt heavy. The spotlights in the roof made light dance across his features, causing parts of his hair and beard to verge on golden bronze while others dimmed into a brown saber. Handsome, incredibly so, in an old-fashioned sense.

You didn't notice how your tongue peaked out to wet your lips, the act as unconscious as the reason for it, yet you became aware of it when John's eyes dropped from yours. You couldn't physically see where his eyes fell nor feel them in whatever place he looked. Not as when you could feel how your gazes lock despite the distance separating you. But, it made your thoughts rewind, bringing forth what you'd done to the front of your cognisance.

A flush spread through your body, and you didn't wait for his eyes to find yours before dropping your gaze.

Despite redirecting your attention to the glass in your hand and setting down a satisfyingly filled pint, in the upper corner of your vision, you noted how a conversation immediately swept over the table. Whoever initiated the exchange earned John's attention as you felt his eyes leave you altogether.

"You're a menace, you know", you mumbled beneath your breath as you glanced at Marissa, knowing you would regret it the moment you did but unable to anyway. Flashed a grin, one as victorious as yours during the initial phase of your conversation, you were proven right. "Glad I quit this job", you huffed, setting down the beer you'd drafted beside the drink she'd mixed for Johnny.

"Don't say things like that", she returned, her attention flickering away from you. "Especially not when it seems you're gonna have to battle your fears and put those skills I taught you to use, someone apparently having spoken some sense into the old man". The last part of her sentence was mumbled under her breath, yet you caught it, brows knitting together. "He's coming this way", she clarified once her eyes landed on you. This time, you didn't give her the thought of doubt.

"Don't you leave", you warned, but she'd already stepped out of your reach, sending a wink as she brought the guy's pick of poison with her, one in each hand. "Traitor", your hiss was barely audible under your breath, instinctively silenced as you had no choice but to turn towards John as Marissa left the two of you to your own with a nod in his direction, one he answered with a slight smile.

You follow John as he steps up to the barstool, registering the height you'd suspected kept his broad frame -one that narrowed nearer to his hips- upright as he moved with a slight sway to his body from his strides. You realised that he carries himself with tactical ease, one he must have learnt to get comfortable with on the field so much that it stuck to every other situation.

As he settled atop the stool, finding a comfortable position with a slight lean forward of his body whilst his arm rested atop the wooden countertop, your eyes stopped jumping over him to settle on his face.

"So, what can I get for you, patron?" You put on a charade, brushing up precisely those skills Marissa had taught you. Still, you're unable to stare into those pretty blues that this close shine like the curaçao bottle at the second level of the liquid shelf for too long, fearing your tongue would turn to lead and your heart pound out of your chest.

And yet, you can't help how those butterflies in your stomach taste freedom, yearning, to have him within your close vicinity once more. So, to cage them, you lean forwards to mimic his way of resting his forearms atop the wooden desk separating you. A heavier bend in your waist concerning the metal bar pressed into your hips.

"Drivin’, remember?" He returned, but you found yourself shrugging rather than taken aback and stunted at what to say next. Seemingly easier than you'd thought to fall back into old times when standing on this side of the counter.

"You're sitting at a bar if you remember", you shot back. John's lip twitched upwards. With the subtle action, you felt encouraged enough to continue a conversation you'd had many times but not with someone you cared to maintain the chatter with. "What's your usual under non-driving circumstances?"

"Old-fashioned".

The irony. You hummed, in both amusement from your thought and John's answer, continuing with a nod. "Scotch?"

"Yes". Something sparked in John's eyes as you turned, still partly facing him whilst also able to look at the liquor wall. While one arm stays on the wooden counter, the other accommodates your new stance by being propped against your waist.

Letting your eyes glide over the assortment, they finally settle on one of the finer bottles. "Ardbeg, 19-year-old, something of your taste?" His eyebrows raise in what you could gauge was surprise, to which you only flashed him a smile. "Had a feeling concerning the chasews".

"You're good". John's praise of your knowledge about the correlation between his earlier choice of heavily roasted nuts to the smokey scotch you'd asked him about softened your prideful smile, shifting to bashful rather than the obligatory ones you'd offered in the past to brush away the compliment.

"Have to be when working behind a bar". Your head rolled to rest on your shoulder when you switched to look at him, thanking him for the compliment with the smile he'd brought forth but raised an inquisitory brow shortly after. "So?"

He looked at you for a second before he hummed. "Those bottles often get opened after certain missions, but yes".

You gave him a final nod before pushing away from the counter, gathering the sparse ingredients you needed to piece together the drink you had in mind. Feeling his eyes on you for every step you took.

As you returned to where he sat, your gaze met John's. But, the eye contact was brief, this time his gaze flickering away. Even though it was down to the bottle you held out for inspection, together with an explanation of what would replace the alcoholic liquor of his drink.

"A distillery toying with the idea of percentage-free liquor inspired by scotch, dare to try?" His eyes scanned the label plastered on the bottle in your hands before his eyes found yours, slight creases entering the corner of his eyes, smile prominent on his features despite a lack of bow by his lips.

"Why not", he shrugged. Flashing him a delighted smile, you put down the bottle and began making the drink before him.

You felt his eyes on you -attention that faded to no longer inducing a nervous excitement, instead an avid one, seeking to keep it on you as you busied yourself with something you were skilled on- as you picked up a rocks glass.

