#single dad price

[marblemoovt]

Fever - John Price/Reader

Masterlist

Rating: Teen

Word Count: 3.5k

Warnings: Fluff, A sprinkle of angst, Dad!Price

Summary:

John pounds on your door at an ungodly hour in the morning. You've never seen him so distraught.

------

“John?! What’s wrong?” you ask, giving him a once over. His hair is a mess, most likely from running his fingers through it too many times. The hallway lights are dim, so it’s difficult to see much else, but you notice he’s carrying a bundle in his arms. Whatever it is, he’s holding it close to his chest, fingers tightly clenching the fabric.

Wavy strands of brown hair peek out beneath the blanket, hair you were braiding just yesterday. Your stomach drops, and you tighten your grip on the door handle.

She’s not?

It feels like you’ve been drenched in ice water. Chills travel down your spine, and you can feel your fingertips prickle with numbness. Your eyes widen, and you look to John for an explanation. But the claws gripping your chest squeeze when you hear him sniffle. 

“I don’t know what to do,” he whispers, voice hoarse. You step forward, but John flinches and caves in on himself.

Note:

Hello! It's been a while since my last Price fic. If I'm honest I'm sorely tempted to keep writing this universe as a series of oneshots (because I'm terrible at commitment). So expect to see more Rose and Price at some point. I've already come up with a series title lmao..

I have a few dividers I want to try out and see which one I like best. So far I like this one better than the previous one.

Happy Reading! ヾ(•ω•`)o

Bam. Bam. Bam

You bolt upright in bed, squinting around your room until you locate the alarm clock on your bedside table. You glance out the window and notice the sky is still dark, and the sun is nowhere to be seen. Not even a sliver of pink or orange to creep over the horizon. Hm. Definitely not your alarm.

BamBamBam.

The noise grows louder, and the pause between hits becomes nonexistent. Your brain refuses to process the source as you sweep your eyes across your room. The early haze that fogs over your mind when you wake up clouds your ability to think.

Until you hear John shout your name. 

Snatching a coat hanging off a chair, you fly out of the room. The floorboards squeak beneath your weight as you weave between your furniture. Sliding to a stop in front of the door, your fingers fumble with the lock before you wretch it open.

“John?! What’s wrong?” you ask, giving him a once over. His hair is a mess, most likely from running his fingers through it too many times. The hallway lights are dim, so it’s difficult to see much else, but you notice he’s carrying a bundle in his arms. Whatever it is, he’s holding it close to his chest, fingers tightly clenching the fabric.

Wavy strands of brown hair peek out beneath the blanket, hair you were braiding just yesterday. Your stomach drops, and you tighten your grip on the door handle.

She’s not?

It feels like you’ve been drenched in ice water. Chills travel down your spine, and you can feel your fingertips prickle with numbness. Your eyes widen, and you look to John for an explanation. But the claws gripping your chest squeeze when you hear him sniffle. 

“I don’t know what to do,” he whispers, voice hoarse. You step forward, but John flinches and caves in on himself. 

A small groan comes from the blankets. “Daddy, you’re squishing me.” 

Your shoulders sag as the tension leaves your body. The weight resting on your lungs eases. You glance up at the ceiling and say a silent prayer of thanks before beckoning the pair inside.

Heading to the kitchen, you prepare some tea to keep yourself busy. No caffeine, though. You were anxious enough as is; you didn’t need to worry faster. Fishing out the chamomile from your cupboards with three cups and saucers, you turn the kettle on to boil. While the tea steeps, you take out the honey and add a drizzle to each cup. 

“Daddy, I’m cold.” Rose’s voice breaks the still silence. You run through a mental list of all the possible things that could be wrong. It can’t be life-threatening if John knocked on your door instead of taking her to the hospital. But you can’t help but think of the worst possible scenarios. The kettle whistles, pulling you out of your thoughts. You’ll ask after you bring the tea. 

