#captain johnprice

[tobeholyistobeempty]

prices version of brat taming / punishment is literally just tying you up, cutting your clothes off calmly and sitting you nice and pretty on his cock as he holds a vibe to your clit. smokes a cigar while you’re squirming and cumming over and over, cock throbbing against your spasming walls with each o but he’s a man of restraint when he needs to be. maybe if you beg nice enough he’ll fuck you through your last few.

[ryanlovesjosh]

- Never go radio silent on me again, John. I cannot afford to lose you… not again.

- Kyle, you know damn well that I won’t go down that easily.

- I know, but…

- Shh, I am safe now that I’m with you, love…

IIIIII

PriceGaz piece I did some days ago but decided to drop it now cuz of Valentines day (price and kyle deserve it)

Also special thanks to @placiotrash for making the mini/chibi Price frame art, I beg you pls check them out GRRRRR…

[misscherry-26]

For: @numberoneartisanwizard

I just want a story about John being a father please!!🙇🏻‍♀️🙇🏻‍♀️like how is he going to handle his child if they had a tantrum, especially in public Or his child being naughty.

(Dividers made by me)

John with his son, Luke ~

"Luke Price!" John shouts, dragging the "u" more longer than anyone else.

John Price isn't the most sympathetic person when he goes to sleep. No. Sleep time for him is sacred. He can get very grumpy is just the slight inconvenience affects his schedule.

It's why this is the third time this week that his toothbrush isn't in the bathroom. And he knows the deal here.

"What?" Your seven year old casually says as he—again, casually— walks to his room, who happens to be next to John and your's.

"Here, now." John's tone is short, clear.

"Wassup?" His son says, hands in his— rocket space themed—pajamas pockets.

John's standing in the bathroom doorway of your room, shirtless, and absolutely done with the day—and it’s barely past 9 p.m. His plaid pajama pants hang low on his hips, his hair an unruly mess.

“Where is it?” He stares him down.

Luke blinks. “Where’s what?”

John’s jaw flexes. “Don’t.”

You’re curled up on the bed, half-asleep, book in hand. You look up the moment you hear that tone. That’s not a drill-sergeant shout. That’s the worn-thin, late-night dad voice that means someone’s just made one very poor choice.

John crossed his arms. “My toothbrush. Where is it.”

Luke hesitated, shifted his weight and glanced behind him like he was making sure an escape route was still viable.

John followed the glance. "Luke,” he said slowly, turning to face his son.

Luke opened his mouth. Closed it. Then tried again. “Okay—I used it.”

"You used it?” John’s voice was level, but his eyebrow was climbing into dangerous territory.

Luke nodded, then mumbled, “On Max.”

John stared.

“He needed a good brushing!” Luke defended, his little hands flying. “Mum said dogs get plaque too!”

“Oh my god,” John muttered, dragging a hand down his face.

"Max’s teeth were all… yucky. And he licked me earlier. And you also said hygiene is critical to operations. So I fixed the situation." Your son explains.

You’re already wheezing with laughter, turning your face into the pillow as John freezes like a statue.

“You brushed the dog’s teeth. With my toothbrush.” he repeats.

Luke shrugs like he’s being perfectly reasonable. “He eats socks. And cheese. And he found a Babybel wrapper under the couch—”

John puts a hand to his chest. “That toothbrush was new. She still had the tag on her!”

You lose it, laughing so hard you have to sit up, tears in your eyes.

Luke tilts his head. “She?”

You smirk, leaning on your elbow. “Wait—so your toothbrush gets a name, but I don’t even get a proper pet name? We've been together for 10 years”

John squints. “What? I call you love.”

“That’s basic.”

John sighs, rubbing a hand over his beard. He handled wars, negotiations, attacks... He handled all that (still does), yet this feels worse than anything. Because there's no manual, no school—hell, don't even training—on how to handle a situation with a seven year old.

There was a beat of silence. Then John pointed to the hallway.

“Go. Bed. Now.”

“But—”

“Now!”

Luke scampered off mumbling something about It’s called sharing... And He liked the minty part...

John turned toward the bed, deadpan. “He used it. On the dog.”

You reached for his hand as he sat at the edge of the bed, sighing deeply like a soldier just back from war.

“You survived,” you said, teasing.

He grunted. “Barely.”

John with his daughter, Sarah ~ Years later...

“No,” John said flatly, holding the massive unicorn plush out of reach with his left hand while deciding the kind of toilet paper he needed. “This thing is bigger than you. We’re not bringing it home.”

“But I need it,” his daughter—of only six years old—declared, hands on her hips, chin tilted high.

“Need?” he echoed. “You said that about the flamingo with roller skates yesterday.”

“That was different.” She narrowed her eyes. "She begged me to take her home with me."

John blinked. “It’s a stuffed bird.”

She didn't budge.

“Put it back,” he said giving it back to her, trying to stay calm. Firm. Soldier-mode. “Final answer.”

He gave her The Look. The Dad Look. The one that had made grown men freeze on the field.

Sarah blinked.

And dropped to the floor.

Like. Dead weight. Plop.

“NoooOOOOOO!” she wailed, legs kicking wildly. “You never let me pick anything! I’m just a little girl in a world full of sadness!”

John stood frozen, clutching the pack of toilet paper he’d been seaching for. The words slowly processed in his brain.

Did she just say—a world full of sadness?

People walked by, offering him the kind of glances usually reserved for emergency situations—some sympathetic, some mildly amused, some very clearly relieved it wasn’t their kid.

Further down the aisle, a young store employee in a neon vest pretended to tidy a shelf but was absolutely watching the spectacle unfold.

John gritted his teeth and stared at the ceiling for strength.

“Get up,” John said through gritted teeth.

“NO.”

“You are not doing this here.”

“I am doing this here! I LIVE HERE NOW.”

He crouched, leaned close. “If you don’t get up right now, you are grounded.”

Her eyes narrowed, teary but calculating. “Fine. Then you don’t get hugs anymore.”

John stared at her, stunned. “You’re—threatening me?”

“I’m emotionally negotiating!” she shrieked.

John groaned and stood up, running a hand down his face. “I’ve led teams through enemy territory with less resistance than this.”

She flopped again for dramatic flair. “ I want the Unicorn!

"You have a dozen of stuffed animals!" he barked without thinking, completely unraveling.

A pause.

More silence.

John took a deep breath. “Right. That’s it. Let’s go. No unicorn, no toilet paper, no nothing. We are going home.”

His daughter screamed in protest—an opera of despair—and grabbed the nearest shelf in protest like a protester chaining herself to a tree.

“No! Daddy, NO!"

John carried her like a sack of potatoes, screaming into his ear.

She finally quieted once they got to the car.

Sniffling, arms crossed, cheeks red and blotchy.

John sat in the front seat, eyes blank, hands on the wheel.

“Deep breaths... Deep breaths." he muttered to himself.

His phone buzzed.

You: Everything good?

He stared at the message for a long moment.

Then replied:

John: She staged a coup over a stuffed unicorn. I lost. I don’t even know who I am anymore.

He looked in the mirror at her in the back seat—now quietly singing to herself like nothing ever happened.

She met his eyes.

Smiled sweetly.

“Daddy?” she said, innocent as sunshine.

“What?” he said flatly.

“I think you should take a nap when we get home,” she said matter-of-factly, kicking her little feet in the back seat. “You look like your head’s about to explode.”

John blinked, staring at the dashboard like it might give him the answers.

John exhaled. Slowly.

How did one go from clearing buildings with breachers to losing an argument to a six-year-old in light-up sneakers? Well, more like a manipulative, scheming, tiny sorceress with pigtails—and the emotional range of a Shakespearean villain— six years old.

He rubbed his face. He wasn’t even mad anymore.

He was… impressed. Horrified, but impressed.

He finally turned the key. The engine rumbled to life beneath his hands.

“Can we get ice cream?”

He blinked, head turning slightly.

“I was very brave,” she added, completely serious.

John didn’t answer. Just stared at the road ahead, trying to remember who he was before this moment.

[diaryofaprettyprincess]

stepdad!price x innocent!reader

note: this is a prequel to a possible series with stepdad!price x innocent!reader (obviously). reader is of age.

note 2: price is 37 reader is about 18-19 (DARK STORY !!!!!), reader gets picked up by price, 6'5 beefy price, shorter reader

໒꒰ྀི´ ˘ ` ꒱ྀིა

lying your head on your stepfather's shoulder, you pressed your front against his side--leg thrown over his as you two got comfortable on the couch as you began watching a movie. a blanket thrown over the two of you as you nuzzled your head further into his shoulder, nibbling on your lower lip as you focused intently on the movie.

price let out a shaky breath, his eyes glancing from you to the tv to you again.

don't do it.

she's forbidden fruit.

but she is the sweetest fruit of all.

he kissed the top of your head, and you replied with his action by taking his hand under the blanket and absent-mindedly twisting the rings on his finger.

one of his rings: the wedding band.

the wedding band from the wedding between your mother and him.

it seared his skin.

he could not help that he had gotten married to the wrong person.

it should have been you.

but he had to remind himself that you were much too young.

freshly an adult. and he was 37. 37.

what the fuck was wrong with him?

he can't help that he fell in wrong with you.

you were too young..too innocent. too pure. he had blood on his hands.

your small hands fidgeted with his large, warm ones as you traced his knuckles with your cold fingers, creating odd designs that warmed his chest.

he must have been much too into his thoughts, as you giggled at something that happened in the movie, grasping and ungrasping his hand as you continued to fidget with his rings.

you looked up at him, your lips so close to his as you smiled softly. everything in him wanted to capture your lips in a kiss. your first kiss.

but he knew he couldn't.

instead, his softened eyes watched your face with pure love.

you snuggled impossibly closer to him, practically on his lap.

"honey?" his voice was deep but soft. he cleared his throat.

your eyes watched the television, never leaving them as you hummed a small, "hm?"

price thought for a moment.

your mother was out for the weekend. he could have you now...

no.

"uh, nothin'." he concluded, and you paid no mind. his right hand crept down to your exposed thighs that were thrown over his lap. he tried to ignore the intense throbbing and want that thrummed under his jean zipper.

he slowly tickled his fingers along the span of your thigh, down your calf and to your frilly-socked foot as you cutely wiggled your toes. his index traced along the delicate laced-ruffles--then down to rub the inside of your foot.

after a bit, his hand made its way back up to the side of your thigh again, running his fingers along the soft skin.

he looked over at you again.

god, how were you so beautiful?

his whole being ached with want.

he loved you so much it hurt his heart.

"that a new bow?" he asked, pinching the pink knot at the base of your messy pony tail.

you nodded, excitedly. "mm hm! do u like it?"

you always wanted his approval, and he knew that.

"i love it, sweetheart, 's beautiful jus' like you." he smiled, watching your face darken with a red blush. you giggled shyly.

"thank you, daddy." you replied quietly, still fidgeting with his hand under the blanket.

daddy.

god, were you trying to kill him?

he knows you've always had a bit of a crush on him. ever since you two met.

and he's only a little ashamed to say he immediately fell for you when you both met.

he was with the wrong girl.

he loves times like this though.

it is probably bad to say, but he loves when your mother is gone.

it reminds him of a life he could have possibly one day with you...away from it all. he has the money to start a new life with you, just not the opportunity yet.

he loves when you walk into the kitchen, stuffie pressed against your chest, hair messy, lips n eyes puffy with sleep; his t-shirt on and your cute little pink panties.

he loves when your sleepy. you cuddle up closer to him.

just this morning you stumbled into the kitchen, rubbing at your tired eyes.

price was already dressed for the day--up since 6 am.

"good morning, sweet girl." his voice made your heart flutter.

you whined, padding to where he leaned back on the kitchen counter, wrapping your arms around his torso immediately. he picked you up with ease, kissing your face as you giggled.

he sat down on the couch as you straddled him tiredly, head pressed against his beefy chest.