Not needing the measurement cup to know how much amaretto versus visionary scotch to fill it with, you grabbed the mixing liquor, free-pouring to the desired amount before switching to the virgin scotch and doing the same.

Considering the simplicity of the beverage -the sparse ingredients coupled with only a square ice cube and a swirled orange peel to be added- there wasn't really any need to taste it. But old habits die hard, and before you even noted your move whilst reaching for the ice, you swirled the liquids around with a straw, tasting it with practised ease as you retracted it. Of course, the absence of smokey scotch and its burn could never be neglected, but it was a good drink nonetheless.

"There, a non-alcoholic Godfather". You put the now-finished drink before him with your free hand as you threw the straw in the trash.

John tipped his head in gratitude, eyes falling on the drink presented to him. It was your moment to observe him as his fingers gripped the chilled glass, swirling the drink -something you imagined was out of custom- before he raised it.

As his lips meet the rim, his eyes seek yours. Despite presenting an opportunity -without limitation- to observe his opinion of the drink he sipped, something seeped into those blues that already was your weakness. You couldn't figure out what it was, but it felt intimate, a bubble -to use Marissa's words- closing around the two of you. Those nerves slowly began to buzz again when you didn't have anything to occupy yourself with.

A hum preceded his opinion as he lowered the drink. "It's good". He tipped the glass back and forth before leaning slightly forward, pointer gesturing towards you to the extent it could regarding his grip on the glass. "Better than Marissa's".

"Oh, be careful of saying that beneath her roof". You hid the warmth in your body at John's low-spoken compliment, a rough whisper, with the tease. "She won't accept that the student has become the master".

He chuckles at your banter. "I'll keep it our secret, then".

The smile forming by his comment is instantaneous, a soft stretch of your lips as his words registers. Despite the previous teasing smirk accompanying John's comment, it dissolves into one mirroring your own behind the rim of his glass once more raised closer to his mouth. You can't help but duck your head, the same intensity in his gaze bleeding into your chest.

This man, the thought is followed by a slight shake of your head. You look up through your lashes, not brave enough to reveal your attention, in spite of wanting to or not, tracks back to him by fully tilting your head and facing him. You catch John's eyes flitter over you before he notes your gaze has returned to him, causing his blues to connect with yours.

His head tilts as he lowers his glass, dwarfing it between his hands once it sits on the counter. The quirk in both his brow and the corner of his lips shifts the tension in the air to something airy and lighter. And, like linked to him, your lip quirks.

You sway on the pads of your feet, forwards until your weight is placed on your toes, heels lift from the floor, and then back to reverse the action. The itch in your body makes a restlessness nest, the feeling of standing in the same place for too long joining the sensation John's attention settles in your body. And finally, it makes you break away from his presence, grabbing the bottles and returning to the shelf to place them in their proper place.

A sound akin to the roll of a glass' bottom rim against wood fills the air behind your back, whilst the slight ting of glass-connecting-with-metal sounds in front of you as you set down the bottles you'd brought.

To use Johnny's words, at least allegedly concerning the information originated from Marissa, your conversation with John had been easy. But so most were, even when you'd sat amongst the others. However, this time, something about the silent interaction afterwards felt different.

You don't know what about it settled those butterflies in your stomach, their cage dissolving along their colourful selves, metamorphosed into an intangible pleasantness as you felt his eyes on you.

Perhaps it could be that you didn't worry about paying too much attention to the weather-worn Captain now when it solely was the two of you compared to then when the rest of the company you got introduced to sat around the same table, just an arm-length away. Nonetheless, the previous nervousness accompanying John's presence, his attention on you, now felt comfortable, as if it belonged, and you didn't want it any other way.

That was when he didn't aim to give you a bloody heart attack.

"So, how did a girl like you end up behind a bar like this?" You thanked the heavens that your back was turned and that you just had placed the bottles back on their corresponding shelves once those smooth words left him. Because you wouldn't have been able to stop your brows from shooting up and lips from parting as your stomach lurched upwards once you dropped down from standing on your toes. Well, that wasn't hard to interpret.

"Was that a pick-up line I heard?" You turned, brows now quirked in intrigue as your lips pressed together to smoothen down a grin at the giddiness flowing through your body after the initial surprise.

John tipped his head side to side, eyes flittering down to watch the liquid in his glass before clearing his throat and giving you a shrug. "An attempt at one".

You giggled, the sound foreign to your ears in this setting, yet it brought his eyes back to you as his shoulders dropped somewhat.

"Not the worst one I've gotten", you said, not an unwelcomed one either. You shift your weight onto one leg while crossing one ankle over the other. It naturally makes your body fall against the counter at your lower back, and you bring your hands to rest on the edge for additional support.

"No?" A quick tick of his head along a swift rise and fall of his brows accompanies the question.

You hum, shaking your head. "You wouldn't believe half the stuff we hear behind this desk".

He did something you hadn't anticipated then. John patted the stool beside him as he straightened and leant back a notch. "Let's swap some war stories then because I can think of a few things from only what we soldiers endure".

Go with it. See where it ends up. Marissa's words rang clear in your head and made your legs guide you to reach the offered seat.

As you sit down, John angles his chest towards you, letting his hand bring his glass more to his right rather than straight as when you'd stood on the other side of the bar. It only remains there for a few seconds, though, seeing how he raised it and tipped it towards you as he spoke.

"So, love, tell me how you came to tolerate every man on the spectrum of inebriated".

