#john price x you

[spurbleu]

there is something so traditionally delicious about retired!price who can't put the tools down.

he carries the weight of a man who's lived twenty different lives and has finally chosen a soft one. where thick straps of muscle are layered in warm bread and butter. where hair furls in wiry curls across the brawn of his chest and his plum under eyes are replaced by sunspots and creases. where he is tender metal.

anyone who'd spent the grisly duration of a covert knew he'd earned it. he was the last to admit it, but it'd be a pointless lie to say he didn't enjoy aspects of the quiet.

but good lord, he needed a fucking project.

it's a decades old itch. couldn't put it out with cigars, or whiskey, and even rugby couldn't hold his attention for too long. he needed a tangible, ironclad cause. something to keep his mind sleeping when his body couldn't.

to his delight, you, in all your flushed cheek glory, delivered yourself to his door. his solution- under the limited contract of the "damn pipes" that gave you so much trouble.

his tinkering takes longer than it should have- the damage wasn't extensive. at first, the reason he laid on a back that cracks like firewood for so long is because it felt good to be useful. hands caked in underbelly grime, molding the pigeon feather pipes into a lasting practicality.

but then his hands held your baked muffins that you sheepishly offered in return for his help. the basement railing that was peeling off the wall like paint. the door handle that felt loose when he opened the door to leave.

suddenly, he was returning for a completely different reason.

secretly obsessing over how your floral aprons might look over a swollen belly when you fuss over the door handle of the guest bedroom.

he nods, half listening as he reimagines it as a nursery.

[girl-lostconnection]

141 hiding from fruit bat reader cuz they know she can’t use echolocation, thinking they’re playing such a funny prank without realizing that she can just sniff them out

Bold of them to assume she can’t use echolocation because maybe she really can’t. But they are being so fucking annoying about that, she HAS to either learn or pretend she could all along.

Like that one video with Ethan and Markiplier where Ethan used echolocation by snapping his fingers? Yeah, imagine that but Reader in a pitch dark room.

Johnny who tries to crawl away but gets caught the first as the result.

Simon who doesn’t want to admit but he IS a little scared so he doesn’t move out of his corner (smart man, even if you can’t use echolocation, your hearing is still excellent).

Kyle is seriously contemplating how much he’s going to get teased if he would just perch high enough. Then he remembers you also has wings and starts slowly huddling towards Simon’s corner.

I feel like Price would be very proud of you in the moment but also very determined not to get caught. His determination would not help him, the room has only four corners and the doors are locked — they aren’t going anywhere

[moody-alcoholic]

This but things go wrong

CW: stalking behaviour, overprotective 141, fluff, alcohol.

___

“See her coming out now.” Ghost says over the radio.

“Afirm.” Soap’s voice comes back almost instantly. Ghost watches as you stumble over the pavement, pulling your jacket over your shoulders. It’s almost 3am, and most clubs are closing. The friend you came out with left an hour ago. Now you’re alone, drunk, swaying through the streets of London on a busy Saturday night.

“Watch your distance Soap, no need to spook her.” Price says.

“Copy.” Soap says as he weaves his way through the crowd of clubbers spilling out of the various nightclubs and bars. He keeps his head low, making sure to keep a safe distance from you. They’re not going to lose sight of you though. That’s what Ghost is for.

He slips between the crowds on the other side of the street, slipping into the shadows every opportunity he gets.

“She’ll take the next right. Don’t lose her.” Price says as you pick up your pace slightly. He’ll be driving to the next location, ready to pick you up at a moment's notice. You pull your phone out, typing while you struggle to keep your balance. Ghost lost track of how many drinks you had.

It was a celebration after all, your friend getting a big promotion, she took you to one of the fanciest bars in the city. Even though she left early you still seemed to be having fun, helping yourself to another drink before finally deciding to call it a night.

The streets off the main road are darker, quieter. Less room for error.

Ghost watches as Soap gets slowed down by a group of girls cat-calling him. He plays it off in that annoying way that makes Ghost feel possessive of him. Hie eyes linger on the hen party fussing around him, gritting his teeth as Soap pushes through them.

Ghost looks back to were you were. Shit. He’s lost visual.

“Ghost?” Soap’s voice comes through, concerned.

“Lost visual Soap. Keep walking I’ll push ahead.” Ghost says picking up his pace to make it to the next corner.

“You lost her?” Price’s voice comes through. “Need me to move?”

“Stand-by.” Ghost says. He’s holding his breath as he jogs up the street, when he turns the corner his stomach drops. Fuck. He still can’t see you. The street is quiet though.

“Soap, double time, need you to check your side of the street.”

“Copy.” Soap says, Ghost waits until Soap makes it to the top of the street. They move together in sync checking each alley way, each garden, every nook and cranny.

“Sitrep Ghost.” Price asks after a few minutes of silence. Ghost sighs before replying, swallowing the lump in his throat. He opens his mouth to reply but he doesn’t get time.

“I see her.” He breathes out a breath of relief, it doesn’t last long.

“Got two guys on her.”

Ghost’s steps pick up, he spots you leaning against a stranger, you’re swaying in the street. He hears you laugh as the second man’s arm wraps round your waist.

“Price, get to the next rendezvous. Well bring her to you.” Ghost says already crossing the street. “Soap get her attention. I’ll deal with the guys.”

“Need me to call Gaz?” Price asks.

“Negative, we’ve got this.” Ghost says as Soap calls out for you. You turn in the strangers arms, your face lights up when you see him.

“Johnny!” You call reaching out for him. The stranger keeps his grip on you, it makes Soap’s stomach turn. “What are you doing here?”

You’re unsteady on your feet trying to pull yourself off the man his friend looks around. The street is dark, there are no streetlamps on down here, it’s easy to slip into an ally, who knows what could have happened.

“I was having a drink saw you leave the bar.” He says with a smile, his eyes keeping track of the shadows. Ghost will already be on the move. The second guy has taken a step back, he only needs to worry about the stranger with his hands on you.

“Do you know him?” He asks, his fingers digging into your waist, Soap wants to tear him off you. You’re drunk, he’s taking advantage of you.

Knight in shining armor, it almost makes Soap laugh.

“Yeah! He’s my boyfriend.” You say still trying to rangel yourself out of his grip, Soap looks in your eyes, it’s almost like you have a second of clarity. The stranger loosens his grip on you.

“Boyfriend?” He asks. The other stranger has taken another step back.

Things happen quickly. It’s like Ghost comes from deep within the shadows, his hand grips the shoulder of the second man, Soap watches the colour drain from his face. Soap reaches forward gripping your wrists and pulling you out the first mans grip and into his arms.

“Hey!” He the man calls reaching out to try and grab you back. Soap ignores him wrapping his own arm round your waist. You lean against him as he walks you back down the road.

“Heading to rendezvous.” Soap says.

“Huh?” You ask turning up to look at him.

“How was your night?” He asks kissing you on the top of your head.

“Great! We celebrated and I remember what you said watch my drinks. I made sure I could always see them.” You say, Soap smiles as you turn the corner back to the main road.

“Good girl. Did you have fun?” He asks.

“Yeah, I got to meet her boss, he’s a really nice guy for a bank manager.” You chuckle. Soap spots Price parked in a taxi bay. You don’t seem to notice though talking about your friend and her promotion.

“Ghost, sitrep?” Price asks.

“All good here Cap. Should be finished up soon, don’t wait for me.” Soap smiles as he helps you into the back of the car.

“John!” You call reaching round the drivers seat to hug him. He smiles his eyes flicking up to Soap who helps you put your seat belt on.

“Seems like you’ve had an eventful night.” John says as he drives off.

“Yeah, it was fun.” You say leaning up against Soap who wraps his arms round you.

…

When they make it back to the house you’re asleep. Kyle is already waiting at the front door as John pulls up into the drive. John opens the back door of the car, you don’t wake as Johnny undoes your seat belt. You murmur as John scoops you up in his arms. He shushes you carrying you into the house.

Kyle’s hand comes to brush hair out your face as John walks through the doorway.

“Is she okay?” He asks looking up at John.

“She’s fine, too much to drink.” John says transferring you into Kyle's arms.

“Make sure Simon gets home safe.” Kyle asks turning into the house. John smiles kissing Kyle’s forehead.

“Of course. Make sure she’s okay.” John asks his hand coming to brush you cheek.

“Always.” Kyle smiles.