"you're my favorite girl, y'know that?" he whispered, petting your hair.

it was true.

you were his absolute favorite.

and he was not just about to give that up.

[amie-777]

TW: postpartum and pregnancy mentioned

MDNI, thank you

BearHybrid John Price has a breeding kink. Shocker.

Anyways, learns all about yours and his fertility. Quits smoking and cuts back the alcohol. The boys look at him funnily, but he just smiles knowingly.

He pulls two or three orgasms from you before fucking you into the matress, places a pillow beneath your hips and lets you orgasm after he came deep in you. "Stay like 'that", leaning down to kiss your jawline. "Need to fill you, my mate." John whispers, he holds your legs up. He makes you stay like that for 5 minutes.

He invests lots of time in his fertility and diet, “the baby is half of my DNA, only fair I do my little share”

Give me BearHybrid!John Price but not stocking up for winter yet, but your pregnancy and postpartum.

When you think he is overpreparing for his hibernation, haven’t seen him with you pregnant yet.

He orders Soap on making a Ginger Bug (whatever that is, he read its good for your gut)

Makes Simon hunt and cut him high premium meats with lots of protein for his mate.

Learns from Kyle how to plant his own veggies and how to conserve them by himself.

John ordering you to walk a lot, drink loads of water and pelvic floor exercises. Informs himself plenty, even before you got pregnant.

But you give him things too, make meals, let you take care of him after he returns from filling out reports. Make him nest in your shared bed and shave his beard gently.

He orders lots of blankets and nesting materials, his cub is coming of course, needs to be prepared. But also kisses you until you could die from the love. And scenting, “You’re not smelling like me anymore, let me” and rubs his scruffy beard all over your neck.

And your cravings? He is up and about fetching you that tub of haagen dazs at 4am.

The Baby Pup is here? All those prepared soup, sandwichs and burritos are coming in handy. Just a quick re-heat, and you’re fed. And when you're spent in his arms, baby still latched onto you but half asleep again.

John Price knows he did good.

Thank you for reading. Have an amazing day/night. This took me so long to write, I don't know why. But I finally wrote for John, next is Simon.

[music4soul]

(More on this paragraph from my last tibbit)

Sometimes when John is being a prick, Nikolai will drag him to a janitor’s closet and put his mouth to better use instead of listening to him chatter about how he could take him in a fist fight.

But if John’s being too much of a prick one day, he’ll take him to the hangar, sit them both down in the pilot seat, and watch the sergeant squirm and ride his meaty thigh until he’s a crying, writhing mess.

..kinda like now..

After a few too many insults one day during evac training, Nik excused the two of them because apparently he needed help grabbing something in the hangar(even though he’s perfectly capable of getting it himself), and drags John along.

Now a good thirty minutes have passed and John is on his second orgasm, back arching and hands grabbing at the armrests as he pants, fogging the windows up.

“Take your time lyubov', we’ve got all the time in the world.” Nik mutters as he watches the sergeant squirm.

“N-Nik.” John grunted, trying to move off Nik’s thigh as he became increasingly overstimulated. “Nik, please-”

Suddenly the Russian grabbed his hips and pulled him back onto his leg, beginning to bounce his thigh. This caused the Brit to cry out, body shaking and tears pricking in the corners of his eyes as Nik held him tightly, leaning in to whisper filthy words in different languages to John, which soon pushed him over the edge as he came for the third time.

“Khoroshiy mal'chik.” Nik said with a grin, kissing down John’s neck slowly before nipping at his collarbone. “If you’ll hump a leg like this, I wonder how you’d hump a c-”

“Shut up.” John choked out, mustering up his best glare despite it looking just a bit too desperate. “Yer’ nothin’ but a mangy dog.”

Nik pauses in his seat for a second, staring up at the sergeant with a blank look. John stares back down in triumph because, for a singular second he thought that he was finally able to shut the pilot up.

..Oh how he was sorely mistaken, because in the next minute he was in the chair with his legs thrown over Nik’s shoulders, feeling the hard bulge of the man between his legs and how hot and mean it felt.

“Ready to test my earlier theory dorogoy?” Nik asks as he unzips his jumpsuit and shifts his boxers to let his length spring free, hitting John’s thigh with a soft thud.

John’s eyes widen a bit as he took in the sight of the Russian, noting how pre dribbled down his shaft in stringy lines and dripped onto the seat, soaking it in small, sticky dots.

Ah man.. what’s John gotten himself into?

[johnsbirdie]

just thinking of young, religious, fem!reader x retired, old!price?????

retiring from the sas is a lengthy process, but he is happy to finally take a well-earned rest.

however, the man has no activities at all. he sits on his porch, observing the kids in the area playing football, while enjoying a pack of his beloved cigars—villa clara cuban’s. formerly a means to relax, smoking has become a habit for him since retiring that he can't break.

therefore, he attempts to stay busy. His friends attempted to involve him in construction work, but he no longer had the physical fitness for it. His muscles had deteriorated, and he had gained some weight since leaving the army.

there is a church nearby. he recieves pamphlets on the gospels and salvation, and he contemplates the concept. attending church? no, it wasn't his thing.

however, on sunday he is present, adjusting the tie around his neck because it was tied "too tightly," and his dress shirts are too small, indicating that he has clearly neglected himself.

christ, he thinks to himself. there are so many people here. as he's about to enter, a young girl approaches him and hands him a leaflet, her eyes wide, and shining brightly as she starts talking to him without him even noticing.

"ah, i can tell you're new here! welcome, welcome, sir. thank god for leading you to him."

john gazes intently, for a prolonged amount of time, causing you to feel uneasy, prompting you to touch him to snap him out of his reverie.

"hello? sir?!"

john comes to his senses and shakes his head, coming back down to earth when he realises the young girl had been waving and flailing her arms infront of him to get his attention. john replies with a quiet, and gruff, “sorry” before he then runs his hand over his face as he walks away.

she can hear him mumbling something about “youth” and “doe-eyes”.

[spicywriter]

ATTITUDE READJUSTMENT: JOHN PRICE

cw: stalking. possessive behavior. harsh language and more.

an: this gif of him…he’s so fucking fine! Anyways, enjoy;)

He doesn’t know a thing about me, never has he even attempted to. I already blocked him from any social media platforms I’m registered on or I could think of. The last thing I need right now is him fucking messaging me. But it’s like the universe hates me right now as my phone starts ringing, and I’m already full aware who it is. I feel the anger bubbling in my throat because of course I forgot to block his damn number but god, the fucking audacity of this man? My stupid ass picked up the phone and answered it…

“Cut the fucking call I dare you. I’ll come over there right now and fuck the shit out of you until that shitty attitude of yours is gone. Mark my words.” He huffed, the anger palpable in his tone. Who the fuck does he think I am? His little bitch who does as he says? I don’t think so. With one tap I ended the call. As if he’s gonna do something about it.

He can’t do shit. He’s nothing but a pussy. At least that’s what I had in mind until I heard a loud banging sound on my door, quite startling me. It hasn’t even been five minutes and this fucker is already here?

There’s no fucking way he’s out there. He’s bluffing, he has to be. The blaring of the phone ringtone and him banging on the door cuts my thoughts short. Slowly I accepted the call— bringing it next to my left ear…

“I’ll break this fucking door and come straight for your throat if you don’t open it within the next five seconds.” I can almost hear his teeth grit together over the phone. The repeated banging stops abruptly just the sound of the soft moving air fills the area. Silently walking towards the door and it is him, but I’ve never seen that emotion in his eyes before. He’s looking directly at me through the eyehole with an unreadable expression. The anger in his eyes and voice are nowhere written on his face. In fact, it’s quite the opposite. He has the calmest expression painted— and that’s the most fucking terrifying thing I’ve seen in awhile.

He knows I’m there, just the door separating us. I could now feel my confidence and boldness I had seven minutes ago buried ten feet under the ground. I can feel that horrifying aura around me making my hair stand. Whether I open this door or not, I’m fucked either way. I placed my warm hand on the unsettlingly cool door knob, twisting and praying I get out of this alive.

I’m pushed inside the moment I opened the door— a hand around my throat as I’m aggressively slammed to the door. My vision blacks out momentarily as my back hits the door. I suck in a deep breath. I can barely see his dark shadow through the black spots. He’s looming over me, towering over everything. Even in the dark, the look in his eyes are enough to make a girl fall on her knees. It’s like he’s staring down at me, daring me to defy him.

His hands are still around my throat, holding me against the door. I can feel his hot breath on my face, his lips inches away from mine. “You take me as a fucking joke, don’t you?” He chuckles bitterly before his head suddenly drops down, kissing me roughly. My body stiffens immediately but shamelessly give in to his soft pink lips devouring my own.

It’s not the comforting type, obviously. But the kind to make my cunt tingle as I squeeze my thighs together.

I hate myself for enjoying but who wouldn’t enjoy this? His tongue slips inside my mouth, tasting and exploring every nook, cranny and crevice. A small moan escapes my lips as I feel one of his hands drop my throat down to my thighs, roughly spreading them apart. His slender fingers linger on every inch of my thighs but not where I’m throbbing.

It’s pulsating so hard I can almost believe that he can hear it. “Do you think you deserved to be touched after pulling that shit?” He snarls lowly as he continues to ravage my mouth roughly. This isn’t what I expected, not at all. It’s more like he’s showing me dominance by pushing me against a door, trying to crush me against it, to dominate my entire self with his actions. He throws me over his shoulder and seconds later on the bed like some ragdoll. I struggle under his hold but I guess it turns him on even more. “Do you think you’re worth for my cock?” He questions softly.

Must be entertaining watching me like this by the way his eyes are completely scanning my writing figure. He strips off my clothes and within a blink his body dips down between my thighs. His calloused fingers playing with the now soaked material of my lacey panties. My breathing quickens, my heart rate accelerating wildly. He swiftly discards my panties. “You wanna act like a whore, you’re gonna get treated like one.” He groans before I yelp loudly, feeling my clit between his teeth. He bites teasingly, not in a hurtful manner— pulling away from my arousal, his teeth dragging my clit slowly. He takes a good look at my wet cunt. I could feel myself pulsating harder under his gaze.

His long wide tongue licks my slit torturously slow, stopping before my clit. My body is just a pliable mess under him right now. His finger slowly circling my hole while he sucks on my clit again. I screamed, my fingernails digging into his shoulders as he pulls away. My breathing turns erratic, waiting for him to put his finger inside and fill the pain shaking emptiness I feel inside. “You look so beautiful squirming underneath me, my love.” He growls hungrily before pulling away completely. He climbs on the bed, on his knees settled between my thighs again. The huge tent in his pants clearly visible to me now. “Take it off.” He commands calmly, and I lurch forward to meanwhile he discards his black t-shirt.

His throbbing cock glistening red, a size so huge I feel the doubt churning in my stomach. My eyes dart down to his cock then back to his face. His hand is on my throat once again, his tip hovering my entrance. His face lunges forward between my tits, feeling his tongue circling my nipple before his teeth clamp down on it. He enters at the same moment— I can’t differentiate the pain from the pleasure but whatever it is, it feels fucking amazing.

The length of his cock grinds against my spot. His fingers grasp my throat, blocking my airways making my head light and hazy. His pace picks up, thrusting faster and faster inside me as I grip onto his arms. His length has probably bruised my cervix, for all I care. “Oh, fuck!” I gasped, feeling my legs slightly shaking.

“You’re fucking mine.” He growled. I could only hear a few words he was saying as his thick cock slides inside me again.

My eyes roll back unconsciously as another moan erupts from my chest. Not even seconds later— I feel hot stinging pain on my left cheek from his harsh slap, his hand grasping tighter. “Watch me, you’re gonna watch as I fuck this tight little cunt of yours. Your eyes better stay open when I make you come, understood?” I barely take in his words right now, my head is clouded— but that seemed like a satisfying response to him.