A chuckle leaves you, hands coming to clutch your elbows already resting on the bar top, head tilting towards John. "Without pulling forth my whole record for scrutinisation-". The man beside you huffed lightly, to which you flashed a swift smile before continuing. "-I can tell you it took some time getting used to and knowing how to respond to men when their tongues get too loose for anyone's good".

"Though I don't dispute the fact-".

"Talking from experience, John?" You cut his sentence off, a ribbing smile accompanying your tease.

His glass stilled where he'd spun it in the air, snicker -something more delicate than his other sounds of amusement- escaping John as his head dipped in a shake. "Can't escape the fact that everyone's been young". His blue eyes find yours again, mirth swirling in them, originating from perhaps a not-so-fond but nonetheless prevailing memory. "Though life's had its way with me like most others".

"Can tell you it's been kind on you. Ain't everyone who turns into a gentleman compared to daft wankers".

John stilled, lips pressing thin as his brows pulled together.

The expression was new on him, causing you to cock your head, awaiting what seemed to be a response when he rolled his shoulders and straightened. Yet the reply on his tongue was seemingly quelled when he decided to sip his drink. His reaction felt... odd. But you didn't get to ask if he could indulge you in what fleetingly occupied his mind as he picked up the conversation again, seemingly preferring to talk about something else.

"So how come the break-in-time, 'cause you don't look like a newbie?" You caught on quickly that John backtracked to where his previous sentence probably would've ventured if you hadn't interrupted him.

"Had never worked in this kind of setting previously".

His brows quirked. "No? You look like a natural".

"That I have to thank Marissa for, didn't know a thing before moving here and getting the job".

"Ain't from around?"

"Mm, no, neither born nor bred".

"Why did you choose to settle in these ends?"

"Honest?" You straightened your arms, clasping your hands together. "Don't really know, just felt I needed to get a move on, didn't feel like I fit the picture at 'home' anymore, ended up staying longer than I thought". You gave a half-hearted chuckle, eyes locked on your thumbs. Right on top, switch, left on top.

"Care to explain?" You turned to look at John. He'd turned more towards you, his head tilted.

"Not much to explain, frankly. It felt like a search for something, but I don't know what", you shrugged one shoulder.

"Know the feelin', still grapple with it occasionally". Your head cocked, a silent expression of surprise at someone who felt so calm and naturally secure in himself that you hadn't imagined much else applying to other aspects of his life.

You pushed slightly against the bar, swivel chair turning more of your body towards him to physically show the same interest in his words that he'd done yours, and it urged him to continue.

"Our line of work attracts people without sense of direction in life like flies. Couldn't tell how much better judgement I have to knock into some of 'em recruits daily".

"Would've been one of them", you quipped, recalling how his words aligned with your reason for dipping a toe in their element without the compulsory enlistment. John shot you a look, the sharpness of a chide not as present as entertainment.

"But you didn't need it to realise you were meant for somethin' better". John's continuation was swift enough the meaning buried beneath his sentence was swept over in seconds. But, regardless, you caught it. "Despite my years in the field, doubt still trickles through, wondering if any of the sense you enlisted along with still exist".

"Don't think the one promoting you to Captain did it for your lack of sense". Your reply was soft-spoken, genuine, despite the opportunity for jest. And you knew John heard it, saw it when his eyes flickered over your face, a smile reaching his eyes and highlighting the crow's feet in the corners of them. That alluring depth entered his eyes, and something unravelled in your chest, equally as profound and warm.

As though hovering too close to an edge you weren't ready to jump from, one corner of your lip ticked upwards, a small gesture but enough to shift the energy in the air. "Trust me, you could say I'm a good judge of character".

"Are you know?" John mused, raising both brows in a mocking gesture.

"Oh, piss off", you chuckled, the back of your hand lightly swatting his upper arm.

His smile turned into a grin, not as chaotic and thrilled-puppy as Johnny, more a gradual glow lightening all his features. It was something soothingly warm about the look on him despite the harsh contrast when sparkling eyes peeked from dark lashes and pearly teeth flashed amidst the umber bristles obscuring his lower face.

"If you wanna prove your skill, read 'em". John motions backwards with a nod of his head. For the first time since Marissa left you and the Captain alone, your eyes travel over your shoulder to the company still seated at the table.

Johnny was turned towards Marissa, one arm hooked on the back of her chair, talking animatedly with his other hand. Your friend sat with crossed arms but equally shifted towards the Scot to give him the same attention. By the looks of it, they argued about something. Albeit heatedly, you noted the grin pinning Johnny's lip upwards, and even if mostly seeing your friend's back, you caught how she slouched backwards in her chair, shoulders not pulled high towards her ears.

Though not surprised by the two, what did catch you off-guard was Ghost. Or more so, his smirk. You don't know when it had happened, not more than after you'd left the table, but the baklava was rolled up enough that his neck along lower face was visible, showcasing the stretch of his lips.

It hadn't hit you that Ghost's drink had remained untouched since he took it from the tray. Not until you saw him raise the glass and sip what must've been a drink Marissa know to exclude ice from or else it would taste like watered-down tea.

Before he caught you looking -because there must be a reason he'd decided to show just the slightest part of himself despite wearing a mask in public- you turned to face John again.

"I was taught interrogation techniques, not mind reading", you joked, attempting to deflect what he wanted you to do, but you only received a look from him.