___

[gofishygo]

someone on this post asked me about price and gaz’s reactions and im fairly proud of the result considering it was written in a short time, so i’ll put it here.

i think price would crash out and lose a few screws. he's usually a man of order and the voice of reason in his team, but reader's death would be a bit too much to handle, i think. he doesn't want to blame ghost and soap, but he looks at reader's dead eyes and knows that they were the last people to exist in their thoughts and he can't bear that, nor can he look ghost and soap in the eyes when laswell calls to transfer them to a different team.

gaz is the first to enter reader's room after they'd passed away, is the one who has to file away the papers that still need to be written up, who will have to be finished by someone else. they're dead, buried in their hometown with the medals they've pulled over this career, and the world dares to keep spinning. for gaz, it's almost completely put to a standstill. once he's comfortable as he can be with the fact that they're gone, and he's just starting to accept that he has to scramble bits of them together, he's sleeping on their bed until their smell finally fades, wearing their shirts to sleep. he doesn't dare wear them outside though, where ghost and soap and price can see them, because like how he feels, it will dig deep and injure the parts of them that have hurt the most. right now, he is the only thing keeping what's left of the 141 together, but part of him wishes that you have loved him just as much as you loved ghost and soap, just as much as he'd loved you. maybe, things could have been different. but they aren't, because he's holding his own hand and pretending it's yours and there's two members left in the 141 out of the five that had previously been there- him and price, just like how it had started. (except it never hurts more.)

no but what if reader sacrifices themself for soap in the tunnel... (implied ghoap, ghoap x reader; mcd, reader has very low self esteem, reader probably has depression, mw3 spoilers)

you know how important he is to ghost. everybody does- it's hard to not notice that they are practically symbiotic- feeding off of each other's laughs, near inseparable. you never see one without the other.

and compared to him, you are nothing more than a burden to the team, you figure. you do not carry soap's explosive force, the intensity in his eyes, nor do you have half of ghost's expertise in sniping, do not carry any of his mystique. you dont- you dont deserve a second glance, much less any of their kindness. your fascination, you like to call it, towards johnny and ghost, it should be hidden under your tongue, clandestine and invisible.

nobody gets a say in how quickly you are to establish yourself as the wallflower of the 1-4-1. and by the time of mw3, nobody gets to intercept how you manage to run solo in a team, no matter how much they try to reach out. they have each other. why would they ever need you?

so in that clammy, chilling tunnel, your reactions to such an ambush are second nature- you shut down the moment johnny's shoulder is shot. tackling the enemy- the movement is so instantaneous and blurry that you do not realise that said enemy is makarov himself-onto the asphalt and plunging your knife in and out of him until the muzzle of a gun presses against your head and it's bullet lodges into the back of your brain. you die instantly, silently, not hearing how johnny screams your name instead of your callsign, how simon, for the first time, seems uncoordinated, desperate like a dog as he fumbles to revive you. you had never thought that they cared, never believed they would look at you with reprocipricated admiration. and moments before you die, you realise that you will never know how much of a presence you were in their lives, and you close your eyes knowing that they will be okay together. but you arent around long enough to see how they crumble, and you die with the belief that in this world, you are none other than a replacement. you never seem to stay around long enough to see how simon, johnny, love you.

and you never will.

[leyavo]

| I am my father’s daughter |

💖 Dad!Price x Daughter!reader, eventual Soap x reader

PART FOUR: John Price hasn’t seen or heard from his daughter in over year, but that changes when she calls him one night asking for help. 2,565words

TW: hurt/angst/mentions of abuse/ complicated father-daughter relationship

Previous parts > [Series Masterlist]

🔈Reader’s view of John is different, he’s come and gone in her life etc so she thinks he’s not that great. So don’t send me hate

You learnt from a young age to stay silent when it came to the adults in your life. Made it easier to get the talk over with. Less words to get you in trouble, something you always tried to dodge.

Silence, your best friend. The one thing that kept you company most days. You stared at your dad, arms folded over your chest as you leant back on the stiff wooden chair. Not quite tucked in under the table, slightly angled in case you needed to make a quick exit.

The shiny new phone on the varnished surface, some sort of peace offering or something to be held over you, another thing for you to figure out.

The Captain however, he wasn’t as easy to read and that added to the weight on your chest. You weren’t sure on the limits, what he’d allow or how he’d deal with something he didn’t like.

You cleared your throat, gaze flitting to his across the table. “So, I can probably find a place in like a couple days or so, a week tops you know,” you said rambling on about a friend of a friend who lived close by.

Not a total lie, you’d slept on your mates sofa’s here and there as a teen when things went south before. You’re sure you can pick up some bar work to help you out till you find something more permanent.

The Captain shook his head. “Stay as long as you need, kiddo. Anything you need your old man’s ‘ere.”

As long as you need, another open ended thing for you to figure out. You didn’t want to overstay your welcome or get too close to him. Didn’t want to rely on your dad, knowing that he’ll come and go as he pleased. Blame it on the job, send you a message to check in and rid himself of the guilt.

“You know, it’s not just us living here,” he said, interrupting the constant thoughts rattling in your head. You know the little voice that’s always second guessing other people’s actions and trying to decipher the true meaning of their words and actions.

Oh shit, you didn’t even think of his team living in the same house. They’d given you and the captain space since you’d got here. You’re hoping you won’t be there for long, even if you have to stay at a shitty hotel until you get enough money to put down on a flat to rent.

“I’ll stay out of the way, no problem.”

Out of sight, out of mind. Least he wasn’t taking you to his house with your brother and stepmother.

“Nah kiddo, this is just as much your space now,” he said, his brows scrunching together as his eyes roamed your face. Like he was also trying to figure you too. “There are some rules though.”

“Rules?” You echoed back at him. You weren’t so good with rules, they normally came with expectations and punishments when they were broken.

Not that you’d be breaking them, willingly anyways. You didn’t want to think of the outcome if you did either.

“We’ll be in and out of the house, no set routine. All you gotta do is look after yourself kiddo, we eat mostly in the canteen as it’s convenient. So you’ll probably be having your meals alone, help yourself to whatever’s in the fridge, but add to the list on the front if you run out of stuff,” he said, sliding a notepad in front of him. The scratch of his pen jotting down numbers and words.

You nodded, “sure that’s okay.” You’d been fending for yourself for years, knew how to make the most of the basics or go without. Skipping a meal a day wasn’t a big deal for you. You could survive on just one if you needed to. You wondered if they kept track of the food or if they labelled their own food. There wasn’t any locks on the kitchen cabinets, so it looked like it wasn’t too strict.

“Now, you’re on base. So you won’t be able to walk anywhere and everywhere. There’s a map here,” he mumbled, pointing to an unfolded leaflet. He placed it in front of you and started to circle some areas, blue ink tracing the paths and road. “All the places I’ve highlighted you can go. Do not, I repeat do not go anywhere else.” His voice lowering as he got to the last sentence, gaze flicking up to yours. He jabbed the tip of the pen in your direction, brows raising as if daring you to argue about it.

The look of someone you did not want to piss off. You glanced back to the untouched areas, half of them with no labels or names.

“Uh, yes sir. I won’t go there.”

He doesn’t question the formal sir you’ve thrown his way, the line between his brows softening and eyes relaxing from their narrowed gaze.

“You got any idea what type of work you’re looking for?”

You shook your head. There wasn’t much you could do, a few different jobs here and there. You’d take anything at this rate, you weren’t picky. Money was money at the end of the day.

“Alright, I know someone hiring,” he said, raising his hand to stop you interrupting him. “Three days a week, entering data into a computer. Gotta interview kiddo, nothing comes for free.” He ripped off a piece of paper from his notepad, pushing it to you. A number and name, along with a date of the interview.

The ever prepared Captain already scheduled you an interview. Part of you wondering if he’d planned the rest of your time here.

Boring work, but you didn’t have the luxury to care. You needed to find something as fast as you could.

“It’s not working here is it?” You asked, trying not to offend him.

The Captain chuckled, “nah kiddo. A fifteen minute drive. If you get the job, I’ll sort the insurance on the truck and you can borrow it for now till you find your feet.”

It’s been years since you’ve seen him smile, the curve of his lips making him seem younger. Like the dad who used to ruffle your hair and put you over his shoulder when you were six. The years seemed to harden your parents, your mother’s snapping tone still sent a shiver down your spine. Your father’s stern face, lines in the corners of his eyes and the centre of his forehead painting him serious most of the time.

“What about rent?”

Nothing comes for free, his own words repeating in your mind. You wonder what else you’ll have to earn whilst you’re staying with him.

“Keep ya’ money,” he grumbled, his chair scraping back as he stood up. He walked over to the fridge, pinning a piece of paper under a magnet. His finger jabbing the scribbled mess. “If you need to reach me, this is my office number. Mobile first, office is last resort.”

“And mum?” You dared to ask, still expecting her to appear with each waking day. Least you'd hear her before you actually saw her.

“We’ll talk about it another day. Rest up and look after yourself. You still need to take it easy.”