I can feel my stomach coiling harshly, as I inch closer to coming. A few moments later I feel my walls start to tighten around him. His thumb gently strokes my bud and that’s all I need— and that’s all it takes. I can feel the familiar warmth enveloping me, engulfing me whole. As my body shudders violently, my inner muscles contracting.

I pulled him in for a sloppy kiss before falling back to the mattress, completely exhausted. “Hm, guess my girl just needed a small attitude readjustment. Maybe next time you’d listen to me.” He said before pulling out and laying beside me.

— © SPICYWRITER 2024.

[villainofmyownstory]

Blurry

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pairing: exhusband!Captain John Price x fem!Reader

summary: You visit your ex-husband, in your once shared home. The memories are painful. But only for you. Unfortunately, after that one bloody mission, John doesn't remember you. The memory of your life together, blurred in his mind.

tags: afab reader, hurt, ex lovers, ex-husband, recollection of death, loss of memory , ambiguous/open ending

1.6 k words

author's note: Once I wrote some random thoughts about our gorgeous captain. Today I've put it all together. Comments welcome, let me know if it's worth writing another part, because I don't know what to think. I guess I like sad stories…. and can't get the ex-husband plot out of my mind. Sorry not sorry <3

——————————————————————————————————

The clock ticked quietly somewhere in the distance, deep in the corridor, steadily, rhythmically. The water in the kitchen tap dripped, quietly reminding you that you need to change the gasket but also to fix some other things in the flat. Even though you moved here a few months ago, you still don't feel at home. You feel uncomfortable. Like a guest in a hotel. All the objects seemed foreign, belonging to someone else. Or maybe nobody's. Everything has been renovated, painted, bought and new. Just for you.

Cat curled up in a ball, lies next to you on a small red sofa. And in front of you on a small, vintage coffee table steams warm coffee. Another one that day. The only meal for many weeks. You rub your eyes, even though no more tears have appeared in them for days. It still burns you and you feel this tingling under your eyelids. Something like fine sand, irritating your eyeballs and hurting the soft delicate flesh of your eyelids. You try to take it in stride. On days like these, weekends, holidays, when you are left alone in a small flat. You fall apart into millions of pieces. Alone. The pain under your ribs, the pressure in your sternum, your throat squeezed like in a vice. Memories haunt you at every step. A constant battle with the past, something you beg for every sleepless night to finally go away. To be finally erased. You should burn the photos, throw away the gifts. Bury the past at last. To move on. After all, this is what you wanted. A lot of time fighting, trying. Days of sweat shed, of anger, of trying again and again. And in the end, powerlessness.

Sunk in your thoughts, you stare, with heavy eyelids, at the empty space under the TV. Once, in another warm home, the shelf was filled with DVDs of one's favourite films. Classic.

A familiar sound interrupts your gloomy rush of thoughts. Looking at the phone screen, you smile slightly. Your boys have been calling every day. ‘Hi Johnny’ You say with a grunt, trying to chase away the sad thoughts, not letting him know that you are tormenting yourself with the past again.

You should not agree. The paperwork you signed, and the arrangements in the documents, were approved, many months ago. That was not the deal. This is not how you discussed the contract. This is not why you are sitting here now. Yet, you can't say no to them. Not after all they've given up their lives, made sacrifices and…

Sitting in an old rusty cheap car. In your familiar driveway, in this new, friendly neighbourhood. You hesitate to get out. Your hands are sweaty, in a firm grip on the worn-out steering wheel. So you give yourself a few minutes to calm down. You never wanted to show them, him, that you were continuing to suffer badly. That you haven't really moved on.

You have to be tough.

As the door finally slams shut behind you with a quiet click, the same scent reaches your nostrils once again. Earthy and heavy from the cigars and the cherry wood burning in the fireplace, a slightly sweet smoke with a subtle fruity aftertaste, with a slight bitter note. A scent so familiar, so close. But it's not your scent. The resignation has been signed. The decision had been made. There was no going back. Johnny stands in front of you looking at you apologetically. ‘Sure I understand. Duty calls.’ You say gently squeezing his shoulder in a gesture of understanding. Or maybe you want to convince yourself that you're not angry. There's no problem. Some kind of confirmation that it's not their fault you have to be here again. That you are standing in this big modern house, from a dream project . In the place that was supposed to be your home.

Of course boys hired 24/7 nursing. But also they themselves, his squad soldiers, alternated days and nights here. They practically lived here. So if the medical caretaker went for a few days' holiday and the three men had to go on a sudden urgent mission for a few days. It was your job to be here and help. You couldn't let them down. You could not say no. You could not answer the phone. Pretend it doesn't concern you. You had to be here. You had to be strong. For him.

When you are finally left alone in the hallway and the big car disappears around the corner. You feel that hole in your heart, opening up again. Those missing pieces to fill it. They are just behind a thin, wall. A couple of steps. A few seconds.

When you finally stand in the large room, as usual, dark curtains hang from the ceiling to the floor, covering the terraced windows. The semi-darkness of the room has always accompanied him when he watches movies. You stare at his profile illuminated by artificial television light. Despite the years spent in the army, the many litres of blood shed, the many scars on his body. He continued to watch the same films. War movies, classics. The screams and gunshots accompanied him since he opened his eyes and when he closed them. It was already burned into his mind. Written into his gut. It's just a shame that this one fucking wound, made him forget. He forgot about you. ‘Hi.’ You say uncertainly standing in the corner of the couch. You can't look at him.

You don't want to see the ocean blue of his irises, the wrinkles around his eyes. The slightly grey hair. The little freckle on his nose. The fidgety trimmed beard - which his boys were now taking care of. ‘Oh, mornin’ ‘ His voice seems even deeper to you, slightly hoarse. Perhaps already stranger. ‘How are you feeling today. Captain?’ You spit out the last word like a poisonous snake. You want to say something completely different. To shout what you said to him every night. Every morning intertwined when you were here, together. Alone. ‘You don't have to be so official, ma'am. I'm out of the army.’ John is gallant as ever. It's the same every damn time. Ma'am, lady. Miss. He's never said your name since that day. Forgotten. That hole in your heart, never to be filled by his pieces again.

The conversation goes on as usual, John again thinking you are just another medical assistant employed by his former teammates. Brothers in arms. Brothers in war. Brothers in the last of the battles. You want to shout to him how much you hate him, how much you despise him. How much it aches you. How much it hurts you that he doesn't remember anything. A bloody mission. Yet, as usual, you sit and listen once again to the same questions, the stories. As if you've turned on that worst episode of your favourite show again. The last one.

Every time he leaves. During every time he was away. On every such occasion. You were ready for the funeral. The black dress continued to hang in that wardrobe, a few rooms away.

Perhaps it would have been better if it had simply been buried six feet underground. In an oak dark box. Cold and with an equally empty head about you. Maybe it would be easier for you that way. You've already said goodbye to one light casket with his last name on it. Because that hole in your heart was much bigger than the missing fragments of your husband, ex-husband.

For a longer monologue, more memories, of his past work. Of his previous life. What you counted as ‘before’. Because what was ‘after’ was a blur. No matter. John stares at you, finally taking his eyes off the TV. The end credits move lazily across the large TV screen. You smile slightly when your gazes finally meet. He is handsome still. Maybe even more beautiful than you remembered him. It would seem that the man's calm face does not hide his wounded, hollow mind.

Physically he looks maybe even better than during his time in the army. In fact, better than at the time of your marriage. Unwittingly the corners of your mouth gently lift up. Doubtless Simon has been training with him, the hard workouts and the proper diet prepared by the new Captain are yielding great results. A well-deserved successor. A plain red t-shirt lightly framed John's broad, muscular shoulders. Grey casual sweatpants once too loose were now gently stretched around his massive thighs.

You don't have the strength to explain to him once again who you are. So when he once again addresses you as a total stranger you don't react. You wanted so badly to climb on his thighs, to punch him in the chest, maybe even scratch him. To make him feel some kind of pain at least for a moment, that thing you feel non-stop, something to bring you two together again. Feel his heart beat faster, and enter his mind, scratch out every shadowy particle. To brighten and put your memories there. Ours.

Nothing in this house resembles that life anymore. There are no pictures here. There are no flowers. There is no more laughter and joyful banter. No more singing and quiet murmurs of delight. The three of you are gone.

Finally, as you lower your gaze to his hands, which hesitantly stroke the fabric of the armchair. The image is blurred. Finally, tears well up in your eyes. You can no longer see a trace of the ring. No lighter stripe stands out on the slightly tanned skin. There is no faint hollow in the fleshy part of his worked-up ring finger. Although everything is a blur. The gold glistens gently reflecting the soft light of the television. The object that was such an important symbol. A vow. A promise. As if playfully winking at you.

[manicrouge]

Episode Five: Bear the Burden

[𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗 𝙿𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚡 𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛] || [𝙰𝚄: 𝙿𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚢 𝙱𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜] || 𝙿𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝

[𝙳𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝙿𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍]: 10/09/24

[𝙰𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝]: Blake faces the consequences of his actions whilst you face the consequences of your association with John Price.

[𝙲𝚠]: violence, non-con touching (nothing sexual), blood/ gore (nothing too bad).

[𝚆𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝙲𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝]: 8.4k

[𝙰/𝙽]: I am so sorry this took so long... I hope this makes up for my absence !! Also please let me know if I've missed and warnings.

SERIES MASTERLIST

Please don't post my work anywhere else without my permission !!

He lurks like a virus, you find.

One you can’t quite shake. His annoying tendencies and loud mouth make him a villain – you can’t perceive him as anything other; whatever your mind attempts to conjure up always leads you in circles until you eventually find yourself back at your original assessment.

You're staring at a pretty woman sitting on a throne, although you cannot take your eyes off her eyes. They're haunting – primal. And despite her well-kept golden hair and the richness of the clothing surrounding her, none of the jewels she is adorned in can distract you from the rubies in her eyes.

Despite your assessment of the piece, you cannot help but sense his grin as it radiates like a toxin, infecting the area surrounding the pair. 

It’s early and the general hubbub of the city is left behind you. And strangely, you find that the gallery's silence leaves you with a profound emptiness.

The Hindsight’s loudness as proclaimed by your old boss, was the one thing that was supposed to deter you from working there, and yet, you miss the calamity and feel the urge to rush out the doors all to hear the drunken babbles of the patrons you’ve become so accustomed to during the time you’ve spent there. 

‘It’s quiet today,’ Graves says, turning his head slightly to glance at you, ‘you’re quiet too. Somethin' wrong?’

‘You’re not talking,’ you remark, looking down at the small purse in your hands, ‘there's been no mention of the guns. I haven’t heard a thing… I- I don’t think they took them.’

He scoffs. ‘That’s what they want you to think.’ 

You shake your head, your hands tightening around the handles of your small bag. ‘You told me that Ky– that Garrick said that–’

‘Oh,' he begins, 'we’re on a first-name basis with them now, ay?’ Graves chuckles, ‘I hope you’re not growing a soft spot for them, ‘need I remind you that they’re criminals?’ 

‘I know they are,’ you say, although your voice is unsteady as you profess their sins. ‘But I don’t think they have the guns.’ 

‘Then who has them?’ 

‘I don’t know,’ you shrug, ‘I’ve heard that the communists are planning on having a protest at the train station this afternoon. They’re demanding fairer pay and treatment… they think the government has abandoned them after the war.’ 

‘They made it home,’ Graves said, ‘they should be happy with that. The world isn't gonna fall to its knees for them; everyone’s lost something or someone. They’re being greedy.’ 

His words leave you thinking of Blake. The man is much too big for his personality, although you suppose he needs the extra space to fit the heart inside his chest. Greed isn’t how you’d describe a man like him and the war took more from him than most people; you can see it in his eyes. 