"Can't trust you if you don't show what you go for". John leaned closer as he kept your gaze. "So go on then". For a second time, he jerked his head towards the others.

"Fine". You caught the upward tick of John's lip and intrigued quirk of his brows before you turned in the chair, back resting against the wooden counter.

Despite your attention now being fixed on the ones at the table, you noted how John mimicked your motion to swivel the chair and face the company the two of you previously accompanied.

At first, your gaze merely flickered over them in turn. Johnny. Ghost. Kyle.

The most challenging task is always reading without intent. Your former instructors' voice echoes in your mind as you grapple with where to start.

"What's my goal?" You looked at John, awaiting his guidance. He rolled his head towards you, blue eyes meeting yours.

"Whatever you can get".

"So descriptive". You rolled your eyes and earned a chuckle. But you did as he said, attempting to present how far you'd gotten on the puzzle their personalities posed as since you first entered.

"Ghost", you declared to steer John's attention to who your intention was set on.

"Starting with the toughest", he mumbled.

You disregarded his comment, knowing that although it was true personality-wise, you had more solid facts about him than the others.

"Johnny has called him L.T., presumably a Lieutenant then", you began. Then, with your gaze flitting over his stature, you observed the man as he engaged, or more so listened, to the conversation Kyle maintained. "A man of few but well-chosen words, rough around the edges, has a sharp tongue, expressive eyes, though I doubt that makes him cover his face." In your peripheral, you noted John tilting his head towards you, making you tear your eyes from Ghost.

"How so?"

You gave him a half-shouldered shrug, meeting those blues. "You boys see shit that no one should, that we civilians agree on despite not knowing what that shit is all the time. So it wouldn't be weird if you wanted to separate yourself from it. For some, it could be on the field. Others, of it." Your eyes trailed back to the tall man, yet to add anything to his conversation aside from an occasional nod. "Though I don't know his reason, I would call it a coping mechanism. One that's hard turning off entirely, and he probably views as an equally big part of himself as whoever is beneath the mask."

You glanced at John, whose eyes were still set upon Ghost, but he gave an almost absentminded nod. The confirming hum accompanying the action made you think you hit the mark to a certain degree.

"Kyle?" John directed you to Ghost's conversation partner, and your eyes were set forward again, a slight furrow entering the space between your brows as they narrowed.

"Nickname Gaz", you declared the information you'd retrieved from the rounds of poker. "Not as reserved as Ghost, but thanks to Johnny, his knack for social settings appear bleaker". That earned you an amused huff from John. "He's kind and got humour, caught a few of his quips. But, he's also calm-mannered, poised, much like you".

"Hm, good kid, we work a fair share together". You looked at John, his eyes meeting yours a second later with a tilt of his head. "Any guess on rank?" You drew in air through your teeth, making a repeated sound with your tongue, and weighed your head from side to side.

"Could be a Lieutenant, but... he feels younger than Ghost, so I would opt for Seargent without too much knowledge of your ranking systems' correlation to age or serving time". You awaited his confirmation or denial.

"You're correct." He gave you a definitive nod, a smile grazing his lips as he continued. "Gimme MacTavish now".

Encouraged by his validation, you glanced at Johnny, still conversing with Marissa. "Easiest personality-wise, charismatic and easy-going, don't think I've seen him without some kind of smile this evening. Although he's more complex as a soldier, I don't have anything on him regarding that. Maybe that's why he's called Soap." You looked to John for help with raised brows, curious to see how close to the truth you were with the guess.

"He's a good soldier; his nickname comes from that", he smiled at you.

"Like my version better", you chuckled, and his smile grew, causing the bristles on his upper lip to curve, accommodating the move.

"Final thin’ then, what rank?"

At that, you actually let out a short laugh. "Would've guessed a Corporal if it weren't for you saluting his talents".

"Give up?" John's question was followed by a quirk of his brow and a sip of his drink.

"Do tell because I have no idea".

"He's a Seargent".

Your brows raised. "Yeah, no, don't believe that ", you shook your head with a laugh. "From what I've seen of him tonight, it doesn't fit his picture".

"A difficult soldier to spot outside base indeed", John referred back to your initial assessment of Johnny.

"Did I still pass the test then?" He lowered the glass he'd kept close to his chest this whole time, bending his left elbow to let it rest against the bar.

"Yes", thanks to his newly acquired position, his slight lean towards you was a mere shift. "Knew you would".

"How could you've been so sure?" You challenged him. "I could've choked under pressure".

John's brows quickly moved up and down as he raised his chin, remaining silent for a few seconds as he observed you. "No, you wouldn't have because it's your second nature. Noticed it when you came in here earlier." He gestured to the pub entrance with the tip of his glass.

As if able to get the outer-body perspective John had of you as you arrived, your eyes trailed the direction he motioned.

"How so?" Your gaze was back at him, yet his eyes remained stuck at the doorway.

"You were alert; those eyes of yours were sharp, observant to a degree I recognised ...", John's sentence trailed off when he turned back to face you, his eyes flickering over you before meeting your gaze. "Not gonna lie, the dress had me questionin’ longer than usual if you were one of us".

"What settled your mind?" He grinned, head tilting side to side.

"It's my job to notice people like you that ain't as sweet looking".

You wished you'd had a drink to cool yourself with as heat spread through your body at John's comment. To say it had taken you off-guard was an understatement. It was so unlike his earlier, not forced but definitely not innate, pick-up line; this was a taste of that same effortlessness he'd displayed during your game of cards.

