alwaysshallow

[alwaysshallow]

Just wanted to draw big man and his blindingly handsome smile.

Accurate self in blue. Scale size 1:1

[alwaysshallow]

happy birthday to me??? wild. I'm grateful for everything this year.

[alwaysshallow]

I told her I was chill. I lied. I’d burn cities for her.

[alwaysshallow]

when you said you'd fuck your lieutenant, you never meant for him to overhear. (18+)

you were sitting with a group of girls in the mess. a typical thursday after training, scooping terrible mushy peas into your mouth and trying to pretend like you cared at all for the unseasoned mash it was in your mouth.

a classic game of who would you do? a game that wasn't very hard on a military base⏤the men might be the scum of the earth, but they worked out for hours a day and were the only warm bodies near you for a majority of your time. the group of girls you had befriended had an unspoken rule not to hook up with each other⏤shit gets messy when you're in close quarters, so you keep it tactical and go for the brainless studs that walk around you (no matter how much you all complain about getting head that finally feels good).

the 141 are not unpopular choices that always come up. nakeema drools over gaz. emily constantly swoons over soap, who she refers to as her "fellow countryman." a few of the girls have intense daddy issues and try not to giggle like schoolgirls when they bring up captain price.

you're apparently the weird one when you mumble out ghost's name between bites of cold ham.

"huh?"

you get a flurry of wide-eyed stares and surprised scoffs. you keep chewing, looking around.

"what?" you shrug.

"ghost? the one with the shittiest personality in the entire world?"

"are you kidding me?" you roll your eyes. "we're not talking about future husbands. i'm thinking about huge man in my bed. besides, you're really gonna tell me that i'm the weird one, when you're panting over some meathead that licks the seat after you get up from it?"

"i thought soap was a panty-stealer."

"he's a dog, that's what he is," you roll your eyes again.

"and ghost is literally the most closed-off, weirdest guy...i mean he doesn't say anything. and he just stares...like he's looking right through you. it's off-putting."

you pick up your tray and stand up.

"yeah, well...fifty quid says his dick is the size of my forearm."

the girls laugh, and you try to hide your smile as you go to drop off your tray. when you turn, you pause momentarily. in the doorway, staring right at you, is none other than your lieutenant.

you tighten your grip on the metal of your tray. you have no idea now how loud you were. did he hear you say his name? did he hear anything you said about him?

oh shit oh shit oh shit, my ass is gonna get handed to me by HR⏤

he just blinks your way, and then he disappears. your heart releases, and you let out the breath you were holding. you need to be more careful and keep your voice down.

after you drop your tray off, you push the doors open to the mess hall, turning to make your way back to your quarters. when you step out of the building, ghost is there. he's standing, leaning against the wall, eyes on the door as if he was just waiting for the opportunity for you to come out.

you stop there, looking at him. for a few seconds, you just meet his eyes, trying to feel him out. there is no denying the way your throat closes up at the way he looks you up and down.

he definitely heard you.

you freeze up when he stands up straight and starts to walk towards you. it's then that you realize how much bigger ghost is. when he comes to stand at your side, the top of your head barely reaches his shoulders. you swallow as he tilts his head down, dark eyes lidded, and then one gloved finger traces a line from the bone of your wrist to your elbow. he kisses his teeth under the mask, and he shrugs.

"mmm..." he hums lowly. "not quite, love."

oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck⏤

"ngghhh..." your mouth falls open as he spreads his legs, pulling down his zipper. like the nasty man he is, he's not wearing any underwear, and your tongue flops out when he pulls his cock free and lets it hang heavy before he takes it into one gloved hand and gives it a nice stroke.

for the third time, you make sure the door to his office is locked, and then you're getting onto your knees, crawling towards him.

"we can lie," you whimper, resting your cheek on his thigh. ghost chuckles low as he thumbs over the weeping tip, red and angry as he squeezes. "you're nearly there, anyways...so big...just like i knew you'd be."

"yeah?"

"mhm," you bite your lip. "knew you'd be nice, too. not so scary."

"y'r not scared o'me, love?"

"not when you're about to come in my mouth."

"right...fuckin' hell⏤"

you spit it back into his mouth after. tongue on the underside of his cock, letting his cum linger inside. you climb into his lap after and push his mask up, kissing him wet and sticky as you use the slick on your palm to get him nice and hard again. when you sit down on him, he groans, big body all tense and heated as you bring it back down on him heavy and hard.

fuck, he's in your throat, in your guts, you might be hallucinating the bulge in your belly, but you're going to fantasize about this for days when you sit with the girls and have to lie about the most insane lay you've ever had.

ghost might be fucking weird, but his cum is warm inside of you, and his tip curves just right to touch that soft spot and make your vision go blurry. does it matter that he can't hold a conversation when he can wipe your thoughts with a few thrusts of his hips?

does it matter that the girls called him scary? that he struggles to break eye-contact? that he doesn't know how to change his tone so people can tell the difference between a bad joke and a horrible insult? does it matter that he has the most insane, horrifying dead fish eyes when he's making you forget your own name in favor of his own?

you suck it out of his mouth later. after you've sat on his face and ruined his mask, after you've cum on his tongue and nearly deafened him with how hard you squeezed your thighs around his thick head, you put your mouth to his and lick it from between his teeth with a hot groan. he's weird, and he's blunt, and there's no room for anything but perfection when you're under lieutenant riley's command, but right here, in his bed, there's no rank. there's just a really fucking awkward, giant bear-man, and a dick to match that energy.

when you wince trying to sit at the table at breakfast, the girls are all over you. you're staring into dead-fish eyes when you smile and say, "i'll be taking that fifty quid now."

[alwaysshallow]

ghost WOULD be the guy to hide his zombie bite from the group… and it drags on… and it just looks like a regular bite scar from before zombies >:(

someone asks where he got that from and he just says “Bird did it. Gets feisty when I’ve been gone too long.” Meanwhile you’ve never so much as exchanged a tender glance.

everyones terrified of the 6’5 former cannibal (reformed since he joined their group) so they just assume he’s telling the truth since the bite looks decently healed, and from that point on no one dares flirt with you 😭

[alwaysshallow]

Censored version.

Bear!Price confused about the purpose of boxers and where his “breeding tool” is supposed to go.

[alwaysshallow]

i replayed the 2019 campaign, took some screenshots and whew... gaz really is the most gorgeous boy

[alwaysshallow]

might actually sit to write this after my vacation lol

omegaverse au but it's simon who rejects you as his fated mate, to only throw a fit later when you're dating other men, trying to move on, and he ambushes you in some club or whatever

[alwaysshallow]

i missed posting... and ao3 bookmarks LMAO

[alwaysshallow]

— coffee at midnight, part 14

John "Soap" MacTavish x f!reader

Military consumes your private time - to the point that you pretty much can't live without it. All of the boys from Task Force 141 are just like brothers, not only best friends – you know that you can trust them with your whole heart.

Somehow, one of them manages to steal it completely, and that's on Johnny MacTavish. Over months, you learn that's harder and harder to ignore that burning feeling in your heart. (3,5k)

READ ON AO3

previous part

“A lot of red,” Alejandro remarks.

You give him a quick look; then, you look again at yourself in the mirror. It’s something you don’t see often—red lips, a pair of maroon martens (that definitely seen a better day; now they’re more brown-ish with just a splash of red) and fingertips smudged from fixing your lipstick way too many times, anxious how it’ll look. Probably he means exactly that with a lot of red, as he looks at your fingers and back, a clever smile on his lips. 