‘The capital keeps this place running, same as the States. We lose that, we lose order – fall into whatever Russia has landed itself in. It’s unruly, unjust, and, quite frankly, a mess.’ 

You hold your tongue, fearing you’ll be guilty of speaking as your heart compels you to say, settling in the spot you’ve been standing in as you shift your feet, swallowing your heart.

‘Yes,’ you mumble.

‘I’ll look into it, have some police on the lookout. Speaking of which, I heard the owner of the pharmacy was attacked. Does that have something to do with Price?’ 

‘I don’t know,’ you speak truthfully, biting down on your lip, ‘I have to go.’ 

‘Your shift doesn’t start for another hour,’ he says, looking down at his watch. 

‘I have nothing else to say to you,’ you answer, turning on your heel, and heading towards the exit. 

You’re stopped as his hand clasps your upper arm. ‘If I find out you have been lying, Mr Churchill won’t be pleased.’ 

‘I���m not,’ you answer, ‘now let go of me.’ 

‘Promise me,’ he says. 

‘Promise you?’ you scoff.

He takes offence to that clearly as he scrunches his nose up, and as he speaks again, you note that he is gritting his teeth – addressing you as though you have become the next target on his list. ‘That you’re not lying to me. You’re a good girl, it’d kill me to know you’re falling for their trap.’ 

Whatever he's talking about you're convinced is the byproduct of paranoia. No sane man ponders that hard and comes to such a demented conclusion.

Your stomach twists and you yank your arm out of his. ‘I’m being honest with you,’ you say, 'not giving him any more of your time as you rush towards the museum's exit. 'I don't appreciate your tone with me, I advise you fix it.'

'I don't appreciate your secrecy.'

'It's not secrecy,' you breathe, 'rather doubt.'

He sticks up his nose at your confession, turning his back to you as though to resume looking at the painting the pair of you were looking at but a moment before the outburst.

'He has the guns.'

'And what proof do you have of that?' He falls silent. 'You have no right to blame me for having reasonable doubt. Garrick had no idea what you were talking about.'

'People can lie,' he says firmly.

'I know,' you insist, 'I'm not a child, I understand how the world works. Stop treating me as though I know nothing.'

He grumbles something under his breath, shaking his head. 'So what do you want me to do? Pack up shop and tell ol' Churchy boy that his guns are gone because you think Garrick is telling the truth?'

His condescending tone is enough to have your heartbeat ringing in your ears. You ball your fists and chew so hard on the inside of your cheek that you almost bite through it.

'You keep doing your job, I'll have the boys raid the house of a few known commies, and see if they know anything about it. But if I find nothing, I'm meeting John Price and asking him in person.'

You know whether or not you're okay with what he is saying to you is pointless and you struggle to contend with what you acknowledge to be your personal bias against the man who has invited you to the races with him. If you speak now, you fear it will simply be word vomit – an attempt to justify a man beyond redemption (supposedly).

—

A profound concept is what you are to him and as he spies you, he’s unable to shake the thought that, for the first time in his life, he is doing something truly wrong.

His eyes feel too dirty to look at you and the occasional line in his peripheral vision acts like a clump of muck on you. He blinks quickly to chase it away, of course, he does, he wouldn’t leave you with the burden of his truth for longer than a few seconds. 

You’re grinning at the man you’re talking to – he’s much too drunk, wobbling a little as you converse with him. The conversation is not secret either; he has a gob that could replace a foghorn and a laugh that could give a gunshot a run for its money. Your responses, however, remain a mystery as you sit; you’re much too gentle to return his drunken enthusiasm.

You eventually lift your head and your eyes lock for the first time since you poured his drink. You offer the man a smile before heading away from him and approaching Price. 

‘You want a refill?’ you chirp. 

A voice as sweet as the song of a bird, he thinks, nodding his head as he holds his glass up. ‘Fill me up, love.’ 

The cork in the top of the bottle squeals as you open it, pouring more drink into his cup. ‘You look tired, is everything okay?’ 

Your question is one he wishes he could answer, only, he doesn’t want to bear you with the burden of what his morning will entail. The request he had been provided with the day prior has been weighing on him monstrously and he’s left offering you a lopsided smile as he shakes his head, downing the drink you have just poured him in the blink of an eye.

‘Had a bad night's sleep. Nothing a drink an’ smoke won’t sort.’ Your skepticism at his claim is charming and he smiles. ‘Really, love, I’m fine. Don't worry about me.’ 

‘Do you get much sleep?’ you ask. ‘It’s just… I’ve heard a lot of people – especially men who were in the war struggle to sleep.’ 

‘I sleep fine,’ he says abruptly, nearly choking on his tongue, ‘just excited about the races.’ Your face lights up with the mention of the races. ‘You found a dress yet?’ 

‘You only asked me last night,’ you exclaim, ‘I haven’t had the time yet.’ 

‘Well that’s no good, is it?’ he says, ‘you can have a day off later this week – go get yourself something nice.’ 

‘Who will run the pub?’ 

‘Sure Johnny will do just fine until you get back.’ 

‘All the liquor’ll be gone by the time I get back,’ you laugh. 

‘Don’t worry about it,’ he says, glancing at his watch.

Despite a peculiar force keeping him seated in his chair, he pushes against it, forcing himself up and away from you. He catches the furrowing of your brows as he gets up to leave and a part of him wishes to stay all to engage in an empty conversation with you.

‘Keep this place safe whilst I’m gone, ay? Any issues, tell one of the boys about it.’ 

You grin. 'I can take care of myself, John, don't you worry about me.'

As though taking a page out of his book, you speak with a mocking gruffness in your tone. If you were anyone else, he very well would have taken insult to the words you're speaking to him. Only, he can't help but let out a small chuckle.

'Heard you loud and clear, sweetheart,' he says, not missing the bruising scarlet on your cheeks as he offers you one more smile before turning on his heel and heading towards the exit of the pub.

—

‘Simon Riley,’ Graves addresses the man as he slowly stalks the shadows in the hopes of catching a glimpse of the brooding man’s face. Only, his disappointment is measurable in the curve of his mouth as he catches the mask covering his face. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you,’ he confesses with a smile, tucking his hands into the pockets of his pants, and shifting on his feet. 

Simon simply stares at him, not bothering to even muster up the strength to blink. Graves hums, filling the void of the silence. The man’s trying to intimidate him; he’s seen that old tired tactic one too many times to fall for it. Especially from a man like Simon. 

‘I’ve been trying to get a hold of that boss of yours. Slippery man, ain’t he?’

Simon keeps his mouth shut. 

Graves lets out a short laugh. ‘Not the talkative type, are ya?’

‘If you were tryin’ to get a hold of him, you wouldn’t have beat Kyle,’ he firmly says, crossing his arms across himself, rolling his neck seemingly in an attempt to cling to composure. 

Still, Graves has never really been one to threat in the face of evil, rather, he compromises – plays their game. That’s how you get through to them; he’s done it throughout his career and he’s sure it wouldn’t keep him from succeeding now, even if he is in a foreign land- nothing has stopped him before and he doesn’t intend for anything to stop him now. 

‘I wanted to scope the area out before addressing the boss,’ Graves answers. 

‘Y’ scared of Price,’ he says, ‘cause, if you weren’t then you woulda just went straight to him instead of spying on one of his workers.’

‘Kyle is one of his closest workers, is he not?’ he responds, narrowing his eyes, ‘don’t tell me how to do my fuckin’ job, kid. I imagine I could teach you a thing or two about it.’

‘No,’ Simon says, shifting as he moves slightly closer to him, ‘you took one look at whatever files you got from the government and decided that he was the easiest out of all of us to go for,’ he corrects strictly, narrowing his eyes. ‘I’m not a fuckin’ idiot, and neither are any of the lads, so don’t try an’ play me as one.’ 

‘Anyone in the right mind would believe that you are threatening me right now.’ 

‘I am,’ he states blatantly, uncaring for the consequences. ‘You gonna beat me like you beat Kyle, hey?’ 

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he says with a grin, all to burst into a fit of laughter, ‘I know I’m not fooling you, Simon. And, if you want my honest answer, I would say that you would just have to wait and see.’ 

The man hums, his unhappiness as prevalent as a gigantic pimple on someone's chin. ‘You’re here for the guns. Not for us. Keep it that way.’ 

‘And why would I do that?’ 

He’s silent for a while, his eyes dragging up and down Phillip’s face before he eventually relents, his eyes narrowing to form crescents. ‘Cause, otherwise, you’ll be goin’ back home in a box.’ 

‘I didn’t think men like you would have the decency to even send me home,’ he says with a laugh, raising his hand and bringing it against his chest, ‘I’m touched, Simon, truly touched.’ 

‘Don’t want the blood of someone like you spoiling the dirt around here.'

He leaves without another word, not stopping even after Graves calls his name. So, the man stands and observes his pathing, finding that he is walking right towards The Hindsight. Rolling his eyes, he crosses his arms over himself.

Wonder if he speaks to her like that.

—

Simon Riley is a peculiar case, one that cannot quite be answered. Every time you take a glance at the man, you're left more confused than the last time as questions swirl around in your head.

'You wanna ask me something?' he asks, startling you.

Slowly, you turn to see him staring at you, the glass of whiskey he's nursing being engulfed by his hands. Never had you ever seen a man so big in stature. He's similar to Blake in a way, only, quieter. Whatever troubles he's having are reserved for his mind.

'Sorry,' you mumble out.

Much to your surprise, he shakes his head, beckoning you to approach him. You're cautious at first, acting as though he is a stray dog who appears as though he's going to snap at any moment.

'John told me about the chain around the door last night. You okay?'

There's something in his tone which makes the darker inflexions soften as he addresses you and you're unable to hide the smile that forms on your face as you swallow down any prior doubts you had about the man.

'I'm fine,' you say with a smile, 'nothing out of the ordinary for places like this, I'm sure.'

He shakes his head. 'Yeah,' he breathes, 'Johnny's gone round to ask people if anyone's seen the fella who had something to do with it today. We know it's Fisher's group — just don't know who's in charge now.'

'I saw John this morning,' you say, 'he seemed like he was in a rush when he realised the time.'

'Don't worry about him,' Simon says, pulling his mask up to expose his mouth, taking a sip of his whiskey. 'Still acts like a Captain even though we're outta the war,' he snorts.

'Old habits die hard, I guess,' you say, grabbing the whiskey bottle, 'you want a refill?'

—

The pair walk side by side as though there is not a fault in the world, and for a while, Price allows himself to believe that. It’s kind to let the mind rest for a while, he remembers remarking that during their time in the trenches. It’s just a shame that Blake's mind never seems to stop. He’s walking with his hat in his hand, scrunched up in his hands as he stares at the ground, his head occasionally bobbing as he listens to John.

Life is greedy. But the business is bloodthirsty.

And it’s something he has come to terms with, at least in his execution. Admittedly, the difference between being a soldier and a businessman – in terms of the business he is in – is very little. His fingers are so used to wielding a weapon that he wonders if his hands would still close similarly if he had never been exposed to violence. But he’s a violent man and always has been one. And everyone sees him for what he is. 

‘I was talkin’ to my lady this morning,’ Blake says, the rocks below them crunching as they tread closer to the water. ‘She’s real worried about me. A- And I’m sorry.’ 

His eyes steer clear of the man beside him as he spies two figures obscured by the fog of the early morning. Despite such, the pointed brim of their hats is blatant and even causes the outline of their figures to appear slightly rough around the edges. He spies danger in their exterior and he wonders if Blake sees it too. 

‘You see those men,’ he asks, motioning towards the evasive figures. 

‘Yes, Cap’n.’ 

He answers like a child answers a parent.

‘You killed an important man, Blake,’ he says, ‘their brother.’

‘I didn’t mean to, you know that, Cap'n.’ 