You nodded, releasing a deep breath. The weight on your chest lifting, the tension loosening from your shoulders.

The Captain turned his back from you, flicking the kettle on. You rose from the chair, tucking it back under the table. He handed you a steaming cup of tea and you settled down into the sofa, placing the cup on the coffee table.

A kiss landed on the crown of your head, "gotta go back to the office, you know what to do if you need anything."

You didn't get a chance to react, the front door closed before you could catch a glimpse of your father.

Sleep had been fleeting the past week, as soon as your cheek hit the pillow on the couch you were out. You were never much of a heavy sleeper, but the rough weight on your forehead soothed the heat and sweat coating it, that you didn’t question it. The cool touch easing your faltering breaths.

You shifted, the cushion wedged behind your back brushed against the wound near your shoulder blade, a groan slipping from your lips. The hushed tones of someone shushing you and the hair sweeping behind your ear, however, sent alarm bells ringing. You shot up, head crashing into the nearest thing.

Johnny Mactavish stumbling back with a grunt. He cradled his jaw, a string of curse words falling from his lips.

"Fuckin' hell, Johnny," you snapped, clutching your forehead and scrambling to sit up. "Why are you breathing over me?" You traced the stitches above your brow, lowering a trembling finger tip expecting blood, but there was none.

Your heart drummed against your chest, the shirt you wore drenched in sweat and sticking to the dip between your breasts. Your fingers pinched the fabric, allowing the excess to swallow your figure once again.

The crick in your neck stopped you from turning your face quickly to the man in front of you.

Johnny rubbed his chin, red tinge marring his jawline. "Thought you'd passed out again, checking for your breath lass." He sat on the edge of the coffee table, wood groaning under his weight.

The distressed denim jeans hugged his thick thighs, baggy t-shirt skimming over a leather belt. Sergeant written across his firm chest. Your gaze wandered to the short sleeves and the way they curled around his biceps. A few nicks and scrapes dotted his bare arms, fading green bruise on his knuckles.

He reached out and you dodged his hand, trying to sink further into the sofa. Wanting it to swallow you up, anything to go unnoticed.

“You’re hot.”

It took you a second to register what he'd said.

“I’m what?” You stuttered, trying to pull the thin blanket over your shoulders as you slid down in your seat. God, he was so hot. Different to your ex, something untouchable about Johnny too though.

A deep chuckle shook his chest, his head cocking to side. Smile stretching his lips as if he noticed your stare. “Yeah, your head. Fever maybe?” He mumbled, leaning forward and placing the back of his hand on your forehead for a few seconds.

Of course, he wasn't looking at you like that. You don't even know why your mind went there either. Must be the fever messing with you.

You blinked, not sure of why he was checking you over again. If you’ve got a fever you’ll be taking a bath right? Or just riding it out? You weren’t quite sure. Did the Captain put him up to this?

It was the first time taking medication like this, normally you took paracetamol and hoped for the best.

Johnny’s touch is light, brief as he pulled away and clasped his hands in between his legs. “Did ya’ miss your meds?” He glanced over his shoulder, the ridiculously large clock ticking away.

“I fell asleep.” You shrugged, “I’ll just take them in a bit.” It’d been four hours since you’d settled on the sofa and three hours ago you were supposed to take two pills.

“You gotta take them at the specific times,” Johnny said, popping the pills out of their packaging and into your palm. He walked to the kitchen, returning with a large glass of water.

Sipping the water and throwing back your medication, you went to place it on the table, but he shook his head.

“Drink all of that, will help with that fever,” he said, sinking into the sofa beside you. The cushion dipped beside you and found your body leaning to his. "Might wanna, take that blanket off too." He snatched the blanket from your lap, balling it up and tossing it on the armchair beside him.

You drank half, gaze locked on his as you placed the glass on the coffee table. Wondering if he’d tell you to drink more, but he picked up the remote, flicking through the tv guide.

“Captain got you babysitting?” You checked your phone, a chain of texts from your father and an alarm notification you slept through that alerted you of the time and the meds you needed to take. forty-six missed calls and twelve voice messages, your ex's name lit up the screen as you turned it over on the table.

Johnny slouched against the back of the sofa, legs widening. Your knee brushing against the side of his denim clad thigh. His hand resting ever so close to yours on his own leg.

“Nah, watching the rugby.” He pointed to the tv with the remote, the match three minutes in already. There’s a bottle of beer in his other hand, the same one your ex liked.

The one you used to stare at in the shop, wondering if this pack would go in your favour or go against you.

Johnny seemed pretty calm though, you don’t know him well so the beer in his hand doesn’t help you feel any better. People are totally different after consuming stuff like that.

“You like the rugby?”Johnny said, his deep voice pulling you out of your head. He sucked in a breath as the players tackled each other for the ball.

You shook your head, “I hate sports.” You can't think of anything worse, a group of men shouting and hollering at a match. The spike of violence when their teams didn't win, all because of a game. You tried to keep away from all that.

The bottle doesn't touch his lips, a chuckle shaking his shoulders. "Yeah my sisters hated it whenever I watched the rugby." A smile playing on his lips, his fingers picking at the label on his beer bottle.

"You've got sisters?" It doesn't surprise you. He's respectful towards the women on base, well from what you've seen so far.

"Yeah, three of them. Don't know what's worse, three of them or that they're older."

You wonder how different your life would have been if you had siblings, someone else around your age to take the load off of you. Another person who could relate to everything, someone you could talk to without judgement.

Johnny rambled on about his siblings, telling you little bits of pieces of his childhood. The more he said, the more you felt like you'd missed out on a lot. You nodded along, lying when he'd asked you if you were close with your mum. The instinct to paint everything good still ingrained in your being.

The phone in front of you vibrated, kept doing so until you picked it up and turned it off. You don't even need to look at who it is, no matter who it is, it's not someone you want to deal with right now.

"Block 'em, don't want the Captain getting a hold him." He doesn't spare you a glance as he spoke, the tic in his jaw pulsing.

Johnny meant well, but you couldn't stop the cogs turning as you thought of what would happen if the Captain knew everything. A part of your life you'd never shared with your dad, for good reason too.

And if he'd even believe you.

✨ Thanks for reading I hope you enjoyed it :) there might be some errors/mistakes as I'm dyslexic, I do check my work a couple times, but I do miss bits and pieces - Leya

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(Some of the tags wouldn't work so sorry if I didn't tag you. If you would like to be added just let me know)

[dreaminguponlilypads]

SILENCE BETWEEN US

first awareness?? fic/blurb, starting with selective mutism

John was a patient man. He had to be. His job demanded it—calculating risks, waiting for the right moment, never letting emotions cloud his judgment.

But patience wasn’t the same as understanding. And when it came to you, sometimes he struggled.

He tried. He really did. When you got quiet in social situations, he didn’t push. When a cashier asked you a question and you just stood there, looking helpless, he smoothly stepped in. When your voice faltered around new people or stress crept into your shoulders, he squeezed your hand, letting you know he had you.

But arguments were different.

Price wasn’t the type to shout. He wasn’t cruel, never reckless with his words. But when things got tense, he expected communication. A back-and-forth. A fight that could be resolved.

And that was the problem, wasn’t it?

Because you couldn’t always fight back.

And now, here you were—silent, eyes wide, lips slightly parted like you wanted to say something but couldn’t.

And Price—despite everything he knew, despite how much he loved you—was losing his patience.

“Say something,” he snapped, pacing the living room. “Anything, for fuck’s sake!”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Tried again. Nothing.

His hands curled into fists at his sides. “Christ, you’re not even trying—”

The second the words left his mouth, regret hit him like a bullet to the chest.

Your face crumpled, eyes darting away, fingers twisting in your sleeves.

John felt the weight of his mistake settle in his gut.

He knew about your selective mutism. Knew stress locked your voice away, that it wasn’t something you could control. He knew—but in his frustration, he’d forgotten.

“Shit,” he muttered, scrubbing a hand down his face. “I didn’t mean that.”

No response. Just your hands, trembling slightly, your breaths uneven.

He forced himself to sit, exhaling sharply. “I really didn’t.”

You nodded. Just a tiny movement, but it was enough to twist the knife in his chest.

He swallowed. “Come here.” He didn’t demand—just asked, quiet and steady.

You hesitated, but after a long moment, you sat beside him. You didn’t look at him, but your fingers brushed his. Testing.

He turned his hand over, letting you take it. Holding on without pushing.

“I need to be better about this,” he admitted, voice rough. “About… remembering. I don’t ever want to make you feel like that again. But I promise I’m trying, just be a little patient.”

A small squeeze of your hand. Warm. Forgiving.

“You alright?” he asked softly.