A quick glance reveals that John is still cradling her in his arms. The lighting unveils the redness of his eyes and the thin, tight line of his lips. “I know, my little flower. We’ll fix you up, and you’ll be as right as rain,” he says, stroking her head.

You walk over and set the drinks on the table. “Tea? It’s chamomile,” you say, sipping from your cup. The warm liquid soothes your nerves, pooling comforting heat in your stomach. John’s lips quirk up, but they fall just as quickly. He makes no move for the tea. Your cup rattles on the saucer as you place it down. “John, you look like shit,” you state. No response other than a slight flinch. You sit down beside him and hold out your arms. “Drink, you’ll feel better. I can hold Rose for you.”

John studies your face. His eyes are staring past you. It makes you wonder what he’s seeing to make that solemn expression. The movement of you tilting your head brings him back to the present. His gaze flickers between you and Rose. “Ok,” he whispers, carefully placing her in your waiting arms. 

“Hi, Rosy,” you greet her, checking to see if John is drinking his tea. His shoulders aren’t as tense as he sips the drink, but his knee begins to bounce. 

Rose cracks an eye open and smiles widely at you. “Hullo,” she rasps.

You observe her flushed complexion and the hair clinging to her face. “How are you doing, little one?” you ask.

She licks her chapped lips and says, “M’ sick.”

“That sounds like no fun,” you say, exaggerating the frown on your face.

Rose smiles wide and shakes her head slowly. “But Daddy says I don’t have to go to school.” Her eyes glitter at the prospect of staying home, a fantasy most children have at least once during their school years. You can imagine the chaos she could cause if she wasn’t so sick.

You mirror her grin and brush her damp hair away from her face, tucking it behind her ear. “That’s true. You get to stay home and sleep in,” you say, and her smile nearly blinds you.

“And watch cartoons!” she adds. Ah, the quintessential stay-at-home activity for the sick. She starts squirming in your arms. “I get to watch all the shows I miss because of school.” Her lips curl into a feline-like smile, reminiscent of a cat that stole a big, juicy fish. 

You laugh and nod. “That sounds amazing!”

Rose giggles, “That’s because it is!!” If she wasn’t sick, you would be squeezing her in a bear hug. 

You press the back of your hand against her forehead. It’s warm. “Did your dad take your temperature?” you ask.

Rose shrugs and says, “He put a stick in my mouth and told me to hold it there.” She mimics the motion of placing a thermometer in between her lips and closing them. Your cheeks start to hurt; how can such a tiny being be so precious? She must get it from her father. 

You eye the cabinet in the kitchen where you keep all your medical supplies. “Can I check again?” You trust John, but you just want to make sure. 

“Why?” she asks.

“To see how warm you are,” you answer, booping her nose, which scrunches up in response. 

Rose looks at you with her big blue eyes. “Why?” she asks again. You’re glad to see the fever hasn’t affected her curiosity. 

You smooth down her hair, doing your best to flatten the stray cowlicks. “Because it’s dangerous if you’re too hot. You would need to go to the hospital,” you say. 

Rose furrows her brows and utters an “Oh.”

You rise from your seat and head for the kitchen. “Are you comfortable?” you ask. To free up your hands, you shifted her upright, and she’s now clinging to you like a koala.

“Mm,” she mumbles a confirmation into the crook of your neck. You grab the thermometer and turn it on to see if the batteries are still working. On your way back, you fill up a mug of water to keep Rose hydrated. Once seated back on the couch, you bring the thermometer to her mouth, and she lets you take her temperature without a fuss. 

You wait a few minutes until the device beeps to signal it’s finished. “38.8. Not a low fever, but you should be fine with some rest,” you say. Next, you take the mug and hand it to Rose. “Can you drink this water for me?” She drinks every last drop, smacking her dry lips together. “Wonderful! For being such a good patient, the doctor has decided to give you a little treat.” Fishing around your pocket, you pull out her reward. 