‘You think they care why you did it?’ Price asks, furrowing his brow, ‘scrambled mind or well one, it doesn’t matter. You killed one of theirs.’ 

‘I- I know I did and am sorry–’

‘You upset the wrong people, Blake,’ Price says, looking across the water at the two old men perched on the edge of old discarded crates. 

The closer they get to the men, the more he can see of them.

One of them takes a puff from the cigar between their lips, the grey smoke whipping to the left with a harsh breeze. There’s the stench of the rotten water below them, reeking of sewage and whatever else has been dumped in there (John might have an idea, but he would never tell).

The world is a state, he knows that as his hand firmly grasps the gun sitting at his waist. Blake stands with his back to him, keeping his eyes trained on the billowing smoke from the factory, a short breath escaping him as he hears his Captain cock the gun. 

‘I- I didn’t mean to, Cap’n,’ Blake says, glancing over his shoulder briefly, just long enough to capture John’s eyes. 'You know I didn't mean to... it's just me mind. There's something wrong with me.'

‘I know you didn’t,’ he said, rubbing his mouth with his free hand, ‘I know you didn’t, but you’re causing’ more and more trouble all because you can’t get your shit together, ey? And how does that look for me?’ he asks, ‘I’m your boss and I’m supposed to have all the power in the world and I still can’t control you, an’ look where that’s got us now.’

‘Cap’n, please, I- I’m sorry, I’ll never do it again, please.’

His pleading leaves him dizzy as he addresses the two men standing on the opposite side of the dock awaiting what he has promised. The business is terrible, he concludes.

Even the war was easier than this.

‘I- I don’t wanna die, I got a little girl at home an’… I wanna see her grow, I wanna be there for her when she needs me.’ Blake sobs, reduced to an infant himself. ‘She can’t sleep if am not there, Cap’n. A girl needs her daddy to read her a bedtime story – she needs me to chase away whatever monsters are in the shadows. And if am not there, how am I supposed to do that? She needs me.’ 

‘Are they her monsters or yours, Blake?’ 

The sobs escaping him calm for a moment and he feels his heart breaking in the silence. ‘You’re a good man. But they don’t know that and they don’t want to know that. I can't force them to listen cause you killed one of theirs.’ 

He bows his head, not caring to look John in the eye. He’s quite sure he can hear his heart pounding from where he is standing and the gun in his hand feels heavy. Too heavy. 

His big hands are balled into fists hanging on either side of him and in a small voice, Blake mumbles, ‘look after me girls f’r me, yeah, Cap’n?’ 

It’s so weak, something he expected to leave the mouth of a child – not a grown man. He manages out a grunt as he readies his finger on the trigger, sucking in a breath. To offer him a response seems unjust, there’s nothing he can say as of that moment as he’s all too aware of the eyes watching him. 

He lands with a thud as the sound of his pistol rings out around the yard, his body falling onto a boat passing by. His pistol smokes as he moves his hand to station it back to his side. The men sitting across the window offer him a half-assed nod as they push themselves up off the crates. They offer him nothing else: no condolences, no ‘thank you’ for what he’s just done.

No.

Instead, they head on their merry way, leaving Price to watch as the boat drifts down the canal, red splayed across the back of Blake's head. 

The sight leaves him feeling empty, like a de-gloved puppet. He has no purpose, simply sworn to a haphazard purgatory until the next time his violence is needed.

—

He's tired and he knows it.

Truthfully, he doesn't understand why he has even entertained your suggestion and the rudeness you exerted in the gallery has left him with a bruised conscience as he stands outside of the home, listening to the littered curses of the residents as they are pulled outside.

Tapping his foot against the ground, his mind is taken hostage by a woman across the street. Her blonde hair is tied neatly into a bun against her head and she seems much too disturbed by the fabric of her skirt. She walks with a sneer — uncommon for a woman as, typically, they know anything other than a smile is sure to make them an outcast.

And still, he's intrigued by her.

He's sure he knows her from somewhere.

And then he sees him. John Price, in person. He's walking with his typical arrogance: head held high, hands behind his back walking as though he's still in the position he favoured. The entirety of the man is a waste, he concluded. Nothing is redeeming about him and his desire to revisit the life he lost is simply pitiful to observe.

The woman he approaches looks at him and they share a few words before Graves notes that her eyes catch his own for a split second before turning back to Price. It's that that ultimately provides him with the go-ahead to approach the pair of them, uncaring for the commotion he's caused in the household behind him.

So, he crosses the street, putting on the brightest grin he can muster as he proceeds towards the pair of them. He doesn't need to be beside Price for the man to turn around and address him. Immediately, he's greeted by a casual coolness.

'Mr—'

'Detective Graves,' Price cuts off, narrowing his eyes. 'I've heard you've been looking for me.'

'That I have,' he nods, a smile plastered on his face.

'And to get my attention... you beat one of my men?'

'He wasn't cooperating.'

The woman beside Price pipes up. 'That's not what I heard.'

Her tone is thick and professional, and she seems to be just as much of a cynic as he is. 'Your men left him bloody and half-conscious in an alleyway. The barmaid had to help him inside,' Price says, 'I wouldn't call that not cooperating. If you wanted to speak to me, you could have asked me. But you didn't.'

'Forgive me,' he says through a huff, 'for not wanting to trust a criminal,' he adds, 'but I have reason to believe that you're the man who took a shipment of guns.'

'I don't know what you're talking about,' he says, 'an' Gaz told us about that. You wanna work with us.'

'That I do. If you're not a guilty man then it should be no problem.'

'No,' he says, 'not after how you treated him. You can take your deal and shove it right up your arse,' he says in an all too polite manner. 'I want no part in whatever it is you're doing.'

'But you'll gladly get your hands dirty for Blake, eh?' Graves asks.

The woman standing next to Price shoots him a confused look, her thin eyebrows bunching together in the centre of her forehead as her mouth hangs open ever so slightly. Rather than answer, Price places his hands on the woman's shoulder and begins to usher her away.

Graves watches as he does so, resting his hands on his lips with a grin. 'I look forward to our proper meeting, John!'

—

The coldness of the night seeps between the cracks of the pub as you ready yourself for your walk home in the dark. You give it little thought as you get ready to leave; it’s no different to any other night, aside from the one where John walked you home, of course.

You can’t seem to escape the thought of last night, and even though it was a measly day ago, you find yourself grinning at the idea of the pair of you walking side by side. Neither of you said anything, only offering a quiet ‘thank you,’ and ‘good night,’ when you reached your doorstep and left him.

And, as you’re turning off the lights inside the pub, you find there’s an ache in your chest that the pair of you didn’t fill the void with some form of conversation, although, you’re charmed that the pair of you could walk in silence and not feel the need to speak. 

Not even Graves can give you that. And he isn't the criminal.

It’s odd and you feel like a schoolgirl again, bumbling and stuttering over yourself while daydreaming about the bad boy in school. It’s corny, you know it is (that’s the worst part, really), and it certainly isn’t what you’re here to do. You’re here to find the guns and nothing else. The weasel your way into the mind of John Price and crack the code of what exactly has happened to the weaponry. Yet, you’d be a fool to deny the thudding of your heart within your chest every time you heard his voice. 

The pub is submerged in darkness as you shuffle towards the doors with a sigh, your bag slung across your shoulder containing the coins John offered you earlier today. There’s so much you could buy with the money he’s given you and you’re embarrassingly excited about the dress you’re going to get, even though you’re unsure as to what you’re going to purchase at this very moment. All you know is you’re dressing to impress, especially, if you’re going to be the woman who he has on his arm for the entire event. 

As you pull the first door open, you close it firmly behind you, locking the latch at the top of the doors, and pushing them to ensure they’re both securely shut. You nod to yourself when the door doesn’t budge, proceeding to head out of the door stationed in front of you.

As you push the door open, you are still at the sound of footsteps to the left of you, slowly craning your head in the direction in which you hear them. Still, you keep a tight hold of the bar on the inside of the door as you do so. There’s a shadow which covers your frame and as you slowly start to pull the door to a close, you jump as a hand plunges from out of the darkness, taking hold of your forearm. 

You’re pulled away from the door, a short breath escaping you as your forearms are grabbed. You stare the shadow right in the eyes, wincing as their hold on you grows tighter. You open your mouth with the intent of screaming to catch someone's attention, as, quite frankly, the sudden altercation has left your chest rattling and all your strength after a long day in the Hindsight has been sucked out of you. Only, the man standing before you quickly lets go of your arm, placing his hand over your mouth to keep you from crying out. 

As he cranes his neck towards you, you feel his hot breath on your face as he forces your head backwards against the door, keeping you completely pinned. There’s the faint smell of booze and smoke on his breath and he offers you a grin, showing off his yellow teeth.

Your mouth runs dry as you look at him in the eyes, unable to even move in his hold. The flesh in his hold feels as though it is rotting, and the horrific grimness of this situation dawns upon you.

You’ve never been one to be played as a fool, however, as you look at the grotesque man standing before you, you feel as though you’re about to burst into a fit of tears. You’re exhausted, you’ve had a long shift and all you long for is your bed. Yet, even the universe cannot grant you that one simple pleasure. 

‘I was hopin’ to catch you,’ confesses the man, his leg bouncing as he twitched with a peculiar excitement. ‘You’ve been the talk of the town, y’know? The barmaid. Everyone has been sayin’ how pretty you are and I wanted to see for meself… and they weren’t wrong.’

All you can do is stare as he addresses you as though you’re an apparition. 

‘They’ve said that John Price is real fond of you,’ he says, ‘and you know what’s the best way to get to a man?’ he asks, leaning closer as he lets go of your forearm, still keeping a secure grip on your face.

He beckons his head as you watch his hand disappear into the night. So, in an attempt to keep yourself alive, you slowly shake your head, hoping he’ll leave you be. 

‘Dumb girl – you got the looks but not the wit about you, ain’t that right?’ he laughs, moving closer and closer to you until his forehead is pressed against yours and you have no choice but to look him in the eyes. 

You feel him shift against you, a worrying action as he’s obscuring your view so all you can see are his sharp features and his bloodshot eyes. Your breath is caught in your throat as your mouth runs dry, there’s no sense of security in the eyes of a criminal like him, you know it, and during your fit of panic, you feel your body begin to tremble. He pushes his hand against your mouth harder, forcing your head to press against the glass on the door to the Hindsight.

‘Lemme tell you a little somethin’ about this business,’ he sighs, ‘us men like three things, you take one of them away and… well, you might as well shoot us there and then, yeah?’ 

You feel something blunt press against your throat.

‘Money, power, and our women,’ he claims boldly, ‘take that away from any man and he has nothing. And I don’t intend on keeping you around just cause you’re giving me puppy dog eyes cause you’re a mutt who's in with the wrong crowd.’

If he knew the truth, you’re unsure whether or not he would have changed his tune or if he would remain the same cruel man he is right now. 

'Does it feel good, hm? To work for a fuckin’ scamming lowlife?’ he asks, pulling away from you slightly, ‘bet it feels pretty fuckin’ good, ey? Since you’re choosing to stick around for him, anyway.’ 

An immediacy hits you as you note that you are going to die if you do not do something – anything: your mission would be all for nothing. Your spirit would haunt The Hindsight and an eternity roaming the ale-soaked halls of that pub leaves your blood cold and throat dry. You hear the gun beneath your chin cock.

‘Please,’ you whisper, and he pulls his hand from your mouth, allowing you to catch your breath. ‘Please just let me go; I- I won’t tell anyone anything.’ 

He chuckles, ‘The dead can’t speak, but the living can lie.’ 

A tear rolls down your face as you come to terms with what you’re going to have to do in order to escape him. You’re no killer, you don’t take yourself for one, anyway. Morality always comes first, however, when it’s between the choice of your life and someone else’s, should you really be calculating just how long of a stay you’re going to have in hell? 

