#boring post

cw : trauma, mentions of abuse, reader has depressive spirals (it gets better) reader genuinely doesn’t know what attraction is — john is soft.

John would’ve guessed that you were carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders when he first met you. You were bagging groceries, eyes red and watery from earlier tears in the break room.

You hated the market you worked at — yet, you were forced to in your small town. It wasn’t like you could make ends meet, could you? After your parents death, you weren’t completely an orphan, but you were living with your grandmother.

She was unforgiving, nonetheless.

You weren’t sure why she hated you so much — she always mentioned everything you hated about yourself, from your freckles, to the way you froze up during public speaking.

You didn’t know what it was like to be loved.

You also hadn’t been happy in your piece of shit town for years. It was always work, or yelling, or crying — the nasally lilt to your voice flaring vigorously whenever you sobbed, phlegm and whatever dark oozing substance would leave you when you shattered under your own weight.

Having another overly emotional episode was merely another Tuesday for you, considering circumstances.                                   

                                                        ──── .✦

Price sees you in a bar the second time you meet.

You looked numb after your shift, still in your uniform as you sipped on old wine — your eyes fixed on nothing in particular. He sat next to you, snapping you out of your thoughts, and for a moment, you just stared at him.

Wasn’t this the guy who bought three whole bags of baby carrots? You thought. You nearly snickered, choking it back into a cough into your elbow. “You don’t look like the drinking type, lass.” He murmured gruffly, noting the smile grazing your lips. 

“I literally don’t even know you.” You said blandly — bluntly of course because who even was he? Was he following you? “Don’t have to,” he huffed meanly, his big hands wrapped around his whiskey glass. You looked at him, not exactly expecting his answer.

And he looked back at you.

You felt your face tinge with heat, as if you were embarrassed at the thought of him matching your energy. He was just the weird guy at the grocery store, you weren’t supposed to find him attractive, and yet, you still found yourself watching the way his bulge chubbed nicely in his boxers.

Wait—

Was he? Was he turned on—?

You got up — grabbing your bag so fast that even he, John Price, a retired captain, couldn't keep up with you as you bolted out the bar. When you got back home, you realized you hadn’t even finished your wine because of the carrot guy.

Yes, you were calling him carrot guy.

When you looked through your bag in the morning, you noticed a piece of paper in one of the pockets of it.

‘XXX - XXX - XXX

             — John’

He slipped his number in your bag.

And you found yourself calling it.

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── ·

authors note:

this one had been sitting on my mind for a while, might continue it. i felt like i was writing like a cornball for a minute, but i hope you all enjoy.

nothing meaningful from me these days. commissions and uni work take up most of my time. i have not had the free time to do much personal drawings. so, here is bullcrap i've been doodling instead.