You roll your eyes and shake your head. He’s playing with you. You don’t have to pay attention to that.

“So, would a red purse be too much?” you ask, amused, looking at him in the mirror, watching how he fixes his hair. 

He shrugs. “I would paint my face all red, if you’re asking me, chiquita.” 

You laugh at his comment as you grab the black purse and head towards the door. You are already running a little late. “I can paint yours. I love red, but not that much.”

“Yeah? What’s your favorite color then, black? Blue?”

“I don’t know, actually.”

Oh, you know very well.

And it’s for the most cheesy reason whatsoever.

You’re sure you’ll remember this color for the rest of your life; or the whole palette of undertones, if you’re being honest.

Electric, the type of color you see in the battlefield or in heated arguments. When you bite your tongue, instead of saying something too mean or too offensive, and he’s just challenging you like he’d want to check what you’re going to do in this situation. You slap him multiple times in your mind, as you say to yourself you have to be smarter than him, and the upper hand in this situation is yours. No matter what it takes.

In reality, all it takes is you turning away from him, and he’s pulling you back into his embrace, murmuring something about your damn temperament. And that’s a win.

You’re also a fan of royal blue. In moments where you melt too much, where you start to show the true version of yourself that is way too fragile for your type of profession. Way too open. 

Thankfully, it’s limited to situations with him, where you don’t care what you show and what you feel.

It’s just you and him on repeat. On leave, on the mission, it doesn't matter where you are or with who you are, everyone can see the two of you together. Serious or unserious, like right now in the car, where you two continue to annoy the shit out of Price, who only grumbles something about kids these days which you decide to ignore, even if tomorrow you’ll run 50 circles around the base.

So, yeah, you just love blue. For the most cheesy thing ever, and that is a man whose weight could easily crush you.

Not that you would’ve mind it in any scenario. When his fingers find a way around yours, and you can see how much bigger his fingers are, you feel sick to your stomach. He could manhandle you easily after a little fight.

(You know that if you would just ask him, he could do it in a heartbeat. You would’ve been in his bed by now, and not even God knows for how long. Maybe you should ask him. No more hide and seek, no more pacing around each other. It does sound tempting to you. No restraints.)

At the bar, you try not to think about it. About him, in general, as it’s not a really safe environment for doing that; and thankfully, you don’t even have to try; Task Force 141 quickly occupies your mind with nonsense. 

The recent soccer news (that you don’t follow—the only one team you support is France, and it doesn’t seem like they approve of that), how Gaz offered to change a tire for a nice lady when he was on his break, and how he was just brushed off.

And God, of course Gaz starts a burping contest, and you’re disgusted enough.

Sometimes, you’d love to have another girl on the team, other than your mom. Maybe then they would behave better, and a drink break from them wouldn’t be a necessary option to rest. 

Or maybe it would be still, you don’t know.

Politely smiling at the waiter, you order a few drinks (mostly beers and shots; right now, it doesn’t really matter—after an hour and a half, boys only want alcohol, not specifics). You don’t chat with her, but you make sure to leave a tip while you wait, observing your team from a distance. They’re annoyingly loud, marking their presence quite well, but you can’t stop smiling while you look at them. It’s something rare, to see them chilled and not pent up about work stuff.

When you come back, they’re already on another topic.

"I'm just saying, everyone wants to be in a relationship at some point, amigo. That is just the way the world works." Alejandro points at Ghost. The Brit doesn’t comment much on it; just scoffs, and drinks the rest of his bourbon.

"Deep talks?" you ask, putting down everything that you’ve ordered. Everyone but Simon, laugh.

“More like, bullshit,” Simon murmurs, and everyone decides to ignore it. Again, and you’re not really surprised by this. If someone is dark and broody, it’s always him.

"We just need a woman's view on this.” Kyle grins, patting an empty chair right next to him; you sit without thinking. "We were talking about relationships."

"Uh-huh. And what about those relationships that caught your attention so much?" You raise your eyebrow. Sitting, obediently.

"Military.. How tough it is" Price explains, his gaze darting between Johnny and you. You miss how knowing his eyes are right at this moment. "And Simon said it's pointless anyway."

“I didn't." Ghost rolls his eyes, his attention at you. "I said, why is it so important to have someone, since we’re in town maybe a few times a year, and there’s another fuckin’ mess out ‘ere.”

“Well, you can—”

“—Some people aren't made for relationships. You find someone here, or you just stick to nothin’. Won't you agree?"

You close your eyes for a moment. Simon’s aggressiveness in this topic makes you wonder if he doesn’t have some problems—maybe with a girl that he likes too much, maybe with someone else, where he struggles to find the right balance? Maybe with your friend that he got close with lately.

A right response here is hard to build, so you think for a minute, playing with the glass of your drink. Hard because he has a point. Why bother, if something won’t work out anyway?

"I think everyone is made for love. Relationships, no relationships, but for love," you start, carefully picking word by word. "And if you want something really bad, then you shouldn’t just quit because it’s hard or because you’re in town a few times a year."

He doesn’t answer; he just nods, like he gets what you wanted to tell him. He disappears after five minutes, a phone in his hand, and you know that one girl might be lucky today’s evening.

"And you?" Gaz asks, looking at you. "Me what?" you raise your eyebrow, sipping your drink. Unfazed, and you’re not sure if you just act this good, or if you really are clueless. "Would ya fit in a relationship?" He mimics your expression, just to laugh a second after. “Our team sweetheart has to have someone, even on a side.”

"Who knows. I wait for the right time, the right person. Stuff like that." You explain; and with that, Gaz puts his arm around you.

"You know, I could take you out."

Strong hands go around your waist, picking you up, before you even get to answer Kyle—how he can certainly try, how maybe it would be funny, considering you two want something different in life, but if he feels lonely, you can introduce him to some pretty girls. You don’t get to joke with him like that, as you’re now seated straight on Soap’s thighs.

Heat radiates from him so much that you think you don’t need alcohol to warm up anymore. It feels right. Being here, so close to him, the smell of whisky and a couple of beers clinging to him just like you are right now.

It’s ironic how, in general, you hate the smell of alcohol, but right now, intoxicated, you think it’s comforting. The smell of whisky mixed with some beers, his big arms, now around you like some kind of protection. You think you can die right now, right here.

"Find another, Garrick. That's my girl.” Soap’s eyebrows raise a little. It’s innocent and playful, how he looks at Gaz, but there’s some kind of threat in it too, making your throat burn. 

Soap's calloused fingers grazes against your bare arm—it takes all your willpower to not shiver right now. Whatever he does to you, whatever he means with this close proximity, he does it right. You’re all gooey inside, thinking how those hands could fit somewhere else even better. 

"Someone's getting cocky" Alejandro murmurs, chuckling when he sees your face. "Protectin' what's mine, 'st it.” He looks at Gaz. Your friend drinks beer, but it’s evident that he wants to laugh so bad, and you can’t really blame him. "Ain't that right, bonnie?" He nudges you, playfully.

(Yes. Yes, yes, and you would say that you can’t really imagine yourself with someone else, but—)

"Not yours, honey. Keep dreaming," you say instead, giving him a crooked smile. You fix his messy mohawk, while he groans at your response, his head turned towards the guys.