You wince at the feeling of the cool metal being pressed under your chin, a burst of adrenaline shooting through you as you lift your leg, driving it right into his crotch. The pressure from around your face is relieved as he staggers backwards whilst you sink your hand into your bag, holding the handle of a blade in your hand before driving it into his stomach. The man grunts, his skin suctioning around the blade – almost pleading to keep the hole you’ve just created plugged up to avoid his immediate death.

However you show little mercy in the eyes of the man you perceive to be the devil, and if you have sinned, you shall address that in the afterlife. 

He falls to the ground, gripping his side and you stand over him, your hand falling from out of your bag as you hold your arms in front of you, teary-eyed. 

‘I- I- I…’ your words waver as you stand,  dropping your hand out of your bag. The gun he held to your throat lays on the ground beside him and you can’t take your eyes off of it. Truthfully, there was no innocence in what the man tried to do to you and you know that justifying his actions will only make you the villain. 

You are not a monster, but you are a murderer. 

The thought hits you like the first lick of light at dawn and you’re blinded by the sight of blood staining your hands. A voice rings from down the road behind you and you take that as your sign to leave. You have little time to rationalize where exactly you’re running to as you find your legs are carrying you before your brain fully processes the fact that you’re moving, resulting in a few clumsy steps as you rush up the road. 

You’re winded by the time you make it to the top of the road, and instead of taking the turn to your house just a few streets away, you stop in front of one of the doors at the top of the street. You intend to knock lightly, knowing the people in the house will not take lightly to such a rude wake-up call, but your trembling fist simulates that of the pound of a bailiff. You knock three times, your fist hovering as you go to do it again, all for the lock on the other side of the door to click. 

Much to your relief, you spy John Price standing at the door. He’s still in his typical business attire, only the top few buttons of his white shirt have been undone. Your eyes well with tears at the sight of him and you fight off the urge to throw yourself into the arms of a criminal as you stare at him with wild eyes.

You’re aware he can see your bloody hand, but he ignores it as he cautiously reaches his hand out to you, acting as though you’re a feral cat. You don’t move, only lightly flinching when you feel his coarse fingertips brush against your chin as he gently moves your head up to get a good view of your neck. 

His face settles from concern to anger as his eyebrows furrow. A tear falls from your eye. ‘I- I’m sorry,’ you croak, ‘I know it’s late a- and–’

‘Don’t be stupid, love,’ he said, wiping away the tear with the pad of his thumb. 

You wait no longer, throwing your arms around him as a sob rips through you. Your rationality tells you one thing: you’re not better than he is now, although, you’re unsure whether or not that is such a bad thing. He may be a criminal in the eyes of the law, but with how he holds you, you wonder what else he is beyond the label. He’s respectful with the way his hands wrap around you, one in your hair, pressing your head into his chest lightly, the smell of a discarded cigar haunting the fabric, whilst his other hand captures the wrist of your bloody hand. 

‘H- He was gonna kill me,’ you weep, your words muffled by his chest. ‘I didn’t know what to do, I- I wanted him away from me but I didn’t want to kill him.’ 

Your confession comes with silence, and you push your face away from his chest, looking up at him as though he is God, awaiting a punishment: eternal damnation.

‘Where is he?’ 

His tone is one of anger, one which desires retribution, a potent hunger which diminishes all signs of humanity.

‘Outside the pub,’ you mumble, holding his shoulders, ‘I- I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to–’

‘You’ve done nothing wrong,’ he refutes quickly, not giving you a chance to change his mind. 

Leading you inside of the house, he closes the door behind the pair of you, motioning for you to take a seat on the sofa. You do as he says and take a seat, your blood hand staining the fabric of your cream skirt. He pours you a glass of whiskey, holding it out to you. You take it and bring the glass to your lips, taking a small sip. The burning in the back of your throat causes you to wince as the sensation works to tell you that you’re alive: you survived. 

‘I- I was locking up and he grabbed me and… and pushed me up against the door,’ you say dully, ‘he put a gun under my chin, said he was gonna kill me b- because I was associated with you.’ 

John’s face falls at your confession. 

‘I didn’t know what to do. I- I couldn’t think straight and I panicked. I didn’t mean it, I didn’t want to kill him,’ you say, your voice cracking as you bring the glass back up to your mouth. ‘I- I promise I didn’t mean it. I didn’t want to kill him, but it was him… or me.’ He remains silent causing you to look up at him, your eyes creasing as you snivel, ‘I’m a murderer… a monster.’ 

The whiskey sloshes in the cup as it settles on your knee, more tears pouring down your cheeks. You're heaving for your breath, unable to keep your panic at bay. Strings of saliva cling to your lips as they part once more as your conscience seeks to defend itself further. Only, you close your mouth as John pushes himself off of the sofa, kneeling before you as he takes your blood hand in both of his, looking up at you. 

‘You’re not a monster, love,’ he breathes, ‘far from it,’ he adds, letting go of your hand as he reaches into his pocket and retrieves a handkerchief, gently holding your wrist as he begins to clean your hand of blood. ‘I’ve met monsters. You’re nothing of the sort.’

You seek sorrow in his eyes as he wipes the blood away, the tenderness of his action momentarily deceiving you into thinking the pair of you are in your fifteenth year of marriage. In reality, the pair of you are barely friends – strangers.

‘I’m sorry I wasn’t there.’ 

The word strangers seems cruel.

You let out a small laugh. ‘You weren’t to know.’

He chews on the inside of his mouth like he’s chewing on a stick of gum. ‘Shouldn’t have left you to walk home alone,’ he refutes, shaking his head as he turns your hand over, continuing to wipe away the blood. ‘Especially not after findin’ that on the handle of the pub. That was stupid of me. I’m sorry love.’ 

‘It’s okay,’ you say quietly. 

There’s silence for a while and you have no desire to break it. 

‘Stay here for the night,’ he says, ‘you can have my cot.’ 

It’s as though he's offering you his life. You sense something – it’s exuding from his pores in the dim candlelight, the fire to the right of the pair of you leaving half his face illuminated with orange, specks of white meeting your eye as you stare at him. He seems afraid, whether it is for you or something else, you’re unsure. 

‘Okay,’ you whisper, placing your hand over his with a smile. You close your hand around his, uncaring of any consequence. 

‘Good,’ he says. 

You feel compelled to answer him instead of falling back into silence, mustering up a quaint but firm, ‘It’s not your fault, John.’ 

You spy a brief moment of resentment on his face before it settles as he looks at you with thin lips and glistening eyes. All he can offer you is a curt nod, and you suspect that if he does open his mouth, the likelihood of him becoming reduced to a puddle of tears is startlingly high. There’s a peculiarity about the situation you’ve found yourself in, knowing the details of the man and the words that authorities have chosen to describe him as, criminal, murderer, failure.

If you possessed the paper right now, it would fuel the fire burning beside the pair of you. 

‘I won’t let anythin’ like that happen to you ever again,’ he says, clearing his throat. In spite of his best efforts, the congestion of his tone is blatant and you know better than to blame his smoking habits on the sound. 

‘It’s not your fault.’ 

‘It is,’ he insists, ‘you shouldn’t have blood on your hands. You don’t deserve the burden of it,’ he says, closing his hand around your bloody one, ‘it changes the way your brain works and… well, I don’t want that for you.’ 

‘This isn’t your burden to carry,’ you say, ‘I held the knife, I pierced his flesh. His blood is on my hands.’ 

‘Whose name did he say?’ You bow your head, unable to shake the feeling of guilt. ‘It’s my name that’s deadly, not your actions, love. He wouldn’t have done that to you if you weren’t associated with me.’ 

‘It’s unfair.’ 

‘It’s the truth,’ he says, the tips of his fingers lifting your head so your eyes meet again. ‘I’m used to it, love. Don’t lose sleep over someone like me, yeah?’ 

You ponder your exchange while he leaves you to sit alone with your thoughts for a while. Expressing concern for your safety was one thing, you’re grateful for his words of course you are, however, when you hear the voices of two other men and busy footsteps down the stairs, you choose to nurse your dry mouth with the glass of whiskey he poured you a while ago.

Kyle appears first. Had it not been for the sound of his pounding steps you would have taken the smile he’s giving you at face value – but you know better than to do that. Whilst his anger is not on his face, there’s a potency in his eyes appearing in the form of a minuscule shadow. 

‘Don’t worry, lovie,’ he says firmly, pulling the front door open, looking behind his shoulder as more footsteps fill the room. ‘You’re safe with us.’ 

Disappearing into the darkness of the night, you wonder what sort of sin he is going to commit because of your clumsy hand and desperation to live. Simon Riley is next down the stairs, paying you no mind as he walks through the door frame, nearly having to duck to keep his head from hitting the top of it. The door closes with a slam and you stifle a gasp, the whiskey soaking your upper lip as you bang your teeth against the rim of the glass.

Wincing, you pull your lips off the glass staring teary eyed at the closed door. You’ve never been so emotional in your life, an urgency striking you like a knife to the chest to flee from your vulnerability; to be a damsel in distress is to be everything you have desperately been trying to avoid. And still, when Price appears with a head of ruffled hair, you finish the last of the whiskey in your glass. It outstays its welcome, dragging its feet as it slides down your throat. 

‘Where are they going?’ 

‘Don’t worry,’ Price says, holding his hand out to you. ‘Let’s get you up to bed.’

You choose not to fight his words and follow him up the steps. He stands guard as though there’s an enemy in the house waiting to strike as you wash your hands in the water basin in the bathroom, your reflection split into fragmented pieces due to the shattered mirror on the wall. Your cheeks are stained with the tears you have cried throughout the night, your bloodshot eyes challenging the redness of violence in the remnants of the mirror. You spy your soul in pieces and your chest aches. 

Who am I? 

The blood is officially off of your hands after a generous amount of scrubbing and when you turn around, you’re greeted by the sight of one of John’s shirts sitting atop the closed toilet seat. You take it into your clean hands, staring at it. His kindness is striking and you feel little remorse as the straps of your ruined navy dress fall from off of your shoulders, permitting the white fabric of his shirt to wrap around you. 

Pulling open the door, you step out onto the landing with your dress balled up in your arms. ‘I’ll have Kate fix it,’ he says, taking it from your hands. 

‘No, it’s fine.’ 

‘Blood’s difficult to wash out, love,’ he says gently, ‘rather you keep your hands clean.’  The dress slips from your grip and he rests it on the banister. His statement is a reminder of who exactly you’re in the presence of – that the reports aren’t rumours but facts. 

But you don’t care.

Not when you slip into his bed, and not when he sits in a chair beside you, refusing to take the space you possess. Any other bad man would have been between the sheets with you in a heartbeat, and despite your attempts to protest, he insists on leaving you alone in the bed he sleeps in. So you settle with your head against his pillow, his hand resting just above your  head, mindlessly brushing his crooked fingers through your hair. 

‘You thought any more about what dress you're gonna get for the races?’ 

A smile forms on your face, ‘no.’ 

‘I’ll give you some coins, get you a pretty dress.’ 

Your mouth forms a frown. ‘Because you want to or because you think you have to because of what happened?’ 

‘Because I want to, love,’ he says, the chair creaking as he shifts. ‘I was thinkin’ red.’ 

‘Red?’ You ask. 

‘Looks good on you.’ 

Your cheeks are stained with scarlet and you lean further into the pillow. ‘You think?’

‘I know,’ he hums, the tips of his fingers resting atop your head. ‘But it’s your choice.’

‘Red it is,’ you say. 

The pair of you sit in silence as you grow tired, and when you feel his hand begin to pull away, you move your hand from under the sheets, grabbing his wrist. He understands and, without a word, he continues to brush his hands through your hair, sweeping stray strands from out of your face as you slowly succumb to slumber. 

John doesn’t sleep, however. 