Rose stares in awe at the shiny wrapper in your hand. She gently plucks it up and marvels at the strawberries dotting the colourful material. She glances at her dad, but you bring a finger to your lips when she looks back at you. Rose smiles and nods her head, clutching the candy in her fist.

“I’m sleepy,” Rose announces. You look at John and notice that he’s sunk back into the couch, staring into his empty cup.

“There’s a bed in the guest room. I can put on some cartoons for you to fall asleep to,” you suggest.

She nods her head. “Ok.”  

On your way to the guest room, you fill another glass of water to leave on the bedside table. You lay down Rose on the bed, rummaging in the closet for a thin blanket. As you tuck her in, you feel her forehead with your hand. “Do you feel uncomfortable? Do you want to take any medication?” you ask, making a note to grab a damp cloth before you leave.

“You’re like Daddy. Especially when he looks like this.” Rose brings a finger up to each eyebrow and pushes them down, grimacing in a familiar fashion. She bursts into a fit of giggles, and you join in, unable to resist her charming antics. “Daddy already gave me some medicine. It tasted like bubblegum,” she remarks, sticking her tongue out as the rest of her face scrunches up. 

Amusement twists your lips into a smile. “You don’t like bubblegum?” you ask.

Rose shakes her head. “Bubblegum should not be medicine,” she says with a grave tone; it’s the most serious you’ve seen her since she arrived. You head to the adjoining bathroom and run a clean cloth under room temperature water. Wringing the excess moisture, you return to her side and wipe her sweaty skin.

Rose’s eyelids droop; you take this as your cue to leave. “Alright. Your dad and I will be in the living room or in the room across if you need us.” She nods, and you go to turn on the TV, switching to a channel she likes and lowering the volume and brightness.

You tiptoe out of the room, closing the door slowly but leaving a small gap in case she calls out for anyone. When you return to the living room, John is still in the same position. Except now he’s wringing his hands as his cup sits abandoned on the table.

“John?” you call out his name softly, not wanting to startle him. He doesn’t look up at you, and you wonder if he even heard anything. You remain at a distance, observing every flex of his muscles as he fidgets.

“Is she asleep?” he asks in a whisper. His eyes dart to your figure before landing on his lap again. You walk up and gingerly take a seat beside him. John shifts some of his weight onto you, head resting against yours. You can feel the exhaustion emanating from him in waves. He looks like he could fall asleep any minute himself. 

“Nearly. Rose could barely keep her eyes open when I laid her on the bed,” you say. Warmth envelopes your waist as John snakes an arm around you, pressing you closer to his side.

He kisses the side of your temple, murmuring into your hair, “I’m sorry for troubling you like this. I just… didn’t know what to do.” It’s not often you hear his words catch in his throat. You frown at the wobble in his tone and run your fingers through his hair, scratching his scalp in the way you know always has him purring. He hums appreciatively and leans into your touch, eyes closed in momentary bliss. 

“You’re not troubling me at all. Is this the first time she’s gotten this sick?” you ask.

John mulls over your question, his brows furrowed with thought. “First time while I wasn’t deployed,” he answers. John sighs and rubs a hand down his face. “I’m a terrible father,” and his chuckle leaves a bitter taste in your mouth.

You pick up the untouched third tea and use it to warm your hands. “What makes you think that?” you ask, fingertips tapping against the ceramic sides of the cup. 

His answer is almost immediate, like he’s been waiting for someone to ask. “Because I panicked.” As if that single sentence encompassed everything he did wrong tonight. 

You frown and set the cup back down, not wanting to break it in a fit of emotions. There’s a strange disconnect between John’s confidence at work and at home. “So? Does being a good father mean knowing everything about parenting? Because in that case, there’s not a single good father in the world,” you say. But your attempts at comfort only cause him to sigh. “Panicking doesn’t always equal death.”