Flustered, searching for your wits, you find yourself tongue-tied. And it didn't get better when you spotted John's smile behind the rim of his glass as he sipped his drink, eyes still on you.

Thankfully, he broke the mere second-long silence that had felt eternal when he swallowed the beverage.

"Maybe we should call you if we need a new face for interrogation". It was a joke. An offered out of your own flustered state.

"I bet Ghost is enough". John chuckled, yet the sound quietened when you swivelled your chair to fully angle your body towards him. "But, I still bet I could attribute with something".

"What you suggestin'?" His eyes jumped over you, a slight quirk in his brows.

"Can give you pointers on how an outside eye asses you".

"Now, can you, eh?" One of his already intriguingly raised brows arches. Your pulse increases, a slight tapping emerging at the base of your throat when John sets down his drink, turning his chair to face you. Instinctively you press your legs together, giving John enough room to not touch you with his knees as they slot on either side of you. "What would you say others see then?"

You justify the trail over his frame as required to answer his question. But, you know it's futile, knowing very well the roam of your gaze was to take in his broad body, still accentuated despite his arms crossed over his chest and the slight haunch in his back to lean slightly closer to you.

"A tight-knitted group", you say, eyes locking with his as you continue. "Yet, what the Captain says goes".

A slow side-ways tip of his head accompanies his amused huff. "That's the whole military".

You hold up a finger and raise your brows. "Ah, I'm not done". John raises his hand at your smile-accompanied accusation. "This group of yours, they look up to you, respect you, that's why they follow you. They put their trust in their Captain because he's earned it." Something softens the amused upward-turns of his features at your words, his arms settling on his thighs.

"Playin’ at an old man's pride?"

You chuckle softly. "Ain't playing anything; already said you must've earned your rank".

"You're startin’ to sound subjective, love".

"Oh, sue me", you roll your eyes, a slight smile spreading on John's features as his knee knocks against yours in jest before falling outwards again. "Fine then, if you want objective, I'll give it to you. If anyone wants to aim at your group, they'll aim for the heart". You nod towards him, inclining what you didn't spell out.

With a shift of one foot to rest on the floor to not have him fall out of his seat, John moves closer by a slight bend in the waist and forwards tip of his head. "If that's your best take on bein’ objective, I can't imagine your subjectiveness".

An all too cheerful-sounding scoff is directed at him as your knee falls out to mimic the bump he'd done against your knee previously. A grin breaks his lips apart.

"I'll tell you, it works wonderfully for persuasions". Your teeth dig into your lower lip as you feel the smile you want to suppress spread anyways. John's eyes flicker down, returning to your gaze when teeth flash as your smile turns into a grin.

"Not doubtin’ that". John could've said something else entirely. You didn't need too much imagination to convince yourself he had. The cadence of his voice, the smooth churning of something purely described as deep, rich, mingling with the accent already coating his words in almost a droning hum, a pleasant one for your ear to experience.

You swallow, the intensity in those blues causing a quiver in your fingers. You attempt to shield it by putting your right arm on the countertop and tapping the wooden counter with your fingers.

A loud noise makes you jump, fingers curling into the wood, eyes falling from John's and seeking the source of the sound.

"Keep your heads on your shoulders. You need to be sober enough to get to the base at the latest 01:00 for drills at 07:00. I'm not puttin’ in a word against office duty if you don't". You switched to look at John -or more so his profile concerning he'd twisted his neck to watch the men seated at the tables- as he's seemingly unphased by the sudden disturbance.

"Does that apply to you too, Captain?" Your eyes widened, gaze snapping from John's profile. In the corner of your eye, you catch how he cocks his head and swivels his chair until he is sitting in a similar position as previously.

You hadn't anticipated the comment from Kyle. Johnny, maybe, but not the brown-eyed man now watching his superior with a grin as his eyes remain solely on the man at your side. Connecting it quickly to what Marissa forwarded from the Scot -something you gradually started to believe- you knew it was a jab at John and not necessarily you. Still, the attempted silent snickers from the others urged a rush of heat through your body, head ducking instinctively.

"You seem to forget I'm already on office duty and won't partake in the drills tomorrow, Sergeant". John replies without a hitch in his breath, an assertiveness in his tone you hadn't anticipated. It's enough for you to raise your gaze and focus on him.

As your eyes flitted over him, you realised his whole demeanour changed. It's the same shift you'd seen earlier the night, now clocking it's a switch between John and his role as Captain. However, unlike earlier, it doesn't make you uncomfortable. Instead, the opposite, an appreciative smile spreading when the arched brow daring Kyle, or anyone else, to make a further comment is met with silence.

As John turns towards you again, not entirely but showing his focus tracks back to you with the shift, you catch him mumbling beneath his breath. 'These lot...'

He sighs, shaking his head. "You mind?" Your gaze locks with his before flickering down to the metal case he fishes from his back pocket, opening it expertly with his thumb to show the cigars inside. He doesn't reach for one until you shake your head.

"Only if it smells like a cigarette". As John reaches for one of the dark auburn rolls, balancing it between his fingers whilst pocketing the case, he scoffs as if honestly offended.

"Then you wouldn't be the only one", he muttered, reaching for something over the bar.