(But you’re trying to maintain at least a little of your dignity. Last drops.)

"You're so easy to rile up, mate. She’s like my little, annoying sister, I could never!" Gaz grins, looking between you and Johnny, like he knows something. And he probably does, but you do not think about it, about the possible consequences.

"I'm not riled up." Soap rolls his eyes, sighing. "Anyway. Someone's gotta care for ye. And who's gonna be better than me, them? Not really." He whispers the last two sentences to your ear, when others stop paying attention to you both. Normally, you couldn’t care less, but when his hand is so close to the zipper of your pants, you feel like you’re going to faint any second now.

"That’s not very nice," you whisper. He raises his eyebrow, as if confused, if you mean his fingers grazing the zipper, or his comment. Honestly, you don’t know either.

Probably the latter, but you don’t care about that now. You take his glass of whisky and drink it in one swig, eyes narrowing at the bitter taste. It’s not good, it’s hideous, but it burns. And now, whatever burns, is your best friend.

"You ain't nice either, lass. I really wanted that drink."

You raise your eyebrow, partly amused by the half-whining tone. "You’ve had enough,” you note quietly, shrugging. "Besides, I'm your girl, I have different rights, yes? I care for you."

Last sentence brings a smile on his face, and he nips at your shoulder once, resting his chin here right after. He closes his eyes for a second.

"Damn right. Don't ye ever forget that,” he sighs, faux exasperated. He speaks up after a few minutes, when you two are more invested in listening than talking to each other. "Do ye really think like that?" And you raise your eyebrow in confusion, which makes him chuckle. "That everyone deserves love, I mean."

You nod, shifting a little on his legs, to look at him better—he’s the definition of a puppy. His cheek lies now against your arm, and he looks up at you with those big, blue eyes, small smile on his lips and that drunk attitude you should hate him for, but somehow, it only adds to the picture of him being just perfect. 

"Everyone does. Even a little, love is... a powerful feeling. Gives you more purpose in life, motivates you to do things. It’s like a magic feeling, and it’s annoying as fuck, but I think it’s so worth it.” Words flow out of you, flowing out of you—you’re not sure if it’s alcohol speaking, or you’re trying to… actually coax something out from him.

Maybe both because you’re finding yourself asking, "You loved someone yet?"

There’s a silence coming from him, an unusually long one, before he speaks. "Maybe? I don't know." He shrugs, sighing to himself, deep in thought. You squint your eyes. "Love doesn't work out for me, I rather stick to my true lover. Military, ye ken?" he chuckled.

You nod, like you understand, but you don’t. You don’t understand that, and how your heart squeezes at the thought. It’s ridiculous. "Like, not good for relationships, not for love. I dinnae think it is worth my time, and I don't like being in relationships, really. And we have this whole operation, ‘s better to just unwind here and there. Ye get it, right? Whole being not in a relationship thing, we're the same."

We are?, you think to yourself, scrunching your nose and giving him a forced smile, like you’re amused to hear what he is saying right now. 

You think you’re stupid. You had hopes, weird ones, and now you’re just left back in the same spot that you were months ago. With one slight difference, that is, which is actually acknowledging your feelings to him. Not leaving them in the parking lot, not sweeping them under a rug, not making excuses that you feel so strongly for your friend that it can be easily mistaken for love.

Worst thing is, it's not like he said something mean or pointed directly at you to be sad, but after so many nights of sleeping safe and sound when either of you had a nightmare, or little kisses, or after the last time when he made out with your pussy, you thought he—

Right. He’s right—you should get it, you don’t like the relationships either, it has never worked out, that was something that you've talked a lot about, especially drunk. But maybe, just maybe, a relationship with Soap would actually work out. Military with a military. No need for being understanding when you share a world.

He likes movies, as much as you. Cinema would be a perfect spot for a date, seats in the back specifically to either comment and share your opinions, or just makeout, hoping no one would see you two. And as annoying as the thought is, because you hate the people that display their affection in public, you think he’d be the perfect man to actually make out with, when in a relationship.

Little kisses, whispering sweet nothings, giggling like idiots to each other when someone would give you both the look of disapproval or irritated scoffs, because they want to listen and enjoy their movie without any commentary. And knowing Johnny, he’d probably flip them off and continue what he had in mind.

You feel as the embarrassment flows all over you, when you remember that you’ve already imagined something fancier, too. Dinners, mostly, with him in his black attire with a button up that is absolutely devilish and making the two of you slide into the bathroom stalls in the middle of meal just because. Opening doors for you, holding your hand, telling his jokes (more or less appropriate) and looking at you like you are the most beautiful girl in the world. Showing you off to strangers because he has no restraint whatsoever.

His favorite color is green, so you'd probably wear a green dress, just to keep his attention on yourself. After the dinner, on the walk home or to some fancy place, you wouldn’t obviously bring a jacket or a coat to shield yourself from cold, so you could just steal something from him, or force him to share his warmth with you. One way or another, drowning in his cologne that you are already familiar with, but you can never get it enough.

And after that... God only knows what would happen—either his place, yours, or simple goodbyes, and after that, cute messages about how good the date was. How you’d want to meet again, to try at least balance this simple life off-duty, squeezing in-between visiting relatives.

But none of that will happen, he already told you he doesn’t see himself in that.

Love.

Shit, with years you get stupider. You had hoped that the weird, rom-com moments in your mind had died in your early twenties.

Besides, how could it happen? You’re both military. That could get you both expelled (in the worst case scenario—because you don’t think Price would be that much of a dick). 

"Oh. I see.” You smile weakly, taking another glass of tequila—you have it in one chug, preferring to drink it rather than to pretend everything’s fine right in front of Soap. 

He spoke his truth. You think you shouldn’t be mad, but you thought that it meant something for him in terms of…

Your eyes snap up, when you feel someone’s gaze on you—and you find Alejandro looking at you, a little bit concerned. Like he actually heard something from the conversation, and your stomach tightens automatically. You don’t want to appear weak. Especially not in front of them.

So, like you don’t know what he possibly means, you raise an eyebrow. And you do it with the wrong person, giving that Alejandro sends you a look full of disapproval, mouthing something, but you can’t make out what, so he just breaks eye contact, sighing to himself. 

Soap, on the other hand, looks like he’s a kicked puppy, when you glance back at him. Eyebrows furrowed, a small pout on his scarred lips, like he’s trying to get why you are the way you are. Like you didn’t give him the bone he wanted, and now he’s confused.

"Something’s wrong?" He shifts a little under you, restless. You try to pull back, to sit back on your seat, but he tightens his arm around your waist, grabbing your chin to make you look straight into his eyes. 

Annoying piece of shit, he is. “Lass, c’mon.”

“Everything’s peachy.”

“Yer mad at what ah fuckin’ said,” he says, his accent thicker. Probably the aftermath of alcohol.

"No, no. Why? We are the same, after all. I understand everything you said,” you reply with bitterness, standing up. 

The alcohol makes the whole thing sadder than it should be. 

Soap’s hand shoots up, to try and catch your wrist. "Lass, fuckin' hell—”

“—I’m gonna grab you, real quick. Sorry, amigo. I’ll have her back in five, yeah?” Your guardian angel says, catching your wrist before your best friend does. You don’t glance at him back, afraid of what you’ll see. Instead, you just look wide eyed at Alejandro, that sends the both of you a smug smile, maneuvering you to trail behind him. You don’t even know where he is going, until you see other people dancing in this part of the building.