“You know what I mean,” he says. 

You shake your head. “No. No, I don’t, John. I can’t read minds. What I can tell, though, is that you did your best to handle the situation.” If only you could extract your memories and play them for him to watch. Then maybe he would finally see what a good father he really is. 

“It wasn’t enough,” he deflects.

You place a hand on his shoulder and say, “Yes, it was. Rose is sleeping peacefully down the hall. She’s fine.” You emphasize ‘fine,’ but John shakes his head. Doubt swims in his eyes, churning the blue depths into sheets of glistening glass. 

“What about the next time something like this happens?” he counters. You can feel the damped vibrations through the sofa cushions, and you place a hand on John’s knee. 

“Then you use what you learned from the previous times and do better,” you reply in an even tone. The two of you stare in silence. You refuse to look away. John wavers underneath your gaze. His lips remain in a thin line, stretched taut like a rubber band. And what eventually happens when you put too much strain on a rubber band?

It snaps.  

“Can you hold me?” he whispers, and your heart clenches. You want nothing more than to pick up and carry him to your bed for some well-needed cuddles. But John’s a big man. You’re not sure you could do any of that without struggling.

You shuffle onto his lap and open your arms wide. “Come here.”

John buries himself in your embrace, nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck. “Thank you,” he mumbles. His beard grazes your skin, and a giggle bubbles from your throat. The sound causes John to tighten his arms around you. Is this what stress balls feel like when they’re about to explode?

“No problem. I’ll hold you for as long as you want me to,” you say, patting his back. It’s faint, but the scent of his cologne wafts in the air. Notes of bourbon and the smoke from his favourite cigar brand. You breathe it in, wishing you could bottle it up to use when he’s away.

He chuckles, and the resulting vibrations raise the goosebumps on your arms. “I’m afraid you’ll have to surgically remove me from yourself,” he says, burrowing into you.

“Well, that doesn’t seem like the worst thing in the world,” you wheeze, rubbing the burning tips of his ears between your forefinger and thumb. 

His voice is small, but it reaches your ears in the serene evening. “You still want to stay?” he asks. 

Your lips twist into an amused smile. “Did I ever say I wouldn’t?” You brush your fingers through his hair, fiddling with the grey streaks you find.

“I’m a mess,” he says. 

You nod. “Yeah, a hot one.”

“Darling….” he drawls. 

“Yes, John?” you say, batting your eyelashes, looking like the epitome of innocence. A sudden attack is launched on your vulnerable sides. “Hey!” you screech as John digs his fingers mercilessly into your waist. You attempt to squirm out of his grasp. If you don’t get away in time, your fight instincts might take over from your flight, and John will learn the hard way not to tickle you.

Although you doubt his reflexes will allow anything to happen. The cheeky bastard’s nearly impossible to catch by surprise since he reacts instantly to any objects hurtling towards him.

“I like hearing you laugh,” John admits, the lines on his face relaxing. The warmth in his eyes stirs that familiar fluttering in your chest. A shudder wracks your body when he absentmindedly rubs circles into your hips.

You peck his nose and lean your forehead on his. “Gets the happy chemicals flowing?” you ask.

John hums, “Mmm.” He teases you again with a quick skim of his fingertips, and you bite your lips to keep quiet. Rose is still sleeping, but a small laugh punches through your teeth. John relents his assault, satisfied for now. 

He continues to cling to you like a koala. You think back to what you’ve learned about John since that fateful encounter at the grocery store. “John? Why do you get so insecure when the topic of parenting surfaces?” you ask.

“...Don’t wanna talk about it,” he mumbles. You mentally scold yourself for bringing up a sore subject.

“That’s fine. You don’t have to,” you say.

“What?” John looks at you with wide eyes.

You grin and gently close his jaw before it can reach the ground. “I won’t force you to talk about something you don’t want to,” you say with a shrug. 