You can't help how your eyes travel down to the small strip of skin he reveals when his shirt inch upwards. Before he notices, you promptly avert your eyes to see he's recovered a similar tray serving to collect ashes as he'd sported over at the table in the absence of a proper ashtray.

As he placed it on his right side, away from you, he fished out the same sleek metal lighter he'd used to light the cigar earlier the evening.

"Hate when Ghost pulls those out". A flame flickered to life as he popped the cap with his thumb, the orange-yellowy flare brought to the butt of the roll now resting between his lips.

Your eyes skate over to Ghost, then back to John, eyeing him as he puffed at the end until dropping the pocket lighter with a satisfied hum when a subtle curl of smoke rises from the glowing tail.

"Didn't know he was a smoker", you say.

John glances at you, dropping the cigar enough to flash you a smirk. "We all have our copin’ mechanism. Some of us just have more tasteful ones". You chuckle with a shake of your head, following the cigar as he raises it to his lips.

He inhales a mouthful, not a lungful, John’s chest not expanding more than marginally. With his eyes closing, his hand drops to the side until his elbow rest against the counter and the cigar rests over the ashtray. When he releases the cloudy vapour, he turns slightly to the side.

As he faces you again, his eyelids flutter open, the corner of his mouth ticking upwards instantly when he discovers your eyes never left him. "You're starin’, love". You frown despite his teasing tone, nabbing the first thing that comes to mind.

"If you continue at this pace, those will kill you". You nod to the cigar in John's hand. Yet, you only get a chuckle and an amused look in return.

"If nothin’ on the field has done it yet, I take the risk". You let out a light exhale. From how John doesn't even wince but savours the taste before pointedly turning away from you and blowing out the smoke, you know you won't be able to change his habits.

You watch as he puffs the cigar, his blues not leaving yours longer than it takes to empty release his breath. The scent of smoke slowly tints the air, but there are hints of something else in those blue whisps.

"What's that?" You ask, and his brows raise as to what you're referring to. "The scent?"

John hums. "Maduro; carries a distinct coffee and dark-chocolate aroma".

"Don't know about that". You muse. Sure, it doesn't smell like acrid cigarettes, but neither would you've guessed coffee and chocolate. John smiles with a shrug before taking another puff. "You know your cigars".

"Like you know your liquor". You unabashedly shrug as John reaches for the glass he's let sit on the counter for a bit. He pauses mid-way to his lips, eyes flickering down to its contents. Or rather, the lack thereof.

"I can make another one". You say, not until now, realising all that's left is the half-melted ice cube.

Without even waiting for John's answer, you prepare to stand. However, with a shake of his head and shifting his chair towards you, he stops you mid-action.

"Sit. I enjoy your company more than a drink". When John sets the glass on the counter, those blue eyes don't fall from yours. A sincerity is laced within his gaze, and the smile he's so prone to bring forth stretches your lips again.

As you sink into your seat again, one leg crosses the other, the slip of your dress accommodating by baring your thigh. Your legs fall closer to John with your move, and your exposed knee grazes against his thigh. When he further angles his body towards you, it rests against his leg. As neither of you breaks the point of contact, you feel the warmth he emits even through his jeans.

"Never got to know how you find your way to this pub?" The air is comfortable, and you rest your elbow on the counter, head falling against your hand as you watch John.

"Kyle got a whiff of the place through some mates; it just so happened that it lived up to its reputation". Not surprised. You hummed at his answer.

"What made you regulars?"

"Because I can have a drag of this without lookin’ like a kicked puppy on the streetside", he jokes with a motion to his cigar, and you huff out a laugh, still reprimanding him with a slight nudge to his leg with yours. "Happened to be that most took a likin’ to something after our first visit". Your brows cock, eyes instinctively fleeting sideways, briefly catching Johnny gazing at Marissa as she entertains a conversation with Kyle.

When they return to John, you find him watching you as he inhales a drag of smoke. "I can guess someone's reason-". You refer to what your attention strayed towards. "-but what's yours?"

"Hm, the ambience, like the conventional setting Marissa got goin’ despite innovated. Not a fan of many of the brand new places". You nod, noticing how John works his jaw, lips subsequently pursing, before he speaks up. "How come we haven't seen you around before?"

"Why, would I've added to the ambience?" You can't help the quirk of your lips at how his brows raise, feeling as if it was finally your turn to be put on the spot but the other way around.

Before he answers, a low chuckle escapes him as he ducks his head before rolling it to the side to look at you. "Maybe I would've added you as a reason".

You bite your lip, barely able to contain the giddiness his comment elicits. Only managing when actually answering his question. "It was some time ago I worked full-time. Nowadays, I only jump in occasionally when Marissa asks".

He nodded. "What do you fill your time with otherwise?"

"Free-lancing", you explain. "Nothing all too fancy, but I get to do things I like with the freedom I want-". You clip the end of your sentence, stopping yourself before formulating your the intended question that would’ve followed. Naturally, you want to know more about his work in return, but you hesitate, not desiring to destroy the mood if he rejects explaining.

"I can hear you thinkin’". John nudges your knee with a slight move of his thigh, bringing you out of your thoughts. "Go on", he urges you. And, like so many other times during the evening, something about his encouragement makes you fold.