You just hear the protests, some curses, and Price’s low voice. It’s hard to say what he grumbles, but it makes the protests quiet down.

“Thanks,” you eventually say. It takes you two swirls and one quick glance around the bar to do it, and Alejandro smiles, like he gets you. Probably, he does. “I’d come for a smoke if it wasn’t you.”

“I always was against it,” he quips, and you silently laugh, squeezing his dominant hand that leads you through the makeshift dance floor. It’s this moment when you think you could be a little better at dancing—because the difference between your and Alejandro’s skills are massive.

It’s like hiking in your friendly neighbourhood versus climbing Kilimanjaro. You have faith that most people here are drunk anyway and they don’t see a difference.

“Troubles in paradise?” Your friend asks, and you take a deep sigh. Tired, seeing in your imagination how he’s yet another person from the team that will speak about your relationship with Soap. 

Where, ironically, the second subject of this conversation, didn’t speak with you about it in other terms than Ah wanna fuck ye or I think you’d look good under me or other sexual stuff. Never something like oh, hey, relationship seems to be kinda weird now, can we talk, and then fuck later?

“No paradise, no troubles,” you retort, giving him a smile, when he rolls his eyes at your shit. Which he could sense from the other room, as you’re not good at lying to him.

After a few minutes, and a few more spins (that do no good to your head), he drawls, “He looks at you, you know.” It makes you glance towards Johnny, whose eyes are practically burning a hole through you two. You can’t quite tell, but you swear that his fingers were gripping his beer a tad too tight.

“He’s allowed to.” 

Another vague answer from you appears to be funny, considering that he snorts, shaking his head to himself. “Could fool me. Soap might be stupid at times, but if you won’t tell him what’s up, you’re even stupider.”

You frown. “What are you, my mother?”

“I think I have a few years of wisdom to spare before I’ll turn into her, thank you very much.”

[alwaysshallow]

— coffee at midnight, part 14

John "Soap" MacTavish x f!reader

Military consumes your private time - to the point that you pretty much can't live without it. All of the boys from Task Force 141 are just like brothers, not only best friends – you know that you can trust them with your whole heart.

Somehow, one of them manages to steal it completely, and that's on Johnny MacTavish. Over months, you learn that's harder and harder to ignore that burning feeling in your heart. (3,5k)

READ ON AO3

previous part

“A lot of red,” Alejandro remarks.

You give him a quick look; then, you look again at yourself in the mirror. It’s something you don’t see often—red lips, a pair of maroon martens (that definitely seen a better day; now they’re more brown-ish with just a splash of red) and fingertips smudged from fixing your lipstick way too many times, anxious how it’ll look. Probably he means exactly that with a lot of red, as he looks at your fingers and back, a clever smile on his lips. 

You roll your eyes and shake your head. He’s playing with you. You don’t have to pay attention to that.

“So, would a red purse be too much?” you ask, amused, looking at him in the mirror, watching how he fixes his hair. 

He shrugs. “I would paint my face all red, if you’re asking me, chiquita.” 

You laugh at his comment as you grab the black purse and head towards the door. You are already running a little late. “I can paint yours. I love red, but not that much.”

“Yeah? What’s your favorite color then, black? Blue?”

“I don’t know, actually.”

Oh, you know very well.

And it’s for the most cheesy reason whatsoever.

You’re sure you’ll remember this color for the rest of your life; or the whole palette of undertones, if you’re being honest.

Electric, the type of color you see in the battlefield or in heated arguments. When you bite your tongue, instead of saying something too mean or too offensive, and he’s just challenging you like he’d want to check what you’re going to do in this situation. You slap him multiple times in your mind, as you say to yourself you have to be smarter than him, and the upper hand in this situation is yours. No matter what it takes.

In reality, all it takes is you turning away from him, and he’s pulling you back into his embrace, murmuring something about your damn temperament. And that’s a win.

You’re also a fan of royal blue. In moments where you melt too much, where you start to show the true version of yourself that is way too fragile for your type of profession. Way too open. 

Thankfully, it’s limited to situations with him, where you don’t care what you show and what you feel.

It’s just you and him on repeat. On leave, on the mission, it doesn't matter where you are or with who you are, everyone can see the two of you together. Serious or unserious, like right now in the car, where you two continue to annoy the shit out of Price, who only grumbles something about kids these days which you decide to ignore, even if tomorrow you’ll run 50 circles around the base.

So, yeah, you just love blue. For the most cheesy thing ever, and that is a man whose weight could easily crush you.

Not that you would’ve mind it in any scenario. When his fingers find a way around yours, and you can see how much bigger his fingers are, you feel sick to your stomach. He could manhandle you easily after a little fight.

(You know that if you would just ask him, he could do it in a heartbeat. You would’ve been in his bed by now, and not even God knows for how long. Maybe you should ask him. No more hide and seek, no more pacing around each other. It does sound tempting to you. No restraints.)

At the bar, you try not to think about it. About him, in general, as it’s not a really safe environment for doing that; and thankfully, you don’t even have to try; Task Force 141 quickly occupies your mind with nonsense. 

The recent soccer news (that you don’t follow—the only one team you support is France, and it doesn’t seem like they approve of that), how Gaz offered to change a tire for a nice lady when he was on his break, and how he was just brushed off.

And God, of course Gaz starts a burping contest, and you’re disgusted enough.

Sometimes, you’d love to have another girl on the team, other than your mom. Maybe then they would behave better, and a drink break from them wouldn’t be a necessary option to rest. 

Or maybe it would be still, you don’t know.

Politely smiling at the waiter, you order a few drinks (mostly beers and shots; right now, it doesn’t really matter—after an hour and a half, boys only want alcohol, not specifics). You don’t chat with her, but you make sure to leave a tip while you wait, observing your team from a distance. They’re annoyingly loud, marking their presence quite well, but you can’t stop smiling while you look at them. It’s something rare, to see them chilled and not pent up about work stuff.

When you come back, they’re already on another topic.

"I'm just saying, everyone wants to be in a relationship at some point, amigo. That is just the way the world works." Alejandro points at Ghost. The Brit doesn’t comment much on it; just scoffs, and drinks the rest of his bourbon.

"Deep talks?" you ask, putting down everything that you’ve ordered. Everyone but Simon, laugh.

“More like, bullshit,” Simon murmurs, and everyone decides to ignore it. Again, and you’re not really surprised by this. If someone is dark and broody, it’s always him.

"We just need a woman's view on this.” Kyle grins, patting an empty chair right next to him; you sit without thinking. "We were talking about relationships."

"Uh-huh. And what about those relationships that caught your attention so much?" You raise your eyebrow. Sitting, obediently.

"Military.. How tough it is" Price explains, his gaze darting between Johnny and you. You miss how knowing his eyes are right at this moment. "And Simon said it's pointless anyway."

“I didn't." Ghost rolls his eyes, his attention at you. "I said, why is it so important to have someone, since we’re in town maybe a few times a year, and there’s another fuckin’ mess out ‘ere.”

“Well, you can—”

“—Some people aren't made for relationships. You find someone here, or you just stick to nothin’. Won't you agree?"

You close your eyes for a moment. Simon’s aggressiveness in this topic makes you wonder if he doesn’t have some problems—maybe with a girl that he likes too much, maybe with someone else, where he struggles to find the right balance? Maybe with your friend that he got close with lately.