“Thanks.” The room falls silent, save for the faint ticking of a clock and the unintelligible murmurs of the TV.

“John, you’re really not that bad.” You trace the bags underneath his eyes, frowning at how puffy they are. 

“Well, I can’t be a bad father if I’m never around,” he chuckles dryly.

You hesitate before asking, “...Is that what this is about?”

“....”

“I know your job takes you away from home often.” You pause and wrack your brain for the right words to convey what you want to say. “But I wish you could see how Rose smiles when I tell her you’ll return in a few days. Or how she hugs her teddy bear—that you gave her—close every night.” Rose’s enthusiasm for her father’s return never wavers, never changes. You’ve babysitted Rose on and off for months now, and every evening, without fail, you hear the recording in the bear play from her room. “Would we like to see more of you? Of course. But I understand, and I think Rose does to a certain degree, that you have responsibilities and duties to fulfill.”

The right side of John’s lips slant up. “Don’t you ever get tired of cheering me up?”

“Nope,” you say, popping the ‘p.’ You stand up and hold a hand out to him. “Now let’s get you to bed, my sad little man.”

“Little?” John chuckles, placing his hand in yours.

“Yeah, 'cause you’re just a sad little guy,” you say.

John blinks slowly and raises his brows. But his expression is soon replaced with amusement. “Is this some kind of internet lingo I’m unaware of?”

“....”

John clicks his tongue. “Your silence speaks volumes.”

You huff and feel like a cat with its hackles raised. “Don’t judge me for how I spend my free time,” you say.

John nods. “Ah yes, reading literature. What were they called again? Fan books?”

“Fanfics,” you correct, tugging him from his seat. “To bed. Now.”

John's eyes crinkle at the corners, and his quiet laughter fills the room. “You don’t need to be ashamed, darling. It could be worse. You could be reading those raunchy romance novels they sell at the grocery store.” You don’t humour him with a response, too busy trying to mask your face with a neutral expression. God forbid John learns about the kinds of things you read in your sacred corner of the internet. “You read the equivalent online, don’t you?” The apples of your cheeks tingle, and your mouth dries.

You clear your throat and begin stacking the cups and saucers. “It’s still late. We need to get some more rest,” you say, setting off at a brisk pace to the kitchen sink. The thud of footsteps follows right behind you. You don’t have to turn around to see how his lips curl into a grin.

“You read those books when you have me?” he asks, mock hurt lacing his tone.

You roll your eyes and set the dishes in the sink; a problem for future you. Turning around, you cross your arms and steel your gaze. “In my defence, some of them actually have a good plot,” you say. John raises a brow, and he does a poor job covering his laugh up with a cough. “Don’t give me that look! Some of them do!” you insist. Literal masterpieces exist on the internet. And they’re free??? Clearly, John’s never binged a fanfic until three in the morning and had an epiphany, only to be left desolate and distraught now that there are no more chapters to be read.

During your internal debate to justify your reading habits, John hoists you over his shoulder and heads to your bedroom. 

“Why don’t you recount your favourite one, and we can reenact it, hm?” he suggests, landing a playful smack on your bottom. You flail your limbs to no avail. The heat on your face could burn through the clothes on his back. John glances over at you with a smirk. “You can be quiet, can’t you, love? You did so well last time.” He caresses the back of your thighs, closing the door behind him with his foot.

At least you get a glorious view of his ass from this angle.

End Note:

Listen, don't ask me why I always end up writing some angst when it comes to Dad!Price. I can't help it, it's just ingrained in his DNA. I do have some ideas as to what happened with Rose's mom, and I do want to eventually write Price coming to terms with his grief. But as always, who knows when I'll get to that.

I did think about dragging this out longer. Originally, Price was also supposed to fall sick the next few days and Reader would be nursing him with the help of Rose. But that would have doubled the length and I just wanted this done so I could move on to the next fic 😅

Now it's on to the next fandom on my list! Alas, I am cursed with too many ideas and not enough willpower to write all of them at once.