Another nod.

“Take your time, love. I’ll wait.”

And he would. Because loving you meant learning.

[autumnheartsprice]

had to hold my phone with one hand halfway through

slowly being led into a very (bad and) codependent D/s relationship with Price is all I can think about right now.

It starts off small, too. Casual touches. It's what he's known for—tactile; a man of raw, untempered physicality, and you wonder if the absence of touch makes his palms itch sometimes—and you let it happen. Let it grow. Evolve. Shift from a breath to a kiss. Morphing from a ghost to something substantive. Corporeal.

His knuckles grazing your forearm when he stands beside you. His hand on your lower back. Correcting your form with both hands. Smothering his chest against your spine. Then—

His hand on your thigh. Slipping lower down your back until his pinky lifts over the curve of your ass. Possessive. It reeks of ownership. But you don't tell him to stop.

It's grounding. You're not sure why. It just is. Like counting to ten. Focusing on some distant object. One, two. His hand on your wrist. His thighs pressed tight to yours. Hands on you, always, until it feels as natural as breathing. Three, four.

These touches usually accompany his voice. The low grit of a command dragging over gravel. Nails against sandpaper. Whispered demands just for you. Only you.

Or, at least, that's how they start.

Optional. Suggestions. Things you can prise apart with your own will. Agency still glueing to your throat but—

Not for long.

His touch finds its way there, too.

Fingers against your neck. Your jaw. Cheek. It feels natural to let them slip between your lips. And as strange as it is (isn't), there's nothing really dirty about it. It's not sexual. Not yet. It's just—

(there's a hole in your throat aching for his fingers to fill)

Five, six.

He offers another suggestion, but when you go to answer (agency, autonomy), his fingers find their way inside your mouth, snuffing out the protests between thick, grizzled knuckles. Something inside of you shifts, a subtle subluxation, at the raw, heavy taste of him on your tongue.

He lowers your chin with a slight pressure against your jaw until you're staring at his throat. Submissive. He groans, fingers twitching. Calls you a good girl when you keep your gaze there. Always. Even with other people around. Alone. Supplicant.

It becomes a routine, much like everything else, to have his fingers inside your mouth; pacifying. Stealing the voice from between your teeth.

And choices—so many of them, too. You hadn't realised how many decisions you had to make in a day until it was muffled between the salty, geosmin tang of rough, calloused fingers stroking your tongue. Freeing in a way that you can define in simple words. Can't explain to your friends when they ask why you're acting like you're feeling for a cigarette whenever he's away from you. Jaw gnashing. Pacing. Skin itching. Burning. Unsettled. Raw. Nothing makes sense without his hands on your body. His taste on your tongue.

You try to replicate the feeling on your own by shoving your knuckle between your teeth at work when the noise, the choices, scream too loud in your ears. Your head. In your bedroom—two fingers down your throat, two sliding between your folds. A lit cigar burning, untouched, in the ashtray you bought. Perched as close to the edge of your end table as you could get it. Musk, leather. Something strong. Something that smells like him drenching your sheets. But it's not enough. It's never enough.

It isn't him.

You edge around this perverse neediness like its an open, infectious sore. Something has to give. Something has to break—

It doesn't take long until your mouth falls open at the sight of him, eager. So eager. You need it, and nearly sob when he peels his fingers away from your needy mouth, and tells you he has to leave again. But his gaze slants towards the case of cigars with a little grunt that makes your mouth water. A quiet good girl uttered as soft a rustling sheet, stuffing the hole in your throat for a little while longer. Soothing the ache.

Somewhere along the way, it just makes sense to sit on his lap instead of a chair. To keep your tongue tucked between two fingers, swallowing down the taste of him as he goes about his own routine. As if you're not even there. A paperweight against his chest.

Maybe he needs this as much as you do, too.

And that's good, really. Because you can't focus without him. The world is too much, too loud; too big.

It makes it easier to give in. Cut your lease. Let him pack everything you own into the back of his car.

(He groans like you've gutted him when you tell him you've already handed in your resignation two weeks ago.)

In private, in his office (your home now, too), you kneel on a satin pillow (when you're good), head bowed against his thigh, breathing in the heady musk of him. Gasoline. Iodine. Agar. Smoke. His hand falling down every so often to stroke calloused fingers against your nape. Tobacco. Worn leather. Fresh ink.

Your head is empty in these moments, forehead pressed against the cotton of his trousers. Deliciously so. You hadn't realised how much you think, either, until he cupped his hand around the back of your head and pushed your nose into his thigh. Mind reeling. Looping. Crowded. Loud. Until—

The scratch of a pen on paper. Metal sliding against wood. The hollow thunk of his hand dropping against the surface. Breaths. The whine of his chair when he shifts. A grunt. Empty, empty—

And when the catch of a zipper fills the air, you let his hands guide you to where you need to be, lips already parting at the slightest brush of his knuckles on your cheek. Open, willing. Empty.

He feeds you his cock without a word because none needs to be said. You know what to do. He's been training you for this moment from the onset. And the realisation of it settles around you like a blanket; that thing inside of you shifts again, sliding into place.

This is where you belong.

His hand on your crown. His growling voice in your ear. "Look at me when you swallow my cock, sweetheart—mm, that's my good girl."

(Nine, ten.)

[rosiereveries]

John who fucks you raw for the first time.

You've been dating for a year now, and you always tried to be safe. But now, he came home earlier from a mission, and you didn't have the time to buy the condoms.

But how you can say no to him, when he begs you to let him fuck you. He says how much he missed you and your pussy. So, you agree that you will give him a pussy job and he can push the tip inside.

John thinks that he never felt anything better than your pussy raw on his dick. Everything feels so intense, and he can't control himself. With few hard thrusts he is completely inside you and he can't hear your whimpers when you remind him that he is only allowed just the tip.

Now he has you under him and he promises that he will pull out, but he slowly starts to realize that it won't be possible. He thinks about you full with his child, with your breast getting bigger and his load spilling out of your pussy. How lovely would you look with his fat baby on your hip while being pregnant with another one.

He never thought he had a breeding kink but once he tried your pussy without a condom everything changes.

He pins you down to the mattress pushing his dick deep inside your pussy and when he feels you reaching your orgasm and squeezing his cock he spills his seed inside of you. With few more thrust he fucks the cum deeper inside of you.

And when you moan his name so overwhelmed and sensitive, he knows that he needs to make sure that it sticks. It doesn't take long and he is spilling another load into you.

And than another one in the shower while he has you pressed against the glass. And another one on the couch when he makes you ride him, while he smokes his favorite kind of cigars.

When the next day you come home with a pack of condoms, he quickly hides them away from you when you're not looking. He needs to make sure that soon enough you will be fat with his baby.

Masterlist

[spurbleu]

priceghost x reader. dubcon themes.

thinking about being john’s newly-wed, barefoot and warm as an oven, stumbling to the door when you hear his iron foot fall. it’s been months, but you recognize the cadence on the porch. sounds like morning tea and his favorite cigars.

unlocking the door and throwing yourself into his arms, smelling the space above his shoulder, inhaling…petrichor. wet dirt. blood.

that isn’t your husband.

you slowly peel yourself away, stunned when your eyes meet brown instead of blue.

“where’s…”

“right ‘ere, dove.”

you glance over the stranger’s shoulder (who is still holding you up) and find your husband, looking a little too amused that his wife is in another man’s arms.

once you reach him, he kisses the top of your head, before rubbing your shoulder to coo the loud creature of embarrassment before it reaches your mouth in the form of an apology.

“you’ve met simon. he’ll be staying with us for a little while.”

you glance between the two before meeting your husbands eye. “I-“

“im sure you don’t mind the extra stomach, right darlin?”

you swallow.

“of course not,” you glance at simon, who’s face remains neutral, “the more the merrier.”

you meant for meals. they seemed to understand it differently.

now you sleep between the two of them, quilt unnecessary while their meaty limbs keep you sweltering.

the bed is heavy, and you haven’t complained because you’re a hostess, and simon is john’s friend. even when you feel him palming your clothed cunt ‘in his sleep’, you don’t fuss.

instead, you silently turn on your side, trying your best to subtly grab your husbands attention.

but he’s already there, watching. smiling gently, like he does when he says he loves you.

“there there dove. you can learn to share, right?”

[girl-lostconnection]

So..forgive me you're the first person I'm ever asking anything on Tumblr (Kinda new and I usually like to describe it like hiding in the corner and just watching everything quietly and leaving likes and I love your work) but I was thinking about your concept with 141 and reader dying and the notebook. Would there ever be a case where the others stumble upon it? Whether Price forgets (somehow) to put it away or someone's in the midst of searching for something and stumbles upon it?