A right response here is hard to build, so you think for a minute, playing with the glass of your drink. Hard because he has a point. Why bother, if something won’t work out anyway?

"I think everyone is made for love. Relationships, no relationships, but for love," you start, carefully picking word by word. "And if you want something really bad, then you shouldn’t just quit because it’s hard or because you’re in town a few times a year."

He doesn’t answer; he just nods, like he gets what you wanted to tell him. He disappears after five minutes, a phone in his hand, and you know that one girl might be lucky today’s evening.

"And you?" Gaz asks, looking at you. "Me what?" you raise your eyebrow, sipping your drink. Unfazed, and you’re not sure if you just act this good, or if you really are clueless. "Would ya fit in a relationship?" He mimics your expression, just to laugh a second after. “Our team sweetheart has to have someone, even on a side.”

"Who knows. I wait for the right time, the right person. Stuff like that." You explain; and with that, Gaz puts his arm around you.

"You know, I could take you out."

Strong hands go around your waist, picking you up, before you even get to answer Kyle—how he can certainly try, how maybe it would be funny, considering you two want something different in life, but if he feels lonely, you can introduce him to some pretty girls. You don’t get to joke with him like that, as you’re now seated straight on Soap’s thighs.

Heat radiates from him so much that you think you don’t need alcohol to warm up anymore. It feels right. Being here, so close to him, the smell of whisky and a couple of beers clinging to him just like you are right now.

It’s ironic how, in general, you hate the smell of alcohol, but right now, intoxicated, you think it’s comforting. The smell of whisky mixed with some beers, his big arms, now around you like some kind of protection. You think you can die right now, right here.

"Find another, Garrick. That's my girl.” Soap’s eyebrows raise a little. It’s innocent and playful, how he looks at Gaz, but there’s some kind of threat in it too, making your throat burn. 

Soap's calloused fingers grazes against your bare arm—it takes all your willpower to not shiver right now. Whatever he does to you, whatever he means with this close proximity, he does it right. You’re all gooey inside, thinking how those hands could fit somewhere else even better. 

"Someone's getting cocky" Alejandro murmurs, chuckling when he sees your face. "Protectin' what's mine, 'st it.” He looks at Gaz. Your friend drinks beer, but it’s evident that he wants to laugh so bad, and you can’t really blame him. "Ain't that right, bonnie?" He nudges you, playfully.

(Yes. Yes, yes, and you would say that you can’t really imagine yourself with someone else, but—)

"Not yours, honey. Keep dreaming," you say instead, giving him a crooked smile. You fix his messy mohawk, while he groans at your response, his head turned towards the guys.

(But you’re trying to maintain at least a little of your dignity. Last drops.)

"You're so easy to rile up, mate. She’s like my little, annoying sister, I could never!" Gaz grins, looking between you and Johnny, like he knows something. And he probably does, but you do not think about it, about the possible consequences.

"I'm not riled up." Soap rolls his eyes, sighing. "Anyway. Someone's gotta care for ye. And who's gonna be better than me, them? Not really." He whispers the last two sentences to your ear, when others stop paying attention to you both. Normally, you couldn’t care less, but when his hand is so close to the zipper of your pants, you feel like you’re going to faint any second now.

"That’s not very nice," you whisper. He raises his eyebrow, as if confused, if you mean his fingers grazing the zipper, or his comment. Honestly, you don’t know either.

Probably the latter, but you don’t care about that now. You take his glass of whisky and drink it in one swig, eyes narrowing at the bitter taste. It’s not good, it’s hideous, but it burns. And now, whatever burns, is your best friend.

"You ain't nice either, lass. I really wanted that drink."

You raise your eyebrow, partly amused by the half-whining tone. "You’ve had enough,” you note quietly, shrugging. "Besides, I'm your girl, I have different rights, yes? I care for you."

Last sentence brings a smile on his face, and he nips at your shoulder once, resting his chin here right after. He closes his eyes for a second.

"Damn right. Don't ye ever forget that,” he sighs, faux exasperated. He speaks up after a few minutes, when you two are more invested in listening than talking to each other. "Do ye really think like that?" And you raise your eyebrow in confusion, which makes him chuckle. "That everyone deserves love, I mean."

You nod, shifting a little on his legs, to look at him better—he’s the definition of a puppy. His cheek lies now against your arm, and he looks up at you with those big, blue eyes, small smile on his lips and that drunk attitude you should hate him for, but somehow, it only adds to the picture of him being just perfect. 

"Everyone does. Even a little, love is... a powerful feeling. Gives you more purpose in life, motivates you to do things. It’s like a magic feeling, and it’s annoying as fuck, but I think it’s so worth it.” Words flow out of you, flowing out of you—you’re not sure if it’s alcohol speaking, or you’re trying to… actually coax something out from him.

Maybe both because you’re finding yourself asking, "You loved someone yet?"

There’s a silence coming from him, an unusually long one, before he speaks. "Maybe? I don't know." He shrugs, sighing to himself, deep in thought. You squint your eyes. "Love doesn't work out for me, I rather stick to my true lover. Military, ye ken?" he chuckled.

You nod, like you understand, but you don’t. You don’t understand that, and how your heart squeezes at the thought. It’s ridiculous. "Like, not good for relationships, not for love. I dinnae think it is worth my time, and I don't like being in relationships, really. And we have this whole operation, ‘s better to just unwind here and there. Ye get it, right? Whole being not in a relationship thing, we're the same."

We are?, you think to yourself, scrunching your nose and giving him a forced smile, like you’re amused to hear what he is saying right now. 

You think you’re stupid. You had hopes, weird ones, and now you’re just left back in the same spot that you were months ago. With one slight difference, that is, which is actually acknowledging your feelings to him. Not leaving them in the parking lot, not sweeping them under a rug, not making excuses that you feel so strongly for your friend that it can be easily mistaken for love.

Worst thing is, it's not like he said something mean or pointed directly at you to be sad, but after so many nights of sleeping safe and sound when either of you had a nightmare, or little kisses, or after the last time when he made out with your pussy, you thought he—

Right. He’s right—you should get it, you don’t like the relationships either, it has never worked out, that was something that you've talked a lot about, especially drunk. But maybe, just maybe, a relationship with Soap would actually work out. Military with a military. No need for being understanding when you share a world.

He likes movies, as much as you. Cinema would be a perfect spot for a date, seats in the back specifically to either comment and share your opinions, or just makeout, hoping no one would see you two. And as annoying as the thought is, because you hate the people that display their affection in public, you think he’d be the perfect man to actually make out with, when in a relationship.

Little kisses, whispering sweet nothings, giggling like idiots to each other when someone would give you both the look of disapproval or irritated scoffs, because they want to listen and enjoy their movie without any commentary. And knowing Johnny, he’d probably flip them off and continue what he had in mind.

You feel as the embarrassment flows all over you, when you remember that you’ve already imagined something fancier, too. Dinners, mostly, with him in his black attire with a button up that is absolutely devilish and making the two of you slide into the bathroom stalls in the middle of meal just because. Opening doors for you, holding your hand, telling his jokes (more or less appropriate) and looking at you like you are the most beautiful girl in the world. Showing you off to strangers because he has no restraint whatsoever.