I'll see you guys at my next hyperfixation! (。・∀・)ノ

Taglist: @mipitt141, @lovecats123451

[sic-sempervirens]

A bunch of BAD INFLUENCES letting Soap drink with a concussion(s)

[iceman-soup]

masc!reader × divorced!price

Knowing John Price from outside of the military - fuckin hell, knowing him from a toddlers' group of all places. You had both joined at roughly the same time, and being the only dads there rather than mums, you quickly stuck by each other, becoming fast friends since the first session.

Turns out, he'd had a shitty divorce a few years ago, and, well - his sweet baby girl got caught up in all the middle of it. She was a tiny baby at the time, but the legal stuff regarding her in the divorce was messy and Price barely managed to see her at all; and then her mother had been arrested for something or other (he didn't like to talk about it) and he had gained full custody, and arrangements were made for her to stay with his family whilst he was on deployment.

Your story was entirely different. The kid was technically your sister's - but she had died shortly after childbirth, and with no partner and an awful relationship with your parents, the two of you had agreed beforehand that if anything happened, you would become the baby's legal carer. But you'd called the boy yours after only a few months, and that's all you ever introduced him as now. Your son.

The toddler group wasn't great for either you nor Price, to be honest. The kids loved the playtime, which was good - but the parent "teachings" that the leader held were mostly encouraging weird outdated shit that wasn't worth listening to, let alone enforcing. Not to mention the constant repetition of how a single parent is a "bad" parent, which you scoffed at every time. Good thing about it was how you and John could sit at one of your houses after and shit talk it over a coffee.

Was he hot? Sure. Yes. Absolutely. It was the very first thing you noticed about him. But more than that you were genuinely grateful to have a friend; another single dad to lean on, to finally start talking about your sister's death and all the guilt you felt with your son. Someone who would actually get it.

Price started to come around to yours almost every day, even when the toddlers' group was only once a week. He insisted it was nicer than his flat, and the kids had more space to play anyway. You never minded. He took you over to his parents' house, introducing you to them. They were quick to befriend you and your child, mentioning how you should visit John's daughter there when he's on deployment.

Deployment. Forgot about that.

You laugh and nod, thanking them before you leave. You take your son to a play park and sit on a bench, watching him and just thinking. It doesn't take long til you realise you're thinking less about your friend being all captain-y and more about his smile you've come to adore being wiped from his face. About him coming home and there being more scars on his hands and arms than before. 'Cause you fucking counted. Realising he might not come home at all.

You go to his flat the next day, awkward small talk as the kids go off to play. He can tell something's up. He asks if it was his parents. Fucking apologises as if he did something wrong. You sit him down on the sofa, and rest your head on his shoulder.

"Dunno what to do," you start, eyes flickering shut when he combs a comforting hand through your hair. "You're such a great man, John. Dunno what I'd do if you went."

He looks at you for a moment; you can feel his gaze. Tilts your chin up with a calloused finger and brushes his lips against yours. It takes a second or two to process what's happening - and then you're kissing him again, his jacket balled up in your fists as you hold him closer, suddenly realise this is what it was all along. The hot, slightly traumatised dad had tripped you up and you fell fuckin hard.

All too quickly and you're lowering him down against the sofa, and his hands are on your back, and your tongue is prodding impatiently at his lip. Then he opens his mouth and you almost seem to melt into it, a soft groan in his throat, and you're lying on top of him, and his legs are around your waist-

"I'm not complaining," you hum between kisses, "but how is making out gonna help?"

He breaks apart. Looks at you with a sort of dog-like curiosity, mulling over the question for a second. Then his hands snake up to rest in your hair, and he smiles his signature smile. "Don't know. Just thought I wanted to kiss you. Won't fix me goin' on deployment, but-" he glances away, a flush creeping up his neck, "thought... thought you might be somethin' to come back to, y'know?"