Again, love your work, feel free to ignore this tho

Yeah, I think this type of readers people call “lurkers” which is cool🙂‍↕️you guys are usually the backbone of the audience, I enjoy you tremendously.

And that’s a really good question, anon!

You know what? Why not turn the heat up a little more for this pot with the frogs.

I can imagine Price not exactly forgetting it somewhere but harbouring it so close to himself that people start to notice. This specific notebook is always with him — under his armoured vest and in the front pocket of his shirts, on top of the stack of documents, edge of it peeking out of his pants pocket.

It’s always there when before he didn’t carry it with him. It’s small and simple, technically it shouldn’t rise any questions but Kyle is the first who notices it. Maybe because after your death he’s so sharply attuned to everyone else on the team, it’s practically unhealthy.

Kyle who watches John fumble with the leather bound corners of the little thing and wonders…what’s inside of it? They have been all grieving but your things have been taken by them all and shared fairly.

Simon doesn’t withhold your pictures or books with your annotations. Soap doesn’t say no when Gaz asks for one of the keychains. Kyle himself lets Simon and Johnny take one of your things each. Simon takes the big oversized T-shirt and Soap whisks away one of your hoodies, clutching it hard to himself, knuckles white with tension.

(Kyle will never admit but when he walked in on Johnny in hoodie with your name and rank on the back of it his knees buckled. For a moment a traitorous part of him thought you were there. For a moment he could breathe again)

So Price keeping something of you to himself almost felt unfair. It wasn’t, of course, no, Captain had every right to grieve and mourn in a way that made it easier for him.

But-

But Kyle missed you. Everyday and every morning he’d wake up, realisations hitting him again that you aren’t coming back. You are never coming back.

You disappeared so suddenly you were now everywhere.

The unwashed cup they couldn’t bring themselves to wash, the clothes and trinkets, the books and pictures. The notebooks.

Kyle remembers how you two played games in it, drawing X’s and O’s when debrief would get too long and your brains too sluggish to keep awake without external stimulation.

Kyle remembers you writing in them, so focused you oftentimes wouldn’t notice him getting closer until he’d plop himself down in front of you, pretending to pose. Your favourite model, wasn’t he?

Kyle remembers you smiling at him, eyes flickering to his face for a moment, your gaze so impossibly soft he feels like choking and burying himself next to you.

There is a whole life ahead. Kyle isn’t sure how to live it with a hole in this chest the size of your love.

It’s a selfish thought, maybe. Maybe he is selfish.

Maybe he should have been content with what he has been given. But he wasn’t.

So now he slips the notebook off Price’s desk when the man himself is so wrecked he can’t see straight. John’s drinking got worse after your death. Not yet enough to cause disciplinary action but enough to make them all worried.

Gaz has never seen him like that.

Why were they all lucky enough to meet you but not lucky enough to save you? Would the outcome be different if one of them went with you on that deployment? Could they save you if they knew how it ends?

Could they try?

Kyle’s fingers skim over the pages, your hoodie on him and if he pretends hard enough it almost feels like a hug. It almost feels like his body heat seeping through fabric is yours. Like you were just wearing it.

Like you didn’t leave at all.

Like you are coming back.

Kyle flips through the pages, gurgling wet laughter in his throat when he notices that you have been writing Simon’s jokes down and coming up with your own. (The “just got hospitalised due to peekaboo incident. They put me in ICU” joke almost makes Kyle choke).

Some part of him gets why Price has been guarding this specific journal so hard. Why he wasn’t letting anyone else close to it, because this right here is you.

Everything that’s left of your thoughts and feelings, of your humour and love, of your plans and scribbles.

It’s tangible proof that you were here. You lived, you loved, you thought. You were there and you were a person. Their favourite person. Their beloved one.

Maybe that’s why your small note hits him harder than he could have ever expected. A small resigned “I’m not sure I fit in. I’m not sure I’m not second…or fifth best in this case. Don’t even know if I wanna talk about it. Just plain stupid” splits Kyle’s scull open and leaves him bleeding and aching and shaking.

What…what did you mean “fifth best”? Why would you say that? What- no. Nonononono. No, it’s not fair. It’s not true, it has never been true.

Kyle feels like driving back to the cemetery and wrapping his car around the poll.

Kyle feels like clawing at the ground and sobbing-sobbing-sobbing.

Kyle feels like begging.

Please, no. Please, come back. Please, let him fix it, let him tell you the truth, let him tell you.

Kyle understands why Price was guarding the journal this fiercely. Kyle is so mad he feels like demolishing John’s office and yelling until his voice is raspy useless thing, vocal cords damaged, headache pounding inside his head and he’s burning from inside out.

Kyle looks at the page, his whole core so hollowed out you could feel an echo if you’d knocked.

Kyle doesn’t know what to do because you are gone.

Because he wants to say “I’m sorry, love, I’m so sorry, I’d be better if I knew”, he wants to say “come back and scream at me, come back demand attention, come back and hurt me in return just please please come back”.

He wants to say “I love you” in a hundred different ways, he wants to kiss it better, he wants to hold you again, he wants you back, why can’t you come back, why can’t he get you back? He will change, he will do better, he will pay attention, he’s sorry, love, he’s so sorry.

Soap finds him just blankly staring at the page and he doesn’t understand at first, concern sharpening his features like one of the razors he uses for his drawing pencils.

Johnny sinks down next to him, lips pressing to Kyle’s temple, breath panting when Gaz doesn’t respond because he can’t.

He doesn’t know what to say.

How do you live knowing you may never change what already happened? How do you keep going knowing your tenderness is decaying six feet underground, that your love is springing with flowers when they should have stayed above the ground and picked them? How do you get over it? How?

Johnny’s eyes skim over the page and Gaz can feel when the realisation sinks in, when the body next to him is getting poured full with raw ache and ice sharp panic.

Johnny asks “Gaz whose journal is that”, Johnny pleads “Mate, talk to me, where did you get it?”, Johnny whimpers “Kyle tell me it’s not theirs, Kyle please, Kyle say something”.

Kyle doesn’t know what to do other than wrap himself around Soap and hold him despite the thrashing, despite the disbelieving laughter that descends into gasping for air and clawing at his back and shoulders.

Kyle doesn’t let him get out and do something stupid, like drive to the cemetery and wrap a car around the poll and curl near your gravestone.

There is an awfully loud gulp and the journal is getting carefully taken off Kyle’s lap, Simon’s fingers long and scarred — things broken too many times to grown back straight and narrow, calloused pads of his fingers catching on the paper of the notebook.

Kyle has to drag him down to them, he has to practically kick the ground from under Ghost’s feet because the man looks like he will get the shovel and get you out of the coffin.

(Kyle doesn’t want to think how Simon refused to let them bury you, how he sat with you for days, until the decomposition became evident. Kyle doesn’t want to think how Simon placed a phone in your coffin despite knowing that you are not coming back. Kyle doesn’t want to think that Simon was terrified the 4 of them might bury you alive).

Ghost looks like the sky just fell on his head, crashing his spine and grinding down his nerves. Ghost looks like he wants to cry but doesn’t know how.

Ghost looks like how they all feel.

Kyle forces the man into their cuddle pile and forces his hand to wrap around Johnny, because Soap digs his fingers into them like he’s falling-falling-falling. System crashing, bomb ticking, Rome burning down.

Funny how Ghost never understood the phrase “going mad with grief”, always felt like it was a bit of dramatisation. People die every day after all, don’t they? It’s statistically impossible to never lose a single person.

Funny how Soap gets it now perfectly. The shift of tectonic plates in his brain, the rewiring of the whole system, pain so intense he might have ash for heart now.

Funny how it’s not funny at all but Gaz still laughs, face wet when Simon tightens his grip and pulls Kyle in, letting him hide his face.

Taglist: @synthe4u

[justkitkatthings]

I can’t believe it’s over I literally love this so much!!

ch14 something borrowed something blue (mafia!price x simon's sister!reader)

tw: guns and violence. christmas is mentioned but nothing religious

last chapter yall! i did not edit this srry

masterlist

The day your life changes forever, again, is emotional for all the wrong reasons.

Two months after you get rescued (John insists that you rescued yourself, but you like to remember that image of him haloed by light at the top of the stairs like an angel), you send your brother and his husband back home to Manchester. The morning breeze whips the fabric of your coat as you squint at your family in front of you. Simon is dressed in his usual dark slacks and button down, the lines of his tattoos escaping the fabric to trail up his neck. Johnny’s mohawk has grown into a mullet, curly hairs framing his face like a cherub. They stand in front of the Castle doors with their backs to the waiting car, eyes trained on you and occasionally flicking to John or Gaz at your sides.