His favorite color is green, so you'd probably wear a green dress, just to keep his attention on yourself. After the dinner, on the walk home or to some fancy place, you wouldn’t obviously bring a jacket or a coat to shield yourself from cold, so you could just steal something from him, or force him to share his warmth with you. One way or another, drowning in his cologne that you are already familiar with, but you can never get it enough.

And after that... God only knows what would happen—either his place, yours, or simple goodbyes, and after that, cute messages about how good the date was. How you’d want to meet again, to try at least balance this simple life off-duty, squeezing in-between visiting relatives.

But none of that will happen, he already told you he doesn’t see himself in that.

Love.

Shit, with years you get stupider. You had hoped that the weird, rom-com moments in your mind had died in your early twenties.

Besides, how could it happen? You’re both military. That could get you both expelled (in the worst case scenario—because you don’t think Price would be that much of a dick). 

"Oh. I see.” You smile weakly, taking another glass of tequila—you have it in one chug, preferring to drink it rather than to pretend everything’s fine right in front of Soap. 

He spoke his truth. You think you shouldn’t be mad, but you thought that it meant something for him in terms of…

Your eyes snap up, when you feel someone’s gaze on you—and you find Alejandro looking at you, a little bit concerned. Like he actually heard something from the conversation, and your stomach tightens automatically. You don’t want to appear weak. Especially not in front of them.

So, like you don’t know what he possibly means, you raise an eyebrow. And you do it with the wrong person, giving that Alejandro sends you a look full of disapproval, mouthing something, but you can’t make out what, so he just breaks eye contact, sighing to himself. 

Soap, on the other hand, looks like he’s a kicked puppy, when you glance back at him. Eyebrows furrowed, a small pout on his scarred lips, like he’s trying to get why you are the way you are. Like you didn’t give him the bone he wanted, and now he’s confused.

"Something’s wrong?" He shifts a little under you, restless. You try to pull back, to sit back on your seat, but he tightens his arm around your waist, grabbing your chin to make you look straight into his eyes. 

Annoying piece of shit, he is. “Lass, c’mon.”

“Everything’s peachy.”

“Yer mad at what ah fuckin’ said,” he says, his accent thicker. Probably the aftermath of alcohol.

"No, no. Why? We are the same, after all. I understand everything you said,” you reply with bitterness, standing up. 

The alcohol makes the whole thing sadder than it should be. 

Soap’s hand shoots up, to try and catch your wrist. "Lass, fuckin' hell—”

“—I’m gonna grab you, real quick. Sorry, amigo. I’ll have her back in five, yeah?” Your guardian angel says, catching your wrist before your best friend does. You don’t glance at him back, afraid of what you’ll see. Instead, you just look wide eyed at Alejandro, that sends the both of you a smug smile, maneuvering you to trail behind him. You don’t even know where he is going, until you see other people dancing in this part of the building.

You just hear the protests, some curses, and Price’s low voice. It’s hard to say what he grumbles, but it makes the protests quiet down.

“Thanks,” you eventually say. It takes you two swirls and one quick glance around the bar to do it, and Alejandro smiles, like he gets you. Probably, he does. “I’d come for a smoke if it wasn’t you.”

“I always was against it,” he quips, and you silently laugh, squeezing his dominant hand that leads you through the makeshift dance floor. It’s this moment when you think you could be a little better at dancing—because the difference between your and Alejandro’s skills are massive.

It’s like hiking in your friendly neighbourhood versus climbing Kilimanjaro. You have faith that most people here are drunk anyway and they don’t see a difference.

“Troubles in paradise?” Your friend asks, and you take a deep sigh. Tired, seeing in your imagination how he’s yet another person from the team that will speak about your relationship with Soap. 

Where, ironically, the second subject of this conversation, didn’t speak with you about it in other terms than Ah wanna fuck ye or I think you’d look good under me or other sexual stuff. Never something like oh, hey, relationship seems to be kinda weird now, can we talk, and then fuck later?

“No paradise, no troubles,” you retort, giving him a smile, when he rolls his eyes at your shit. Which he could sense from the other room, as you’re not good at lying to him.

After a few minutes, and a few more spins (that do no good to your head), he drawls, “He looks at you, you know.” It makes you glance towards Johnny, whose eyes are practically burning a hole through you two. You can’t quite tell, but you swear that his fingers were gripping his beer a tad too tight.

“He’s allowed to.” 

Another vague answer from you appears to be funny, considering that he snorts, shaking his head to himself. “Could fool me. Soap might be stupid at times, but if you won’t tell him what’s up, you’re even stupider.”

You frown. “What are you, my mother?”

“I think I have a few years of wisdom to spare before I’ll turn into her, thank you very much.”

[alwaysshallow]

Barry Sloane playing a god who fucked off from his endless responsibilities of embodying destruction to go fall in love with humanity and hang out on a greek island with his dog to live in the sun and paint is such perfect fic fuel.

You're the little mortal on the mainland that he falls in love with, who he grows obsessed with, who he'll do anything to possess, the little mortal he uses what's left of his power to give you amnesia and then wake you up telling you you're his wife-

[alwaysshallow]

id love to be like ali hazelwood and give no fucks, just write, but my native language is bonkers and i dont even want to bother

[alwaysshallow]

Margaritaville

For days now, you’ve been seeing the same broad-shouldered man lounging around the resort. Or: the knocked up on vacation au Part 1 masterlist

-

A familiar voice rouses you from a daydream that was just getting good. “Are you going to spend our entire vacation by the pool?”

“…Isn’t that what we’re supposed to be doing?”

You lift your sunglasses to meet your friend’s eyes, no need to squint against the sun because the way she’d stood in front of you blocks it from blinding you with your sunglasses off, inadvertently blocking the one thing you’d been hoping to keep your eyes on. 

Irritation prickles at the base of your spine, but you resist the urge to snap no matter how tempting it is. You’ve been getting away with murder these past couple days and throwing a fit won’t get you anywhere but in more hot water. 

“You’re supposed to be spending time with your friends,” she says, emphasizing the last word to communicate that you’ve been slipping in your duties. 

“Oh, sorry,” you apologize begrudgingly, leaning up on your elbows. “Were you, um…do we have plans that I’m forgetting about?”

“We’re taking the shuttle down to the beach,” she says, gesturing over her shoulder to where the rest of your friends are waiting with their flip flops and tote bags by the archway leading into the resort, the shuttle just through the double doors at the other end of the main building. “Are you coming?”

If you give yourself any time to deliberate, you’re worried that you’ll end up saying no, so instead you sigh, pushing yourself up from your elbows onto your hands. “Alright, give me a sec. I’ll catch up in a minute.”

She nods, appeased, heading back to the rest of the group with a thumbs up. 

Leaning over the side of the chair, you gather up your belongings, stuffing everything into your tote apart from the greasy, half-finished bottle of sunscreen that you keep in your hand, conscious of how it keeps leaking from where the lid broke the other day. 

It takes you a second to muster up the willpower to stand up and join them, your id screaming at you to turn around and plant yourself back in that pool chair to keep admiring the view. You have to be strong though. No breaking now after you just gave her your word that you’d come. 

One last surreptitious glance over your shoulder is all you allow yourself, biting your lower lip when you catch him stretching his arms over his head to grab the back of his pool chair, hairy pits on full display and lats stretching with the movement of his arms. 