Instead, he spends his time watching you. Every sharp breath from you is reminiscent of the gunshots in the trenches. How brutal the mind could be to one. He supposes it is simply his punishment for being unable to save Blake from his own. The destitution of the mind leaves the body with too little to spend. He wishes he knew that without bearing the burden of his actions and faults – without getting you involved. It’s a difficult life, but he’s a difficult person. 

The sight of you quells the beating in his chest, and as you sleep you pull your hand from out of the sheets. Sitting idly, he taps his foot against the ground while staring at your hand. The red under your nails, while subtle, sounded the scratching in his mind and he fell queasy at the sight. Reaching out his hand, he took yours in his, leaning forward as he did so and resting his head upon his free hand.

To bear burdens is his job: to hear the scratching in the walls before bed, to brutalize his men, to keep secrets. And now you’re here, he fears all his efforts for money and reprimand have been nothing but a waste of his time. 

𝙼𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝

TAGS: (If you would like to be added to the tag list let me know!) @forever-twenty-two-years-old @iizx7y @phantomreadsandreblogs @talooolaaloolla @guiltgoreglory @corpsebasil @ferns-fics @racheldoyle

Btw I appreciate it's been a while so if you would like me to remove you from the tag list let me know!

(Once again I apologise)

[tobeholyistobeempty]

yeah i’m just having thoughts of captain john price who’s super possessive protective of you in a way that goes a little past just being your superior. i’m talking, he’s got names down of every man on base who’s even looked at you a little too long. something like a watch list. you know, just to be safe.

so when he hears of a couple of them talking about your ass? when hears that those same couple made advances on you?

well.

he won’t freak out. won’t make a big scene. sends ghost and gaz as his recruiters while soap sits with you to keep you unsuspecting — he’s got it handled, baby. leave it to him — is what he would tell you, if you knew. but he doesn’t need you to. he’ll just get them in his office. give em a little stern talkin to bout treatin women with respect round the base. you know, like a good equitable captain should.

and they’ll listen to him. because it’s john. the man to be respected. but on the way out he might just so happen to knock over a picture on his desk. and that picture might just so happen to be you on your knees infront of him, wearing nothin’ but a ball cap that reads “captain”.

oops. he says.

he’ll make it known. subtly. but known.

don’t fuck w the captains girl.

[ryanlovesjosh]

은​방​울 Lily of the Valley

- I’ll give you something unforgettable… my love is “this” flower in your hands, Kyle.

IIIIII

Inspired PriceGaz piece by a song I listened some days ago; I legit couldn’t stop listening to it and being a complete sad bag sigh.

Song is “은​방​울 (Lily of the Valley) by DANIEL”

Alsooo, wanted to thank every like, reblog and followers on my last post!!! I posted it in mind of only sharing my love to PriceGaz to some fellow shippers, but wow, the outcome of it blew my mind. I didn’t expect this much love… sigh tysm from the bottom of my heart. 🥹❤️ xoxo!

[dragonbe-writing]

Fallen Feathers

Fantasy AU ft. Knight!John Price

Summary: John Price is sent out by the king to hunt a monster. He wanders through the woods and finds a girl, living alone who wishes not to be seen.

This is Part 1 of a series

Word Count: ~2K

Author's Note: Hello! It's been a while. I've had this story idea typed up for nearly a year and just couldn't get comfortable with it. But I've been inspired by @a-small-writer-in-a-big-world 's fantasy AU, and decided just to post this and see what happens. Enjoy!

Sweat trickled down the back of his neck as he made it to the top of the hill. He looked out over the basin, the sun rising behind him and casting shade from the trees out onto the village below. The village- Edriel (Ee-drill), -was already bustling with life in the early hours. Farm-help out watering crops before the sun wilted them, mothers cooking breakfast for the little ones before their day of chores and play, priests walking through to say their blessings and good mornings. 

A world of intimacy, a world of peace. 

The very things John had sworn to protect, the very reason he was on this hill in the first place. He was a Commander, a third-rank Knight sent out to protect the village. His village. The place he’d grown up, the place he devoted his life and servitude to. 

A monster lived in the forest, he was told. The King ordered him to find and slay the monster. So, John turned away from the village, and headed into the forest.

He used his sword to cut through the thick brush, heading for… well, he wasn’t sure. The King wouldn’t give him a description of the monster- perhaps he didn’t have one. But if he didn’t have one, then was John just chasing a rumor? He had been under the King since he was a boy, it was a little insulting to be sent on a goose chase. 

Slice.

He was a Commander, for God’s sake! A third rank Knight- a position he had worked hard for. And here he was, running around the forest, looking for something that wasn’t even there. 

Slice.

This is a rookie’s task, he figured. Something to keep them busy, to test their loyalty.

Slice.

Perhaps the King was becoming senile in his old age. Or maybe John was just upset at the mission. He saw the way the other Commanders smirked when he was given his task. It was embarrassing, especially after a life of devotion. 

Slice.

The brush cleared away, revealing a secluded area that looked… cared for. He crouched under a branch, keeping his sword at the ready- just in case. A small stream ran near his feet, water as clear as he’d ever seen. There was a garden, and even a house. It looked similar to the Edriel houses, however it was poorly built. Things seemed to be added over time: patches to the roof, new ties for the wood. He studied it carefully, jumping when he heard a noise from inside the house. 

“Who’s there?” a woman asked from inside the house. She sounded human. 

“I am a Commander of Edriel’s army. I am coming in,” he said, sword raised as he opened the door. 

The house was small, just enough for one person. The curtain was closed, engulfing the house in darkness. He could tell she was in the corner, but he couldn’t see her. 

“Open the curtain,” he ordered, his voice coming out gruff. 

“...I’d rather not,” she said quietly, her body pressed against the walls. “I-I am horribly burned, I’d prefer not to be seen.” 

John lowered his sword, putting it back in its sheath. “Yes ma’am,” he said in a much softer voice. It was a foreign feeling. It had been ages since he had spoken so softly. “...what is your name?”

She went quiet, and it sounded as though she was shuffling on her feet. A wave of realization washed over him. He had broken into this poor woman’s home and demanded to see her. She was probably terrified. 

“I am John Price, a proud Knight of Edreil,” he started, hands behind his back as he respectfully tipped his head. After a few moments of silence, she spoke. 

“Adelaide,” she said quietly. 

“Adelaide… what?”

“Just Adelaide.”

A tense silence covered them. He cleared his throat, looking around the house. “..Okay, Adelaide. I apologize for my rude intrusion. If I may… why do you live out here?” he asked.

“People do not stare at me out here. It is peaceful,” she said. “What has you out here?”

He hesitated. His business was embarrassing, but if anyone knew where a monster was, it would be her. He took a breath. “The King has sent me out in search of a monster.”

“A monster?” she asked, voice pitching higher. 

“Do not worry,” he said quickly, raising a hand in front of him. “I will take care of it, you will be of no harm.”

“What does it look like?”

Another pause, this one longer. He let out a low sigh, his chainmail armor clinking as he raised a hand to run through his hair. 

“...You do not know?” 

“...no, ma’am.”

He swore he heard her snort. “What kind of king sends a knight out with no description?” 

He huffed, rolling his eyes. “You’d be a fool to talk poorly of the King in front of one of his knights,” he said dryly.

“Are you going to detain me?” she asked with a hint of amusement.

“I could,” he responded quickly, hand resting on the hilt of his sword. He was met with silence, to which he sighed. “Do you know of any monster living around here?” 

“...no. But, I will be weary,” she said to him, any details of emotion stripped from her voice.

He gave her a nod and turned to leave. “Good day, ma’am,” he said, closing the door to her home and going out the way he came. 

As he continued his search for the monster, he thought about her. Was she truly so badly burned that she must live alone? He didn’t remember a fire in the village. 

Perhaps she was from Pulsk? 

No, surely not. Pulsk was a lawless trading post crawling with criminals, monsters, witches- she would not have to move from there, her appearance would not be so bad there. So she must be from Edriel. But he had never heard of a fire that bad- he had never heard of a woman living outside the village. 