You chuckle quietly, pressing your lips to his blush. "You askin' me out, John?" He kisses you tenderly, shuffling to sit up a little, pulling you onto his lap facing him.

"If you'll take me."

And you don't even have to think about it. "'Course I will."

[gothghostiie]

more babysitter!reader x price because yea. sort of part 2 to this, but can be read on its own

cw: age gap (20s/40s), Virgin!reader, handjob (reader giving), price is drunk, gn!reader

babysitter!reader being asked to babysit by price on halloween, telling them its okay if they cant because they have plans for halloween, plans to go out and party. but you tell him its okay, you don't have plans. his heart clenches because a young thing like you should be out partying, enjoying your life, not babysitting. but instead you're there now, and he's getting ready to go out instead. not wearing a proper costume, just a black button up with the top buttons open, some black jeans, little red devil horns and eyeliner that he bought on a whim and that he poked his eye with more than once. he gets down the stairs to see you coo at his infant, who's laughing and kicking it's feet, especially upon seeing their dada with the little plastic horns. price chuckles and picks them up, cradling the chubby baby in his burly, hairy arms, tickling the little thighs and making it giggle. both of you smile fondly, almost as if it's your baby; and for a moment you wish it was when he winks at you.

you take the little one back, sitting it on your hip as price grabs his keys, walking him to the door. he turns back and leans down, putting a hand on your arm while kissing the baby's head. "now be good.. both of ya." he jokes, making your cheeks warm while you chuckle. he tells you one last time to make yourself at home, to call him if you need something and to not break any doors this time. your cheeks burn as you nod with an awkward chuckle, he grins and gets into a car thats apparently waiting for him, waving at both of you as they drive off. now you're sat there, playing with the baby until it's bed time, the little one is just delighted to have you around, even when you put it down in it's crib and turn on the little music box. now you're there, sat on the couch and flipping through TV channels to see if something good is on, loads of horror movies and the like. you know it's yhe watered down version, considering the time it's running, but you decide to settle for one of them. you're on your phone meanwhile, checking on the baby every now and then, watching movie after movie until you hear the familiar jingle of keys in the door. you sit up and glance around the corner where price stumbles into the room seconds later, his steps heavy and his appearance a bit messy. he blinks at the TV, then at you, his lips turning up into a grin. "there you are.." he coos, stumbling towards the couch and slumping down on it with a deep grown, his hand landing in your lap with how close he dropped down. you can smell the booze and sweat on him immediately, mixed with his perfume and his natural musky scent, it almost makes you wanna lean in and nuzzle him.

he takes a momemt before looking over at you with a satisfied grin forming on his lips, his calloused hand coming down on top of your head to pat you as if you were a dog. "you're such a gorgeous little bird, aren't you?" he hums lowly, almost making you gasp. your eyes widen a bit as your cheeks start burning, he just chuckles quietly, eyeing you over. hes had his eye on you the last time already, the image of you looking up at him with teary eyes burned into his mind, doing things it shouldn't be doing. he leans in a little closer, his breathing heavy while his hand cradles the back of your head. "you've been good like I told you, yea?" he teases quietly, your cheeks somehow get even hotter as you nod. "have ya now?' he chuckles, giving your cheek a firm pat as he leans his head back with a chuckle. the little plastic horns are loosely in his locks, the eyeliner is smudged and you're pretty sure that more buttons on his shirt are open, his strong, hairy chest peeking out between the fabric. the only thing that stops you from staring is his small groan as he stretches again, face scrunching up. you ask him if hes alright, he chuckles softly. "just my old bones aching, love." he murmurs, then suddenly eyes you over. "say.. y'don't happen to wanna help an old man relax a bit, do ya?" he says quietly, his tone suddenly feeling much more intimate.

"i- I'm sorry..?" is all you can muster, your thighs subconsciously squeezing together as your head runs wild. surely you misunderstood him you think, there's no way he wants what you hope think he wants.