“I’m going to miss you.” You murmur, hugging Johnny first. He squeezes you until you’re lifted off the ground and pounding on his back to let you go. “Gonna miss ye too, hen.” He sets you on your feet laughing, then leans in to kiss your forehead. “Take care of y’rself.” He says it to you but his eyes meet John’s, a silent conversation happening between them. You turn to Simon, leaving Johnny to have intimidating handshakes with the men by you.

“Bye, Si.” He smothers you in a hug like he’s trying to merge you into him. “Bye, my love.” You sniffle into the crook of his neck, willing yourself not to cry. “You gonna visit more often?” You ask, voice weak with emotion. He nods tightly against you. “And it can’t just be because I got kidnapped. You need to come for fun.” He grumbles something nonsensical at that. Simon’s still sensitive over not finding Phil, a task that had eaten away at him all month. John finally called it after there was evidence Phil fled to Cuba. Simon squeezes you once more, freezing for a second when he feels the Glock tucked in your waistband. He sets you on your feet, his eyes searching yours as you try to tell him why. Satisfied that he found something, Simon nods resolutely. His eyes are wet but in a blink they’re dry, maintaining his tough-guy persona. You snort back a sob like a real woman, turning away as the men shake hands.

“Bye, guys!” You say one last time as they turn, hands almost brushing on their walk to the car. Johnny winks at you before dipping into the car while Simon turns his head upwards like he’s blinking back tears. The door shuts and they disappear in a cloud of exhaust. 

John’s arm wraps around your waist, tugging you into him. You go willingly, hiding your face in his neck as you fold into him. “You’ll see him for Christmas, sweetheart.” Only a few weeks away, but it feels like eons. John kisses the side of your head, squeezing you tight until you can breathe. “John, I just…” You don’t even know what you want to say, just that you already miss your family with a deep ache in your heart. His free hand finds purchase at the nape of your neck, tugging you closer into him. “I know, baby, I know.” The simple acknowledgement of your feelings calms your breathing into a normal rhythm until you can pull back with a small smile on your face.

“I think I’m going to take a walk. Clear my head.” He nods, his beard pulling at the sides. You notice new grey hairs at the sides, a worrying look. “I’ll come?” You shake your head no, then peck him on the lips. “I think I need to be alone, honey. You can have all the men watch me from every corner of the park, I promise.” John knocks his forehead into yours for a second before pulling back with a grim smile on his face. “I’ll be in my office if you need me.” He pecks your forehead and turns back inside. Gaz nods at you, then taps his ear and speaks something into his earpiece.

You venture across the street into the local park. It reminds you a bit of Central Park in the movies, full of natural structures rather than just a flat patch of grass. You let your feet guide you, taking deep breaths in the crisp winter air. A moment later, you realize this is the first time in a while you haven’t thought about your kidnapping. Your therapist’s breathing techniques make an appearance as you pat yourself on the back. 

Though the leaves are dead and the air is chilly, there’s still a lot of foliage in the park. Considerable bunches of bushes protect you from the wind as you walk in deeper. It’s calming to know that there’s guards watching you from somewhere you can’t see, a safety blanket to fall back on. As you turn left, you notice a tiny hill that rises into an overhang. Your feet weave a path towards it, settling your back to the rock wall and sliding down into a sitting position as you contemplate the last few months. 

Footsteps crunch on dead leaves as someone approaches from behind you. “Oh, I’m sorry, I’d really prefer to be alon-” You stop in the middle of your sentence when you register the man standing in front of you. He’s thinner from when you last saw him, cheeks gaunt and sallow. His hair looks thinner and though you know it’s not possible, he looks shorter. A dark cap blocks you from seeing his eyes, an unsettling realization creeping over you. 

“What, how, I thought you left the country?” Phil shakes his head, advancing near your spot. You scramble to sit up, wincing as your head knocks against the short overhang. You try to step out of its shadow but Phil steps forward again, preventing you from peeling out of the shadows. “Couldn’t leave you, sugar. Was jus’ waiting for your brother to leave.” You shiver at his insinuation. He seems…off. No longer the confident assistant or the wily interrogator. It’s like you are his mission now that Shepherd is gone.

“Why don’t we get out of this cold and grab a tea, Phil? I bet you’re shivering.” He’s not even wearing a coat, dressed in a worn pair of jeans and a cotton long sleeve. If you can just get out of the overhang so security can see you…

Phil shakes his head, fumbling for something at his side. Your dominant hand is still against the hard slab of rock, originally there to steady you as you stood up. “I’ve been watchin’ you. Waiting.” You nod, hand pressing against your pants as you fumble for the Glock tucked in your waistband. “Waiting for what?” You steady your voice so it doesn’t sound nervous. You smile sweetly at him, like you’re excited to be conversing with your kidnapper. Phil smiles back and you hold back your flinch. He’s missing two teeth, like they were pulled out at all the wrong angles. You shiver to think of how else Shepherd punished him.

“To talk to you, sugar. We could’ve had somethin’ great at the bookstore.” You swallow and nod, smiling tightly. Your hand finally finds the cold metal of the gun, fingers falling into a familiar grip at the handle. “I know, I’m sorry it went the way it did. I enjoyed our time there.” He nods sharply, eyes glittering with zeal. Shepherd must have knocked something loose in his brain, some part to turn him into this frenzied stalker. Phil looks at a loss for words so you stumble through a question.

“How were you watching me? Must’ve been pretty clever of you.” You give him a tooth grin, encouraging him to continue with a head nod. “Well, I-” You flick out your gun, hands sure as you aim it at him. “I need you to step backwards, Phil.” He refuses, shaking his head vehemently. “I can’t let you out there, sugar. My mission isn’t complete.” You walk forward with the gun and Phil doesn’t follow your lead, standing tall. “Move, Phil. Let’s talk this out in the park.” 

It happens in a flash.

Phil reaches for the gun and you fire. Years of lessons come back instantly, all those times you pushed yourself to learn self-defense techniques, even when Johnny pleaded exhaustion and Simon pleaded never-ending work. You squeeze the trigger again, shooting through his outstretched fingers. It’s like a release.

The gunshot garners the attention of your security team. Men and women swarm you instantly, securing the body and taking the weapon out of your grip. John is there a minute later, petting your face worriedly. Gaz is asking questions but all you can focus on is the maroon stain of blood drying on the dusty rocks and lifeless grass of the park. You squeeze the gun in your grip before realizing someone took it from you, your fingers only finding air.

“I did it.” Finally, your eyes focus on John’s, noting the concern woven into your skin. “You did.” His hands don’t stop moving, squeezing your face and sides like he can’t believe you’re in front of him. “Let’s get you home, sweetheart. Ok?” You nod once and he smiles like you’ve impressed him. “Ok.”

-

For Christmas, John only buys you one gift.

Well, not exactly.

John cannot bear the sight of his city anymore, so he convinces you to stay, temporarily, in the countryside after you shoot Phil. After you, his wife, killed her own enemy in a park. A fact he reminds himself of everyday, turning it around in his brain like a puzzle he can’t solve. He can’t protect you, plain and simple. There’s only one solution for that.

You beg him to do Christmas in the library in front of the fireplace, a festive tree tucked in the corner. It’s been just you and him since the shooting. He can’t bear losing your attention to any other person and you’re too skittish to be around more than one person at a time. Jumping at every footstep, staring at the corners of the old master bedroom in the estate like there are ghosts watching. Laswell’s wife agreed that an escape to a new location might be good for you since the Castle and its surrounding park hold too many terrifying memories. 

“I want you to open this one first, John.” There you are, haloed by firelight as you hand him a red and green present. You’re clothed in Christmas pajamas, a matching set you forced John to wear as well. He shakes his head no, sliding the envelope from where he was holding it behind his back. “You first, sweetheart.” You drop the present with a frown, snatching the envelope from his waiting hands.

You break the wax seal impatiently, tugging the set of papers out of their cage and setting them on the floor in front of you. Your eyes scan the papers quickly before frowning at him. “What are these?” John scans your face for any sense of a reaction, but it’s a smooth mask. “Read the top, baby.” You don’t look down at the papers, eyes trained on his face. “Let me rephrase. Why are you handing me divorce papers, John?” He sighs frustratedly.

“I can’t protect you. You said it, sweetheart. You’re trapped. I’m lettin’ you out. You never signed up for losin’ your life.” Instead of answering him, you slap your hands on the wooden floors and scramble into a standing position. “You’re an absolute ass, you know that?” You turn smartly and march into the bookshelves, John sharp on your heels. He thought this might happen, but he didn’t expect such an angry reaction. He thought you might be a little distraught but glad to go back to Manchester and put this shamble of a marriage behind you.