Fuck, you nearly whimper, teeth pressing deeper into your lip. He slings one leg over the edge of the chair so his foot is planted on the floor, making his shorts pull tight across the thick bulge of his crotch.  

Fuck. 

For days now, you’ve been seeing the same broad-shouldered man lounging around the resort in various states of undress, your stomach a mess of both butterflies and knots every time you see him on the treadmill when you pass by the fitness centre or getting breakfast at the buffet in the morning.

Typically though, you can find him lounging on one of the poolside canopy beds with his boonie hat pulled down over his eyes, hands folded just under his pecs, clearly using his vacation to actually relax instead of running all over the resort like you and your friends. It affords you ample opportunity to stare unabashedly, eyelids going heavy the longer you stare at his strong chest and legs, thigh muscles making his swim trunks seem almost a size too small. 

Your friend wasn’t wrong to call you out for being less than attentive. You’ve been a lost cause since you first laid eyes on him, your thoughts a thick slurry of pent up horniness, tongue all but swollen in your mouth from how little you’ve been using it this trip. 

(if only you could pull down those shorts of his and use your tongue on him instead—)

In your defence, you haven’t been making an active effort to pick him up because you know that you're supposed to be enjoying your vacation with your friends. You’re well aware of how shitty it would be of you to try and hook up with another guest when you’re supposed to be spending time with them. 

But you also can’t help but linger when you realize that the same man (the one that has to be a decade your senior—the one that's built like a man, hirsute and tall, always a head above anyone else in the room) is nearby. It’s like he has some kind of magnetic pull on you.

You’re not proud of it, but at least part of your attention has gone towards figuring out whether he’s on vacation alone or with someone. No ring on his finger could mean anything. Lots of people commit without the ring; he could have a girlfriend and two kids back in his hotel room and you’d be none the wiser.

Then two days become three and you’re almost positive that he hasn’t come with anyone else. He eats alone and poolsides alone and you’ve never seen him so much as smile at someone who wasn’t wearing a resort uniform. The false hope that thought imbues you with is downright delusional. 

Your daydreams become increasingly oriented around following him back to his hotel room and slipping inside after him. You’ve never had a vacation fling before, but you think he’d make it good. Something about the way he walks like it’s heavy between his legs makes you think that he’d treat you right. 

You sit up and wipe the corner of your mouth, catching yourself drooling again. 

There are plenty of other things to do besides ogling the hot guy trying to enjoy his vacation alone though, so you force yourself to do things with your friends before one of them finally lays into you for zoning out the whole trip. Beach excursions and karaoke after dinner; you spend two hours dancing with two of your friends at the silent disco while your other friend goes upstairs for a shower and nap. Anything to show up and be present with your friends instead of languishingly in daydreamsville. 

Despite your best efforts though, you’re clearly not as subtle as you’d tricked yourself into believing. 

Rain is coming down in buckets outside. The four of you play Uno in the hotel room to wait it out when one of your friends asks if you’d be down to go on a snorkeling tour with the rest of them when the weather clears up. 

You open your mouth, about to respond, when your other friend cuts you off. “No, she’ll be busy making moon eyes at that guy with the weird hat.”

Your other friends cackle. Your cheeks flood with heat, so caught off guard that you can barely defend yourself, sputtering out something that only confirms her words. 

One of the others shrugs, putting a +2 down. “I get it. He’s really hot.”

“He’s like forty.”

“So what?” you sputter.

“You two want to fuck an old man?”

The friend that supported you rolls her eyes. “Oh my god, grow up. Forty’s not that old. Also I only said that he’s hot. No one’s getting married to him.”

The four of you share a laugh at that. If your laughter happens to come out strained, borderline forced, no one calls you out on it. 

The ribbing gets under your skin more than you’d like to admit, but instead of throwing a fit, you tap your nails impatiently against the back of your cards and roll your eyes, stacking the +2 with one of your own. “I can’t wait to get rid of you bitches and get home to the package that I’m waiting on.”

“I know what package you’d like to wait on,” someone mumbles.

“Shut up!” you shriek, mortified, snatching a pillow from the couch behind you to launch at her head and sending the others into hysterics. 

The problem is that he’s just always there. 

It’s a small resort—of course you’d cross paths with him every now and then, but somehow it feels like no matter where you go, he’s somehow nearby, either already there before you arrived or not long after. You’ve come to almost expect him because of that, meaning that on the rare occasion where an hour goes by without him pulling up a chair across the pool from you, your thoughts start to spiral and your mood goes sour. 

Glancing around the pool for the umpteenth time elicits no new sign of him though, much to your frustration. Not that you’ve made a habit of keeping tabs on his movements or knowing where he might be at any hour of the day (your conscience whispers staaaaalker under her breath and looks pointedly away), but it’s unusual not to see him sleeping in one of the free cabanas or sitting in the pool with both arms braced behind him on the coping. 

Greedy. You’ve grown so used to him always being around that it’s made you spoiled. 

“I’m gonna go get a drink,” you announce to the group, already toying off your flip flops and getting ready to slip into the pool. “Anyone wanna come?”

A couple of them let you know that they’ve heard you, but no one offers to join. Makes sense; it’s somewhere between two and three in the afternoon and the sun is at its highest, the air so hot that it’s an effort to not doze off in your chair, the heat making you lethargic. Your skin reminds you when to reapply sunscreen, the last layer sloughing off with the sweat constantly dripping down your body, ever in need of replenishment. You smooth a little more into your legs and arms before throwing the bottle back onto the floor next to your sandals, skin nice and sheeny again. 

The only swim-up bar is on the other side of the pool, so you float over slowly, wading through deeper and deeper waters until you almost have to cling to the side of the pool. It’s slow going, giving you ample opportunity to scan the poolside for your mystery man’s telltale red pinstripe swim trunks.

No dice. Just chairs and cabanas filled with people that you swear you’ve never seen in your life (not like you’ve been paying attention to any of the other guests). 

At the bar, you order a margarita and sit on the stool welded into the bottom of your pool with your elbows planted on the damp counter, your lower half still submerged. Frustration ebbs only for a dejected mopishness to flow back in.  

It might’ve been easier to push your disappointment down if any of your friends had bothered to join you for a drink, but you can’t blame them for taking advantage of the beautiful weather. 

The resort is nothing short of heaven. Thick palm fronds dangle over the pool chairs and sway back and forth with the gentle breeze. Light chatter from the people on the other end of the swim-up bar is just barely discernable over the sound of the music playing from the speaker overhead. 

The clientele at this resort is a mixed bag: some small groups of folks roughly your age and a multitude of families, the buffet practically a warzone with kids chasing each other around tables and through the halls, excited screeches following you all over the resort. There’s another pool a short shuttle ride away more geared towards kids though, thankfully, so this pool is relatively quiet apart from the music blaring from speakers placed strategically throughout the property, a mix of acoustic covers and lounge beats in the morning, and upbeat pop in the mid-afternoon to liven things up.  

It’s nice. Definitely worth the fifteen hundred dollars and definitely worth coming back next year if your friends don’t boot you from the group chat the second you touch down back home. 

That’s what you’re thinking about when you casually glance around the pool again and feel your heart nearly jump out of your chest when you spot him. 

He appears from around a palm tree like the red sea parting, so sudden that all you can do is stare wide-eyed, discretion the last thing on your mind. It’s not that you don’t care if he sees you staring unabashedly, it’s just that you physically can’t look away from him. 