"Well, concerning Marissa has mentioned you, I can't lie and say I haven't been curious about you lot since arriving. But I didn't want to pry, know you're off-duty if you're here". He keeps looking at you as your head stops resting on your fist, instead moving your hand when you explain yourself, patiently waiting for the question you build up to with a barely visible smile. "I-I just wondered what you do? You guys aren't really rookies, and it was hard not to notice a certain reluctance to initially mention you were in the military...", you trail off.

John remains silent for a few beats, head tilting as he watches you, and you fear you overstepped even though he urged you to ask the question. "We ain't directly military".

"No?" Your brows furrow.

"Special forces". Your lips part, hand dropping until your forearm rest against the wooden counter. Oh.

"What branch, if I may ask?"

"SAS". Really fucking oh.

"And you made me think my training was even the slightest set apart from absolutely fucking petty compared to yours", you huff in disbelief. Your comments bring out a deep laugh from John, a grin pinning his lips upwards.

"It ain't all too bad".

"Not all too bad- the fucking SAS, John". You lean slightly closer to emphasise what you said as if he didn't realise his occupancy. "You're a Captain in the SAS out of everything on this spinning globe".

He shrugs, disturbing his slowly diminishing cigar's linear ringle of smoke. "Ain't too shabby, I guess".

"Fucking hell", your hand jerks upwards, shaking your head in disbelief as you straighten up again, an unbelieving smile etched onto your lips. That earns you another laugh from him as his hand, having rested on his leg, pats the middle of your bared thigh.

"I'm takin' the piss".

You accusingly raise your brows at him. "You better be". His hand stills and gently squeeze the spot where he touches you, an offered 'my bad' as his gaze locks with yours. It takes mere seconds before your smiles reflect one another.

"Well, gentlemen, I think it's time to shoo you out. I don't want to be responsible for your absence on any important matters in the morning." At her voice, your eyes are drawn to Marissa. She rises from her seat despite some protest from a certain Scot, to which she only offers a smile and a 'sorry, Johnny-boy'. As she turns her neck towards you, her brown eyes flicker down to see John's hand resting atop your thigh. Although her smile remains the same, you note the twinkle entering them when noting your proximity to the older man. "Ain't that right, Price?"

"Always good to know you look after them", he returns, hand slipping from you to brace against his kneecap as he straightens somewhat.

"Your boys ain't the biggest group of troublemakers, but always good to have someone look out for them", Marissa shoots back. But, with a quick shift of her gaze to meet yours, you know the comment isn't as innocent as it appears. Having spent enough time with her, you can hear the unspoken continuation. While your attention is on someone else.

As your friend turned and began collecting what littered the table, Johnny followed suit to help her while Ghost and Kyle rose from their seats, gathering their belongings.

The shift in the edge of your vision brought your eyes back to the man at your side.

You watched as John stubbed out the unsmoked bit of his cigar. His opposite hand rose to run across his beard, and until then, you hadn't registered the fine specs of ash coating parts of his facial hair.

"Ready?" You ask when the action slows, unable to hide your amusement. John's gaze jumps to you, creases entering the edges of his eyes as he notes you'd followed his movement.

"The only downside", he chuckled as he rose from his seat.

One of your brows cocked. "Only one?"

"Hush now". His reply makes the laugh you repressed escape anyways, but it fades when he stretches out his hand for you.

Your brows raise momentarily, eyes flickering down to his hand and up to his eyes, not even debating before accepting his upturned palm.

John's hold is gentle as he helps you keep your balance whilst stepping down from the bar stool. "Thank you". He smiles in return and drops your hand, and you instantly miss his touch.

John turns and moves toward the only occupied table during the evening, and you watch how Ghost throws him his jacket that he expertly captures and supposedly was to retrieve. Your attention is pulled from them when Marissa passes you.

"Do you need any help?" You follow your friend as she rounds the bar.

Her head raised as she set down what she'd carried from the table. "No need. I'll fix this tomorrow morning". She gestured to the dishes before her.

"You sure? I can help so you can sleep in tomorrow?"

"We can help". Compared to the first time the Scottish accent appeared by your side, you don't startle when Johnny rounds you, placing the rest of the dishes beside what Marissa already brought.

"I have a few deliveries that I need to be here for tomorrow anyway, so I'm just gonna lock up for the night. Head on out with the rest". She waved the two of you off, and you simply shrugged.

"Fine, we'll wait for you outside", Marissa sent you an appreciative smile as your reply stopped the Scot from possibly debating with her.

"Alright, Riss", he simply settled on. "Come on then, lass", Johnny slung an arm over your shoulder.

"Am I your human crutch now?" You poked the dark-haired man's side.

"Haven't had that much", Johnny defended himself. "I remained on good behaviour today", he puffed out his chest as you caught a laugh from your friend just as she ducked into the back.

"Hard to believe when coming from the man daring me to a drinking game", you teased, knowing he wasn't any further inebriated than barely tipsy, concerning he wasn't stumbling over his words or burdened you with his weight when he turned the two of you with a chuckle.

Facing the exit, your and Johnny's eyes fall on the others moving towards it.

You instinctively pay more attention to John as he steps away from their table. But, with his jacket already clutched in one hand since previously, your brows furrow. To your attention, he hadn't brought anything else. And that's when you see the accessory not fitting his general appearance. In John's other hand is your purse.

While something warm worms into your chest, you feel the body beside you move, silent amusement causing Johnny's chest to vibrate. You twist your head towards him, being met with a wide grin as his eyes drop to you, returning from having caught the same sight you'd done.

