Work Text:
His hands stay in two spots respectively, one between your shoulder blades, and the other right under your rib cage. Both, to you, are equally distracting.
"Keep your legs spread, love." He murmurs, knocking a boot between your ankles. With a soft sigh, you shift your feet out an inch, and his beard scrapes gently against the side of your throat. It draws out the same reaction from you that frozen wind would, catching under your thick, woolen sweater and kissing your skin. "Yes, just like that."
Your brows furrow before you can stop it. "John," you start, but he's pressing up on your shoulders.
"Eyes forward. Start aimin' now, okay? The red bottle, not the blue or yellow."
You sigh louder, just so he knows how disgruntled you are with his insistence. He rubs your back softly in response, but stays silent, not commenting on your purposefully loud attitude. John was a stickler about this.
In the end, begrudgingly, you lift up the pistol with a tight grip, squinting down the sights. Three gallon-sized jugs sit next to each other on a fold-out table, the middle one a bloody red. "Is this really necessary?"
His hand trails up your spine. "Yes. Nice and steady now," His calloused palm curves under your arm, lifting your aim up a few centimeters. "Nice and steady."
The ring you got him glints under the dappled sunlight, swaying from the forest around you. It's more distracting than not, your eyes trailing down to the gold band and the loving engraving you know lays on the inside. The sight brings heat to your cheeks, an odd, proud sense filling you.
Your friend laughed the first time you told her about it, and explained it away on the mere fact that you and John were newlyweds. It's been two years since then. Now, you're certain she's wrong. There's something more about seeing the evidence of his devotion, not that he's sparing in his physical affections. No, rather not.
Your face grows hotter.
You're sure he notices the moment your attention strays from his very important, necessary training— his words, not yours. With a small lean, he's pressed delicately against your back, molded to you.
John smells nice. Something clean, with the sweat from his morning workout lingering. You're surprised you haven't accidentally dropped the gun at this point, honestly. His wolfish heat invades your own body, warming you more than the sun.
"…gonna shoot, love?" He says, voice drifting between amused and serious, like he couldn't control himself. He tries to stay stern about your protection, but lessons like these usually end up in him laughing at you, the bastard. "The bottle isn't gettin' much stiller than that."
You barely resist the urge to glare. "Yeah, yeah." You say gruffly, shifting your weight to your right foot. His hand presses gently into your belly, then dips just over your navel. You swear your eyes almost go unfocused.
It's easy to tell John is trying to fuck with you just a little, no matter how staunch he pretends he is about this. His hand pauses right above your waistband, under your navel. Gentle, but just firm enough to make sure you can feel it, too firm to be innocent like he's trying to be now.
You want to complain and whine, but you focus on actually shooting the damn gun. Maybe it will get him off your back and into your pants instead.
A sigh almost leaves you at the thought.
You shift your gaze down the sights, and breathe in and out like John has been teaching you. He murmurs a quiet 'good', and you bite back a groan. He's being mean on purpose, you're sure of it.
Your shoulders bump back into his hard chest when you finally manage to take the shot, the recoil jerking you. You peek at the targets, gun lowering down to see better.
Of course, the blue jug is shattered. You really do sigh then, not from the same frustration John is pulling from you now, but the kind you get from messing up a recipe, or answering wrong in class as a kid. More disappointment than dissatisfaction.
John chuckles over your shoulder, deep and rumbling. "You'll get it next time, honey." He murmurs, and you can't even manage to glance back at the crinkled smile you know is on his face.
"This is stupid." You say childishly, setting down the pistol on the table, away from you both. A tick is in your brow, and he instantly leans into you more, hands curling around your waist.
"It's not and you know that." He gently tugs on you, wanting you to turn around but not forcing it. "This will keep you safe."
"Safe-schmafe. I'll just call you if someone tries to break in."
"And if I'm not nearby?"
"You can just... I don't know. You'll teleport over."
He sighs loudly at that, but when you glance up, he's biting back a smile. "Honey—"
"John—"
He does laugh then, leaning down and giving you a soft kiss. "Please, just do this for me. You're already doing so much better than last week."
Your eyes follow his, looking at the perfect, shiny red jug. "No, I'm not. Liar."
"You wouldn't have hit a single jug last week." He reminds you firmly, despite his crinkled eyes. "Hell, you wouldn't have even remembered how to load the gun."
Finally, you turn around, pouting at him fiercely. "The whole point of marrying a military man was so I wouldn't have to do any of this."
"Hurts nothin' to learn it, love."
You roll your eyes at him, and something mischievous lights up in his stormy gray eyes. A spark of worry runs through you at the thought of what he's about to do, but you can do nothing to stop it as his hands grab at your butt, tugging.
"John—"
You fumble for his broad shoulders, gasping into his mouth as he kisses you. He lifts even higher, and sets you down gently onto the ammo table, hips shifting back. He chuckles, but becomes entirely serious within seconds, almost attacking your mouth with rough, scratchy kisses. The hands you were leaning into disappear from your waist, and a confused noise leaves you as your eyes fluttering open sparingly.
His are closed, but his biceps shift around you, holding something behind your back. It takes you a moment to understand, but when the magazine hits the table with a dull thump and the safety clicks into place, you just about melt into him.
He returns his full affections to you once the gun is fully dismantled and tossed to the side, hands dipping under your thighs and lifting them around his hips. You could live in this moment forever, if you could.
"Safety first?" You tease breathlessly.
He's far too focused to sigh at you. "Always. We'll learn that one tomorrow."
John yanks a rubber out of his back pocket and you fight the urge to laugh.
He always was such a stickler.