He must have set down his stuff on one of the pool chairs nearby because he walks over barefoot, slipping into the water almost gracefully for a man his size, biceps bulging when he lowers himself from the edge into the pool. You spend so long staring at the faint pink sunburn on his shoulders and the undulating muscles of his chest that it takes a second for your eyes to meet his, a jolt going through your body when you find him staring right back at you, his gaze even heavier.

You go stock-still when he wades over to the swim-up bar where you're waiting on your drink and takes the seat directly beside you. The seats are arranged close together to fit as many as possible in front of the bar, so it’s not totally his fault that his thigh presses against yours. 

But you also can’t help but notice the three empty stools beside him. All that space, free for the taking, and yet he sits so close to you that anyone swimming by would naturally assume you were here together.

The smell of his skin is like sun and salt; if you inhale too deeply, you know it'll just make you dizzy. This close, you can make out every mind-numbing detail: the dense brush of hair on his forearms, the old school anchor tattoo on his shoulder, the thick band of a watch on his right wrist. The drawstrings of his trunks floating in the water, aglet the most buoyant. 

Your hands shake in your lap when he turns to the bartender and orders a drink too, the sound of his voice rolling over you, gruff in a way that almost makes you melt. 

A voice that makes you look up at him all doe-eyed and dumb when he finally looks down and says something to you for the first time.

“Haven’t I seen you around?” 

The shudder you manage to suppress, but the way your skin goes tight with goosebumps is out of your control. In all of your daydreams, he’d been more of the silent, grunting type—the type to huff and puff through every thrust, no appetite for sweet, sugary words. You never thought to imagine a voice to go along with his face. 

He’s handsome in the way that some men are—almost effortlessly. Sea blue eyes and strong nose; thick neck and bristly jaw. He wears his age well. 

And then his question registers, the gears in your brain slow to start chugging along again, overwhelmed by his proximity and attention, neither of which you ever expected to be on the receiving end. 

“Um…” you start, tripping over your words and swallowing them back up. “Maybe. Have you?”

His lips stretch into a fond, crooked grin, cheeks dimpling with his smile. “Yeah. Pretty sure I have.”

“Probably. I mean, I’m, um—I’m staying here. At the resort, I mean.”

“Here alone?” he asks. 

“No, I’m with them—” You turn and point over your shoulder towards your group still lounging in the cabana. “My friends. We got here a few days ago.”

“Right,” he says, not bothering to look over to where you’re pointing, eyes not shifting from your face. “Liking it so far?”

You’ll have to check later for burns because your face feels like it's on fire. The shock of the cold glass in your hand when the bartender passes you your drink helps to ground you at least. 

“It’s been nice,” you croak, smile feeble when you finally coax your slack lips into working again. “…How about you?”

You wish your conversation would come out less stilted. Hard to play it cool in a hundred degree heat.

“Getting better every day,” he replies, as smooth a line as you’ve ever heard. 

You take a sip of your drink, hoping the alcohol helps settle your nerves. You’re conscious of the way his eyes follow your tongue as you lick the salt off the rim of your glass. Someone off in the distance shrieks and there’s a splash from the other side of the pool, but it barely registers as background noise, all of your attention focused on the blue of his eyes.

“That any good?” he asks, voice gruff. 

“You want some?” you ask, instantly mortified when you hear what just came out of your mouth.

“Kind of you, love, but I can’t take what doesn’t belong to me.”

You don’t know what he means by that until the bartender puts a beer down in front of him, a lime garnishing the rim. The man thanks him, big hand wrapping around the bottle and fingers easily overlapping. The mental image of that goes straight into your spank bank for later. 

The lime gets dropped somewhere on the countertop and he takes a long pull from the neck, eyes locked on you the whole time. 

You’re not so naive as to not know what this is, but—

Someone calls your name from the other end of the pool and you turn instinctively at the sound, grasping onto the edge of the countertop and leaning back until you see one of your friends standing at the edge of the pool, waving you towards her. 

“Friends want you back?” he asks, sounding vaguely disappointed. You’re not sure if that’s just in your head or not. 

“Uh…I’m not sure—” you answer uncertainly. 

The same friend calls your name again, louder this time, garnering the attention of some of the other people sitting around the pool, and a surge of annoyance rushes up your chest. Weren’t they dozing off just a few minutes ago? Now all three stand at attention, sandals on and tote bags slung over their shoulders, the brims of their hats shading them from the sun as they gesture for you to join them. You nearly groan out loud. Of all times to call you back. 

You made a promise though, at least to yourself. The possibility of good dick, while tempting, is not enough to get you to switch your allegiances. 

(just yet, something in you whispers)

(give it enough time)

The smile you give him is rueful, almost apologetic. “I’m sorry—I should get going. They probably planned something at the beach. It was nice to meet you though…” There’s room at the end of your sentence for him to wedge his name in, a little dangling participle of pleasantry. 

A chuckle flows out of him like the chuff of a bear. “John.” He gives his name like a gift, offers his hand the same. 

You think it’s an offer anyway, until John just takes your hand, his damp, warm palm practically swallowing yours. Doesn’t wait for you to give him what he wants—just takes it like he’s owed it. The thought makes your head spin. Coarse, callused fingers wrap around the underside of your hand, long enough to nearly engulf your wrist as well. The hair on his knuckles is as dark as the pelt on his chest, and you wonder what it would feel like for him to drag a knuckle down the line of your jaw. 

Your throat pulls with a swallow, breath shaky on the way out. 

“Nice to meet you, John,” you say, all raspy-voiced, giving him your name as well like he pulled that from you too. 

It takes him a beat to let go of your hand, the intent in his hold so clear that he might as well say it right to your face. You have to leave before your resolve crumbles like papier-maché. 

“Since you’re not sticking around,” John says, finally letting go of your hand, “think I will have a taste.”

A taste. The word makes you clench up but you don’t register what he means until he curls his fingers around your margarita and brings it to his mouth, taking a sip from where you last had your lips. 

Oh god. You’re smart enough to get it. You’re smart enough to see that gesture for what it is. 

You send him one last thin, watery smile before beating a hasty retreat, his invitation still at the swim-up bar with him. Water sloughs off your body as you take the stairs out of the pool instead of swimming back to your friends, swimsuit damp in more ways than one, and you swear you can feel the heat of his gaze on your back as you walk over to where your friends stand. 

One of your friends peeks over your shoulder while handing you your stuff, eyes going wide when she notices him sitting where you just left. “Oh, did you see the hot guy was sitting at the bar too?”

“Yeah,” you reply, shaky hands slipping your sunglasses on. “I noticed.”

[alwaysshallow]

omegaverse au but it's simon who rejects you as his fated mate, to only throw a fit later when you're dating other men, trying to move on, and he ambushes you in some club or whatever

[alwaysshallow]

do you plan to finish coffee at midnight? no rush, i totally get being busy and/or having writers block, i just found your works on ao3 through tags and was curious!

- 🔪💕

hi!!

shit I don't even know when the question was asked LMAO I hope you're still here. And for your question: absolutely yes. It's my baby, and I'd love to finish it. actually, i have maybe 1k left on the next chapter and I'll publish it.

that being said, I'll finish the rest of my works, too. probably publish something new as well, I want it so much. I've been occupied with terrible writer's block and my studies, but with a summer break, I plan on changing things.

[alwaysshallow]

can i interest you in a orGAZm?