You’re muttering things under your breath as he chases you through the bookshelves. Right before the shelf ends, you whip around, flames in your eyes. “I haven’t hated you for months, but I think I do right now.” You bite out. John puts his hands up like you’re a wild animal needing to be calmed. “I thought you’d be glad. You were trapped.” You roll your eyes, nearing him quickly. “If I didn’t choose this marriage, you would know, John. I can clearly use a gun.” You haven’t talked about the shooting too much. John shut you away and waited for you to fall apart, but all you’ve done is…survive. John doesn’t respond, too thrown by your admission. Now you’re in his space, your chest meeting his own with every inhale. When he still doesn’t answer, you continue. “I love you, you absolute idiot. I did before I was kidnapped and I do now. You held me after I killed a man, John. Why would I divorce you?” John has no logical response. He drops to his knee.

“Marry me again. Just us, doin’ it ‘cause we can.” You blink, thrown by the change in events. “You just served me divorce papers.” You blurt. John smiles. “I didn’t sign them so even if you did, we’d be…” He gestures into open air, like he can’t articulate that he intended to trap you again. A terrible, terrible man. He can’t believe you love him.

“I hate you.” You say, smiling. “You love me.” You shake his head at your words. “That’s it?” You murmur, suddenly shy. That’s right, he almost forgot. “I love you too, sweetheart. Have since the weddin’, if we’re bein’ honest.” You bite your lip in surprise. John rises up and you pull him in, kissing him hard. “Tha’ a yes?” He murmurs, kissing your jaw. “Yes, Mr. Price. I’ll marry you again.”

-

GUYSSSS she's over!! she's done!! thank you for all the kind likes and comments and reposts and overall support it means the WORLDDDD. stay tuned for more price content <333

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@leon-thot-kennedy

@the-gods-gloted-but-they-burned

@barcelonaaababe

@brokenandemptyhearts

@sleep101

@ontopofthefridge

@lilynotdilly

@teenagellamaangel

@harperdoodle

@ii-angelsrolltheireyes-ii

@violetisheresworld

@lolwey

@polyfandom-blogs 

@burrowedinnature77

@sharkerino

@ashy-kit

@aikojwhpa

@thriving-n-jiving

@krispymagazinepizza-blog

@grayskel

@rpgsandstuff

@hisuccubus

@lumi-kalyke

@gimmeabreak1

[sigh-tofm]

when they come home drunk…

… price

- thinks it’s important that he loudly tells you he’s married while you steady him upstairs to bed. points to his ring incessantly, slurs on and on about his perfect wonderful wife with the big ass and soft tummy. you roll your eyes and can’t help but smile when he doesn’t let you hold on to his arm to support him. something about protecting his virtue for his wife, as if you’re not standing right beside him. proceeds to lock you out of your own bedroom when you finally get upstairs, telling you his wife will be home soon so he can’t have a strange woman in their bedroom (but still remarks on your wonderful ass). you decide it’s too early in the morning to persuade your drunk husband to let you in, so you go down to sleep on the couch. you wake up with price sleeping soundly on the floor beside you, having gone to find his wife when she never showed up in his bed the night before.

… kyle

- gets sappy and apologises for being away. loses all concept of time when he’s drunk, says he’s sorry, he didn’t mean to be away so long, he was thinking of you the whole time, the guys pulled him along and he couldn’t say no. while he’s on his knees at your feet, pressing his face to your thighs and mumbling into your marbled skin, almost making you lose your balance with his fervent apologies, you gently remind him that you were the one who made him go out with the boys because he needed to unwind after a stressful weekend of combat drills, and that he had left with them less than two hours ago. he refuses to hear and only hugs your thighs closer, so much so that you have to support yourself on the wall. turns out all he needed to relax was you.

… johnny

- is horny. almost starts drooling when he eyes you at the top of the stairs, after struggling to close the entrance door for a good minute, causing you to investigate what made all the noise. gets a wild look in his eyes when he sees you in just his t-shirt and makes you scream and giggle as he chases you back up the stairs and to the bedroom. being absolutely shitfaced, he has the coordination of a tranquillised moose and stumbles head over heels across the floor, catches his foot on the doorway and narrowly misses the edge of the dresser with his head as he falls. still, his little soldier is courageously tenting his pants when you worriedly lean over him and he gets a good look right into the collar of your shirt.

… simon

- is emotional and clingy. can’t get enough of you, won’t leave you alone. you can’t make out half his words when he’s had this much to drink (and the mancunian in him breaks out too, making it ever harder to make out the words), but you play along, smile and nod and let him sit on the closed toilet seat and talk and talk while you do your night routine in front of the mirror. so lucky to have you, luv. how could’a lug like me get a pretty one like you, luv. his melancholy statements of love become comfortable background noise for you as you remove your makeup and apply moisturiser. lets you wash the sweat and grime of the day off his face with a washcloth, closes his eyes while you massage your floral-scented moisturiser into his skin, never once stopping his little speech. ambles after you out of the bathroom, holding on to the hem of your shirt, when you’re all finished and ready for bed. his devoted mutters only let up when be falls asleep next to you.

[beloveds-embrace]

Imagine 141 moving into a quaint little town post retirement and you’re the only baker in town. You love making sweets, breads, and desserts and own a cute bakery to show for it, know everyone in your town so these four new men who come early morning to try your breakfast deal immediately excite you because- new perspectives and tastes and opinions! It’s become a habit of yours to share bites of whatever new item you plan on adding to the menu, so the more diverse opinions the merrier in your opinion.

And you are glad you didn’t let their demeanor- big gruff men, especially the one with the black surgical mask- scare you away because they are sooo nice, calling you sweetheart, doll, birdie, and bonnie. So many nicknames, it has you blushing the sweetest pink shade. And they are all too happy to help taste-test for you, giving you lots of praise.

(Though you never quite notice their immense disappointment at seeing the little ring on your finger.)

Still, at the very least one of them comes over to your bakery once a day. Sometimes they come together, sometimes only two of them- but they come anyways and tip you every time despite you insisting otherwise. It’s a lovely friendship you build with them. But they do note you never mention your partner much.

Until Simon drops by one day, intent on buying one of your apple pies and maybe fluster you enough to turn the same shade as an apple, and he sees the bruises that peek out just so from your sleeves and the collar of your outfit. Puffy eyes, more makeup than usual, your smile not quite there…

And he understands. He knows this all-too-well. And the fact that it’s happening to an embodiment of sunshine like you? Unfair. Unbelievable. Unacceptable.

Simon gently takes your hands, squeezing them so lightly. “Everything’ll be well, luvie. Promise.” And that’s all he says.

And maybe it’s cruel of you to be happy when you receive a call a few days later, the sherrif of the town telling you your husband was found mauled to death by one of the bears that roam around the woods occasionally, but you just… don’t care.

A week later, when it seems appropriate enough, you open up the bakery again and your smile is blinding as you greet the 141 men and tell them for today, everything’s for free.

part 2

Other works + help me choose a title for this 😩

[lyeofhell]

you know John’s petty as hell. like no one that controlling and obsessed with caretaking is normal. if you unbuckle your own seatbelt and open your own door before he can jump outta the driver’s seat and do it, he’ll run around the car and shut the door back in your face just so he can open it for you djskdskd

[misscherry-26]

How hot and sexy is this to read.

The bar scene when she sees John left me with that feeling of surprise but also a slight touch of domesticity. I don't know how to explain it better. The way she describes him sounds so... delicious (hahaha) I love the dynamic they have.

And he drives so freaking good, makes me want to give him babies LOL 😂🫣

#Iwantthisjohnpriceasmyhusband

for the GIF ask game! you can pick any character you see fit !

I just want you to know that watching men drive stick shift is in my top eight (dating myself here) of favorite things. So thank you for this.

Drinks and dinner were always a good time, even if you regretted agreeing to go when the day arrived. You knew you needed some time out of the house after being in the monotonous routine of work, home, a quick dinner and trashy television before bed for the past month. That's what happened when John was deployed, a stagnant routine counting down the days until his return. You were used to it after all this time but you could feel the melancholy sinking in, the rainy season not helping either.

You had sent John a quick message, not sure if he'd even get it, that you were going out with friends. Sometimes he could have his phone, others it was radio silent for days. It had been a stint of silence for about a week this time so you weren't expecting an answer. But as you applied your lipstick a message came back asking where you were going.

It was a surprise and you grin telling him about the plans for some sort of bar crawl. One of the girls in the group was newly single so it was an attempt to cheer her up and maybe find a bloke to take her home. All in good fun. After sending John a picture of your outfit you head out to meet your friend that was picking you up.