"You've really put ya charms on the old man, now 'ave ya?" His bright eyes are creased in the corners as his hand squeezes your shoulder.

Your mouth drops open. "I-I...uh", you stumbled over your words, suddenly bashful at having someone beside Marissa point it out. Even though he's already mentioned it to her, you remind yourself.

Your wide-eyed look earns a not-so-suppressed laugh from Johnny this time around. "No need explainin'". His smile softens somewhat, yet the glint in his eye is still there as he leans in slightly. "Only hope the old fecker doesn't fuck it up with a bonnie like ya". You duck your head to hide a laugh, nerves dissipating at the Scot's comment.

"He's got his charms". You look up, gaze locking with John's briefly before facing the man at your side. He gives you a wink before letting you go, leaving you to take the lead when nearing the others.

Your focus shifts to the exit.

Ghost pulls the door open, its never-fixed natural chime filling the air. Kyle follows him shortly, pushing the door slightly wider for John to catch with the same hand he holds his jacket. However, instead of exiting, he waits for you to come close enough to wordlessly hand you your purse and motion for you to head out before him. You smile as thanks for both actions.

The air is lukewarm. Not cold by any means. Still, a shiver prickles your skin when a warm gust blows past.

"You can't possibly be cold". You turn to look at John as he follows you onto the sidewalk. To give space to Johnny trailing after him, you take a few steps to the side before angling your body towards him as he steps up to you.

"Says the man who brought a jacket". You nod towards the material in his grip.

"Fair". John chuckles as he stops close to you, his free hand hooking into his pocket, his thumb sticking out.

As the door closes, you look away from those blues you'd stared into for the better part of the evening, focusing on what was beyond the pub window. You see Marissa with her bag slung over her shoulder, meaning she must've finished the closing procedure in the back.

Next, your eyes are drawn to the only one moving in the company. Ghost's dark frame melts into the building's facade more so than the still-bright evening as he moves towards one of the cars parked a few steps away. The late setting sun reflected in the windshield, and the cloud-free sky lightened the night considerably regarding the time.

The slight shift in your peripheral finally draws your eyes back to John. As your attention land upon him, you note he followed your previous line of sight of watching Ghost leisurely come to lean against the rear-view mirror as he waits. Soon though, his blue eyes settle on you.

"How'd you get here?" It's a simple and innocent question depending on how you interpret it. But you can't help but do anything but.

"I was already out and about, so I walked". John nods, looking away for a second as you notice his jaw works from the muscles in his temple. When his eyes return, he tips his head somewhat downwards and slightly raises his brows. "I could drive you home if you want?"

You immediately press your jaws together to not break out in a lunatic smile. Those butterflies are back, wild and whipping in your stomach, not because of nervousness but excitement. As you watch John, gaze into his blues, you breathe in.

Mingling together is the noticeable but hard-to-place smell of warmth in the air still present from when you arrived and the scent of John you'd grown accustomed to during the evening.

"My mother warned me of jumping into strangers' cars". You attempt to play down your immediate reaction to his offer.

It earns you a chuckle. "Can't say I pose as the friendliest either". John looked over his shoulder to the big black rover parked further down the street than Ghost had. You can barely shield your amusement despite attempting to when he turns back. "What?"

"Could think you worked for the Mafia rather than the military".

His brows teasingly narrowed at you. "That so?"

You nod with a light hum. "At the least thought it was more Ghost's style than yours", you'd lowered your voice to not let the man you referred to catch your sentence.

"Can't blame you", he chuckles with a slight head shake as your eyes fall back to the black rover ahead.

"Oh, jump in the car". Both you and John followed the voice to find Marissa. You hadn't heard her exit the pub and lock the door, but evidently, she must have done it slightly before butting into your conversation concerning how Johnny and Kyle joined Ghost by their car.

"I'm going the other direction anyways, and I know Price won't kidnap you". You knew she could've and would've given you a ride. She'd done it frequently when you worked together. You cocked a brow at her, one she disregarded when she redirected her eyes to John. "And, if you do so happen to take such a liking to my friend that you decide to abduct her, I know where you live".

"You don't know where I live", he huffed out a laugh.

Marissa only smiles in return. "Maybe so, but I do know where that base of yours is and that some of your boys will be there". She put a hand on her hip, and at that, he put his hands up in mock surrender, eliciting a chuckle from your friend as she turns back to you.

"Hear from you in the morning to know wheater you end up home or in a basement?" She said, but the look in her eyes said something else entirely.

You couldn't help but shake your head, knowing she had said it because she wanted all the details. "Sure". She brought you in for a hug before stepping away and heading in the same direction as the boys had, her car parked in front of theirs.

"Thanks for coming by tonight", she called as she stopped by the vehicle.

"You know I can't say no to you", you returned with a smile.

"Nice to meet ya, lass", Johnny called out as he opened the passenger seat, a grin present as his eyes shifted. "See ya, Cap'n". John gave him a nod in return as you waved to the Scotsman. Like his goodbye, your action responds to Ghost's nod and Kyles's wave.

"Seems like I'm taking you up on that offer", you said when finally turning back to face John.

"Come on then, love", he gave you a side-ways nod as he directed you to his car.

#john price x reader #captain John price #john price #John price codmw2 #captain price x reader #captain price x you #captain johnathan price #CODMW2 #price cod #John price x reader series #codmw2 fic #fanfic #series #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #kyle gaz garrick

213 notes · View notes