How long had she been alone? Who else knew she was there?

~~~~

John was sent out every day for the next week. It seemed he’d be doing this until the monster was found. On the fourth day, he stopped by her area again. 

“Miss?” he called out. He heard a door slam, and saw the curtain in her window close. 

“John?” she asked worriedly. 

“At your service. May I come in? Is it dark enough?” he asked, waiting by the door for her word. 

“Yes,” she called out after a moment. He opened the door, the smell of smoke filling his nose. She must’ve blown out a candle. She was in the same corner as last time. 

The light from the door fell on his face, lighting him up with a glow. He smiled at her, clearing his throat. He shifted a bit uncomfortably on his feet. “How is life out here?” he asked, eyes glancing around as he tried to figure out where to look. 

“Peaceful. Quiet, most days,” she replied. His lips pursed, eyebrows creasing. 

“…Would you like me to leave?” 

“Oh! Oh, I didn’t… I did not mean you,” she clarified quickly. He imagined she looked worried, and he smiled a bit to make her feel better. 

“So, other people visit?” he asked with a grin. 

“Well… no…” she murmured, and he chuckled. It was a deep timbre that reverberated through his chest. 

“Right,” he said. They fell into a silence, and he shifted again. It was difficult having a conversation with someone you couldn’t see. “…do you ever miss the village?” 

He heard ruffling- it must’ve been her clothes. “No. I miss the food sometimes,” she said, watching as he looked around her place. “There used to be a woman who sold pastries. I think about her quite often.” 

He lit up, eyes shining and lips stretched in a smile. “Mrs. Dresel?”

“Yes!” she said, the most enthusiastic he’s ever heard her. “Is she still alive? She was quite old when I last saw her…” 

“Yes, she’s still around. Still making those pastries, too,” he smiled fondly, thinking of them. “I have not visited her in a while,” he thought aloud. 

“Nor have I… for obvious reasons…” she said and the house creaked. John looked around at the roof worriedly. “Oh, it does that,” she said dismissively. 

“…did you build this yourself?” he asked her, eyes scanning over the structure. Pillars of wood, stuck together with what appeared to be mud. The roof was wood planks, with some more mud, and dried straw. Simple, but effective. 

“I did,” she replied, also now looking at it. 

“…it isn’t bad,” he said with a shrug. She let out a laugh. 

“You’re very polite.”

“I’m a Knight.”

She laughed, making his eyes tear away from the roof back to the corner she hid in. He could imagine her, standing there with bright eyes. It made him chuckle. 

“My house isn’t much, but it is mine,” she continued. 

“It’s lovely,” he replied, eyes going back to the structure. “Very impressive.” 

“Thank you,” she replied. “Any luck on finding your monster?” 

He groaned, rolling his eyes. His entire body tensed, lips pressed in a thin line. “No. I’m starting to think the King is playing a trick on me,” he remarked, chainmail clanking. 

“Perhaps he’s gone bad? Like a fruit?” she offered up, amusement clear in her voice. 

“Careful,” he warned, trying not to smirk. “I still work for the man- even if he is a bit mushy.” 

She laughed, a noise that made the corners of his lips turn up. He pictured her shoulders shaking, her smile wide and unapologetic. He wondered how often she laughed out here.

“You’re funny- for a Knight,” she poked, voice dripping with sarcasm. 

“D’you have a thing against Knights?” he asked, arms crossed over his chest but a smile on his lips. 

“They haven’t always been kind to me,” she remarked, making his mood change. His arms fell to his sides, and his eyebrows creased as his smile vanished. 

“Then you must’ve been doing something you weren’t supposed to,” he replied with a bit of an edge. A blanket of tension wrapped around her house. 

“…do you take me for a criminal, John?”

He thought in silence for a couple moments, before finally replying. “No, I suppose not,” he muttered, almost begrudgingly. Though, if a Knight had been rude to her, it was likely deserved. “Never mind.”

They fell into silence, the air thicker than the smoky scent of her home. She huffed a bit, more rustling heard. “Don’t you have a monster to catch?” she asked, voice carrying a sharpness to it. 

He cleared his throat, chainmail clunking as he readjusted himself. “Indeed. Have a good day, Miss Adelaide,” he said politely, before turning and leaving her house, door closing behind him. 

Perhaps she was a criminal. Why else would a knight have been rude to her? It would make sense, her living out here by herself. He would have to go through the old town logs, see if the name Adelaide appeared. Though, it might be difficult without a last name. 

He was ducked under the branch again, leaving the area she had claimed. He huffed, wiping the sweat on his neck with his handkerchief. 

What if she wasn’t a criminal? What if she was just horribly burned? He still could not remember a fire that bad- though, if he looked through the logs… 

He had taken his horse, Obsidian, with him today. He gently pet her nose, sighing softly. “C’mon, old girl,” he said, hoisting himself up onto the saddle. “Back to the castle- let’s get you an apple, hmm?” 

[remmicks-bloodbag]

Baby Don’t Stop || John Price

John Price x trans!reader (ftm)

Warnings: dom price, uses of the words slut and whore, pronouns used will be you (will call you handsome), uses of the words pussy cunt etc, dacryphilla, unprotected sex, creampie, slight cum play, is it proofread? No!

If you don't like how i have this portrayed then keep it moving

It was a routine by now Price would come home after being away from you for some months and he’d sometimes be angry and his outlet for his anger was you. He loved seeing you a fucked out sobbing mess he thought it was cute. 

A fistful of hair in John’s hand as he held you steady and fucked your throat. Tears fell from your eyes mixing with the drool that spilled from your mouth around his cock. Any other time he’d praise you for taking his cock down your throat but not tonight. 

“Look at you love you look so pathetic crying like this.” He cooed his other hand coming out to the side of your face wiping your tears with his thumb. Bringing the finger to his mouth and sucking the tears off his thumb while guiding you off his cock with the hand that was in your hair. 

“John please.” The plead fell from your lips as you peered at him through teary eyes. “John please.“ He mocked you as his eyes scanned your face and tears welled up in your eyes. “Such a whore y/n.” He spoke as he stood you up hand still in your hair as he tossed you on the bed. 

The springs squeaked as you landed bouncing slightly as John forced himself between your legs. Drooling pussy on display for him to see as he let out a groan at the sight before him one hand on his cock as he dragged the tip between your dripping folds a whimper escaping you as he did so. 

“Go on sweetheart..” he groaned as he thrusted inside you watching you grip the sheets. “Cry for me.” The tears that were welling up in your eyes fell down your cheeks. The sight alone only fueled Price to fuck you harder. Now one of your legs was thrown over his shoulder as he thrusts into you like a damn jackrabbit fucking into your hole with purpose. 

You turn your head to wipe the tears along the sheets when he grabs your face making you look at him. “Don’t you look away… or wipe your tears.” He groans out with heavy breaths as you moaned too fucked out to even give him a response. 

Withering and moaning under John’s body your vision hazy from the pleasure and tears clouding your eyesight. you could barely make out John’s face covered in a light sheen of sweat hair a mess. Hand sliding from your hip to your clit rubbing the bundle bringing you closer to your end with him as you clenched around his dick.

“Shit ‘m close.” He gasp out. “Think you can take it, love? Can you hold all my cum in this pussy?” You continued to moan and whine. When not given a response he tapped your face gaining your attention. “Can you take my cum love?” He asked once more as you nodded.

“Can take it, John don’t stop.” You forced out with small moans between your words trying to sound a bit coherent.  He thrust a few more times before emptying himself into you, you felt a warm sensation spread through your body as you felt his cum fill you up.

As John pulled out his cum leaked out of your hole and onto the sheets. Laying next to you as you both lay there, breathing heavily before you finally mustered the strength to speak. Fingers trailing your body down to your cum filled hole dipping two of his fingers in and trailing those two fingers over your lower belly. “What happened while you were away that got you upset love?” You asked John rolling over and facing him. “Don’t worry about it sweetheart’m not upset.” This was true John just wanted to see you cry for him and you did and looked handsome while doing so.

[littlejohnspricesss]

☆...The angel cannot fly very far...☆

Es la primera cosa que escribo de este tipo, agradecería las sugerencias y por supuesto el apoyo.Gracias ♡♡

Super inspirado en esta maravillosa obra:

MobJohn Price x Latina reader

Durante casi 10 años, mi familia ha tenido un sueño, abrir un salon de belleza unisex, años de trabajo duro y cuando todos acabamos la secundaria emprendimos el viaje al nuevo negocio familiar…

Quizas no estábamos listos aún…

Ahora, casi 2 años después, la renta se ha vuelto imposible de pagar y con una deuda de casi 6 meses que el señor Price ha sido amable por esperar, las cosas se han vuelto complicadas y duras.

El día 1 de cada mes, el señor Price recorría todas las propiedades que rentaba, desde el norte de la ciudad hasta el sur, ese hombre tenía locales por toda la ciudad y siempre llegaba a cobrar.

Hoy era 1, y ni siquiera teníamos la mitad de la renta, nuevamente. Hemos tratado de buscar nuevos lugares pero hay montos imposibles de pagar, y en casa no hay suficiente espacio además de las necesidades de la familia por lo que no podemos dejar el trabajo. El señor Price siempre entendía.

La campanita de la entrada suena, unos pasos pesados resuenan, aún era temprano y no había clientes. El señor Price saluda a mis hermanas en la entrada con su típica sonrisa dulce y se dirige al mostrador. La caja registradora está casi vacía.

"Buenos días, señor Price" saludo cortésmente.

"Buenos días, cariño" sus ojos recorren el lugar "como estas hoy?" Sus ojos azules se clavan en los míos con esa mirada que marea a cualquiera demasiado dulce pero dura al mismo tiempo.

Mi respuesta es vaga tratando de ser encantadora, mis hermanas no atraen su atención y me toca hacer el trabajo duro.

Después de unos minutos con una charla cortez, se escuchan las dulces risas de mis hermanas con los hombres de John.

"Ellas son encantadoras con los muchachos" Una sonrisa se asoma por su voz al decirlo

"Si, se emocionan cada vez" respondo, se nota la incomodidad en mi voz, allí viene la charla de la renta

"La renta este mes…" El trata de hacer las cosas más dulces pero la respuesta sigue siendo agria.

"Tenemos muy poco, señor…se que no es justo para usted pero le prometo que le pagaremos, estoy tomando un nuevo empleo y-" la mirada de desaprobación es suficiente para hacerme estremecer de miedo cuando su voz gruesa hace eco en el local

"Cariño, ya son 7 meses…no puedo esperar más, no es justo para mi, pero no me gustaria tener que desalojarte ni a tus hermanos pero no me deján otra opción.."

"Por favor, señor Price, no tenemos otro lugar y necesitamos-" mi sollozo logró salir de mi "¿Podemos llegar a un acuerdo? Podríamos rentar la mitad del tiempo o- haremos lo que sea, por favor"

POV John Price

John Price no era un hombre de honor. Había pecado miles de veces, había olvidado completamente el hombre que era antes, en el ejercito, antes de ser relevado por sus conductas. John Price mató a personas para construir su imperio que ocultaba rentando los locales y le gustaba sacar provecho de ellos, después del tercer mes de atraso la gente desaparecía, menos la familia en el oeste de la ciudad que mantenía a sus muchachos en orden con las pequeñas risas y coqueteos, pero John no veía a las chicas de sus muchachos.

No, el veía a la mujer detrás del mostrador.

El primer día que la vio, supo que ella era el amor de su vida. Algo en su timidez y ojos brillantes lo cautivo, lo cegó de la vista de otras mujeres.

("Haremos lo que sea")

Resonó en la cabeza de John. Su dulce ángel le rogaba. Su dulce ángel se vendió al diablo con cuatro palabras y un sollozo.

John se apoyo en el mostrador

"Podemos llegar a un acuerdo, cariño"

Los ojos de ella se abrieron con emoción y felicidad.

Pov Reader

Las palabras fueron un salvavidas en el fondo del océano. Agradecí mentalmente a cada ser del universo y a la suerte que el dueño fuera tan amable.

Los dientes del señor Price aparecieron pero no la dulce sonrisa de cada primero de mes…no, una sonrisa de verdadera felicidad. Rodeo el mostrador y su mano se apoyo en mi espalda baja, guiándome al almacén.

"S-señor-" trate de negarme pero su palma empujó un poco más fuerte

"Vamos a negociar, cariño"

La tenue luz del almacén hacia lucir su piel un poco más oscura y ocultaba algunas cicatrices. El acerco dos sillas que estaban dañadas y las acomodó una frente a la otra y me indicó que me sentará.

Su mirada completamente enfocada en mi me dio escalofríos.

"Señor Price-"

"Llamame John, nena"

Mis mejillas se ruborizaron ante el nuevo apodo.

"Voy a ser directo, cariño" anunció con su voz gruesa "Casi 2 años de las escusas "el próximo mes, la próxima semana, en unas horas" que nunca se cumplieron o demasiado tarde. Nadie sabe administrar un negocio…tus hermanas se aprovechan de ti, cariño, haciéndote hablar con el hombre malo mientras ellas coquetean con mis muchachos. Tu no deberías dejar que alguien te haga eso, nena, mereces más…te propongo que dejes este negocio que no va a ningún lugar y en cambio…puedes estar a mi lado, olvidaré las deudas de tu familia y nadie saldrá lastimado…"

Las palabras se quedaron en mi boca. No podía responder ni siquiera asentir, me quedé helada

"Señor Price, le aseguro que no es así, ellas no me obligan a nada y…el negocio va a mejorar en unos meses…"

El señor Price hizo una mueca, una advertencia silenciosa.

"No quiero lastimar a unas muchachas tan lindas, se astuta y salva a tu familia…a mi lado puedes hacer lo que quieras, solo quiero que seas mi…"

Tuvimos que saber que el hombre era malo cuando el hombre que rentó el local antes que nosotras desapareció de la nada, el y su familia. Mi familia no puede acabar así.

"P-puedo pensarlo?" Mi voz temblaba con miedo. Estaba en shock aún.

"Por supuesto, nena, llamame cuando estés lista, si?" John se puso de pie y salió del almacén, dejo unos billetes en el frasco de propinas y salió del local. Unos minutos después la camioneta de "John's" su puso en marcha hacia el siguiente local.

…

Después de un día de pensarlo, decidí que debíamos escapar, dejar todo atrás antes de que el hombre nos asesinara. Las cosas estaban empacadas, el auto listo y el local vacío, nos íbamos a la madrugada para evitar tráfico. Volver a casa sería mejor que acabar flotando en el río o peor. Al llegar a la frontera de la ciudad, los guardias nos retuvieron unos minutos, las preguntas de siempre hasta que nos hicieron bajar del auto.

El sol aún no había salido y la incesante sensación de que algo malo iba a pasar me llevaba el pecho. Una camioneta negra sin patente, los oficiales de la frontera nos avisaron que nos llevarían hasta la comisaría.

A través del espejo se vieron los ojos del señor Price, brillantes de furia.

"Te lo dije, cariño, no quería lastimar unas muchachas tan lindas, pero decidiste ser una tonta"

…

[notmyideia]

sooooooo, a little bird told me THE Barry Sloane aka CAPTAIN JOHN FUCKING PRICE from Call of Duty was in a band :) )and he was the lead vocalistand bassist (im unwell) in 2000-2001 when HE WAS 19?! (and with that eyebrow pricing? *dead*) AND THEY ARE BANGERS TOO.

But sadly they're only streaming on soundclound...??tf anyway

So I took manners onto my own hands and downloaded the songs to Spotify and made a playlist with all his songs <3