Despite being with your friends you keep your phone glued to your hand, texting John any moment you could. After being silent for so long you weren't about to pass up some time just talking. You send him pictures of what you are up to, what drinks you were having, laugh about a guy attempting (and failing) to chat up your single friends.

John answers each one without fail, even going as far as sending you a picture of his current company. Soap passed out on his bunk with his arm hanging off the edge and mouth wide open snoring. A scene you have seen multiple times before but still made you laugh anyway.

After a bit of silence, thinking he may have finally fallen asleep, another message comes through.

Where are you headed now? That little club off Lisle street with the weird name. They want to walk because parking is atrocious. My feet are on fire, shouldn't have worn heels. I'm about to tell them to go without me. Go on. Don't want them to hound you for being an old maid. But I am an old maid.

You grin and stick your phone back into your purse before making the long trek to the next place. It's drizzling and you are lamenting the idea of having to walk all the way back to the car when you were done. It was already past midnight and your warm bed was calling to you. But you smile and continue on with the group, telling yourself it's just one night.

Staking out one of the only tables left you tell the rest of the group you'll hold the spot while they all go to dance. Your feet can't take one more step. And while you're contemplating how rude it would be to just take your shoes off and hide your feet under the table for a bit a waiter walks over with a drink you haven't ordered.

"Oh, no I think you've got the wrong table," you answer with a grin, stretching back up from where you were about to undo your heel straps; you had decided to just risk it and give your feet a five minute break.

"Are you sure?" The waiter asks as they turn to look over at the bar before back to you, "he was insistent to send it to you. Said he knew you and seemed genuine."

You look at the drink the waiter has set down. It was certainly your drink, your favorite drink as a matter of fact, down to the extra cherry and no orange garnish. Who on Earth had sent that? Your friends were still on the dance floor. You sweep your eyes back over to the bar to the man the waiter is looking toward and you spot him.

John is standing at the bar.

He's leaning oh so casually against the wood top with his hip as if he had been there for hours. He's grinning at you knowingly as his eyes bore into yours, swirling his own plain whiskey on ice as he does.

He looks delicious standing there. Freshly trimmed beard and a haircut from what you can see. His skin a little tanner than when he had left, having spent time out in the sun on this deployment. But that's not what really catches your eye. It's the clothes. He knows exactly what he's doing wearing a crisp white button down shirt with the sleeves rolled up his forearms and the top button undone; just as you liked. A large watch, one you had gifted him, sitting perfectly on his left wrist to match the gleaming wedding band.

"Ma'am?" The waiter asks a bit uncertain as they stood there watching the stare down. "Do you need me to-"

"It's mine," you answer suddenly, swiping the drink and taking a sip, "no worries." You don't look at them as you slip from the seat and wince only slightly at the pain in your feet. You know, vaguely, that it's rude to just ignore the waiter like this but you can't help it. John's eyes keep your focus completely locked on him and you move across the bar without hesitation to him. Your job of holding the table for your friends long forgotten.

"When did you get here?" You ask as you walk up to the small space John had left for you at the bar. "You should have told me you were coming back! I would have stayed home," you babble setting your drink down before grabbing at him.

"I wanted to surprise you," John answers simply as he sets his drink down and reaches out his hand to grab you gently by the upper arm to pull you closer. You can smell his soap and cologne as he tugs you close and you grin as his other hand tilts your head up to look at him better, holding your face lightly as he does. "And I didn't want you having to walk all the way back to the car in those dangerously high heels." He smirks.

"Well, it worked," you breathe out as you watch him before pushing up the few centimeters left on your toes to kiss him. You can taste the cigar he had smoked on the way to the bar, as well as the tang of whiskey on his lips.

You don't care if it's indecent as you wrap your arms around his neck and pull him that much closer, sighing into his mouth as his hands find your sides to hold you. His fingers are gentle in their hold, but you can feel the possessive air he gives off as his thumbs pass over your hipbones.

"Your friends are looking for you," John says after a second as you pull away deciding to not give the bar a whole show, though you know John could care less. He would let the whole world see just how you belonged to him if you told him to.

Turning your head around a bit, hands never leaving John's neck, you spot them at the vacated table looking around. You grin a bit, leaning your cheek on John's chest as he raises a single hand to wave and catch your best friend's attention when she spots him. The look of shock on her face was comical but she just nods and grabs one of your more drunk friends dragging them back from coming over to say hello. She knows exactly where this is going and being the best wingwoman she wasn't going to let anything interfere.

"Take me home?"

"Whatever you want love. We can stay with your friends if you'd like," John says. You know he's just being polite, and considerate, giving that offer because he already knows your answer.

"I'd rather be with you," you answer reaching out to grab the drink he had ordered for you and down it in a few sips.

He chuckles in response finishing his own whiskey before setting down a fifty pound note from his wallet. Scooping up his suit jacket he sets it on your shoulders before digging his keys out of his pocket and leading you outside. He had brought his sporty little car, the one that sat in the garage and only came out for weekend drives or fancy dinners.

As soon as he helps you in you lean down and wrench off your heels, sighing a bit in relief as he climbs in on his side. He grins at you as he starts the car before throwing it into reverse. His hand comes up on the headrest behind you, his fingers caressing the back of your neck, as he backs out of the spot.

You grin a bit watching him drive. How he manipulates the wheel casually one handed as the other shifts each gear. You know he knows exactly what he's doing to you as he drives like this. How he smirks at you when he catches you blatantly watching him and laughs along with you as he finds a long open stretch of road and pushes the gas pedal to the floor quickly shifting through each gear.

"Sweetheart, you keep looking at me like that we aren't making it home," he says after a moment as he brings the car back down to legal limits.

“Maybe I don’t want to make it home," you state as you reach over and grab his hand. It had been a few years since you rode him in the driver's seat and you found yourself suddenly wanting to do just that.

He laces his fingers with yours and doesn't let go as he shifts again, letting you help him. Suddenly his eyes dart to the rearview mirror to check for cars before he abruptly changes lanes.

John bypasses the turn that would keep leading you home and instead takes a road that twists and turns down the countryside. He’s looking for the perfect spot that has no lights so no one can see you as he pins you between him and the steering wheel.

[rosegolden13]

Princess Treatment w/ John Price

His workaholic habits do not stop after he leaves base to come home to you...

We already know he's opening up every damn door for you. He has the magical skill of knowing when doors need a push or a pull so he never fails to laugh when you pull a push door. "Tha's why you shoulda left it to me, love. Stubborn thing, you are." He'll reach over your head to push the door open for you, plopping a kiss to your hair while he does.

His masculinity does not get in the way of holding your purse for you whenever you're out together, his big bear hands wrapped around the handle of your little black purse.

He refuses to let you carry your own luggage, doesn't care if it takes him multiple trips to get both of your bags into the hotel or rental house. He'll get all exasperated if you insist on helping. "You had a long drive. Lemme handle it, pet." (even though he's the one that drove...)

There's nothing he loves more than ordering for you at a restaurant. His voice is filled with an unreasonable amount of pride when he says "And for the missus..." before telling the waiter your order.

Speaking of food, if you ever eat anything that needs cutting or even doctoring up, expect him to jump in. "Now, now, doll, you know tha's my job." He'll tsk and gently take the knife from you to cut your steak into bitesize pieces or to butter your roll. Yes, he will go as far as to bring the fork up to your lips and feed you if you don't put up a fuss.

He will absolutely pay for your manicure and then coo when you offer him your hand to show off your new nails. "Real pretty, love... Don't go chippin' 'em now. Come sit."

Price always sets up a nice place for you on the couch or bed, blanket at the ready and pillows right where you like them. "Come on now, Mrs. Price." He'll pat the spot next to him like one would for a dog. Of course, he likes it best when he can be your pillow and personal heater (that man is always warm, always) but sometimes he's got to find a way to coax his little love into his arms and away from chores.

Naturally, he will swat your hands away when you bend down to tug on your heels or tie your sneakers. He'll crouch down to place your foot on his bent knee, patting your calf firmly and leaning in to press a kiss to your ankle once he's done.

If you nick yourself while shaving, he'll level you with a disapproving stare and then insist that he do it for you next time. After all, he has plenty of experience with keeping his facial hair so tidy. "Can't have my woman hurtin' herself, now can I?" You bet your bottom dollar he's using his fancy razors and shaving creams on you, extra delicate to make sure he doesn't mar your skin.

He's terrified to smoke around you after you coughed one (1) time and now he only will take his cigars out on the back porch or in his office with the window open. If you come in, he'll snuff it out asap and usher you out of the room, shushing your protests.

I'll probably eventually add a part two cuz soft Price is everything to me hehe... Can you tell my standards are ridiculously high?? Also, does anyone have an accent writing guide for TF-141?? I am painfully American.