"y'know what I mean love.. lend me a hand or something more." he hums, eyeing your form next to him, his pants already getting tighter at the mere sight of you. "I ain't gonna make you and I ain't gonna be mad if you don't want to, bird." he reassures you gently, he truly means it. you hesitate, your breath getting stuck in your throat along with all the words you want to say to him, all you can do is nod after a few seconds of silence. a smile crosses his face, a big hand goes to cup your cheek. "that's a good doll.. c'mere." he pats the side of his thigh, you scoot closer until you can't. he gazes at you through lidded eyes, it's scary how he can see your nervousness even when he's like this. " 's alright love. nothing' to be nervous about." he says gently, his hand patting your head.

"you ever done this?" he asks, seeing right through you. fuck. you shake your head softly, he raises his eyebrows in surprise before smiling. "that's alright. I'll help ya." a bit clumsily he opens his belt and his pants, bulge pressing against the fabric of the boxers he's wearing. "gimme your hand.." he orders gently and you do, letting him put it on the taut fabric. "there. get a feel for it, pet." he murmurs, having to hold back from cummin on the spot as you carefully let your fingertips explore. he can sense your intrigue along with the insecurity and it almost breaks his heart. he slowly pulls down the band of his underwear, giving you time to intervene if you wanted, before his cock springs free. its a bit above average and fat, a few veins running from the base to the weeping tip. your eyes widen and he chuckles, taking your trembling hand and wrapping it around his hard cock. "there y'go.. now just move up and down, yea?" he explains, you almost wanna huff that you know what you have to do - but that's forgotten as the first deep groan rumbles in his chest as your fingers graze his tip. the sound is addictive, you have to restrain yourself from making a mess in your own underwear as you keep moving your hand. his moans make you secure, giving you the feeling you're not doing it entirely wrong, his body twitching under your touch. breathy moans fall from his chapped lips, head is lolled back against the couch while his hands desperate try not to grab you; and it gets harder the closer he gets.

it doesn't take long before he gets close, whether its the alcohol or that he'd been build up for a good while now, his hips stuttering slightly. his eyes are shut tightly when he suddenly grabs your arm, holding you tight while trying to keep breathing without pathetic noises spilling from his mouth. "so good, bird.. don't stop.. 'm almost there.." he mutters mere seconds before pretty much exploding, his tight balls aching in relief as his cum stains your hand and his shirt. you gasp in shock, your movements stuttering and it makes him smile, he chuckles at how adorable you look when as you give him a shocked look. "good job love, y'did well." he hums, his grip loosening and instead going to rub your back.

"you're gonna sleep here tonight, alright bird?"

[ghostedbunnie]

single dad! price and teacher! reader moment. the school has the whole "bring your parent to school" shtick going on and john comes in, immediately has a all the mom's (married or not) fanning themselves because wow a single dad high up in the military? exudes authority but his eyes soften as soon as he turns to his kid? you can hear all the ovaries exploding at the sight of him.

price heard a lot about you from his daughter, you always compliment her drawing and encourage her talent. he's been curious about you for a while, collecting little tidbits of information from his daughter in inconspicuous ways.

and when he sees you surrounded with all the kids smiling sweetly his mind starts racing, his daughter already looks up to you with stars in her eyes so how far-fetched is it for her to call you mom in the future?

[soap-ify]

single!dad price thoughts are invading my head tonight so i'm just thinking about reader being the new neighbour of price and his sweet little daughter after just having gotten rid of your awful previous life.

notes price is a little sick in the head in the end but i love myself a man a little bit insane.

you had just moved into a new town after your boyfriend — more like ex — had kicked you out of the apartment you both lived in after an argument he started and escalated to the point of no return.

he was a toxic weirdo anyways.

you had picked out a nice small apartment in the nearby town with the little money you had, and even applied for a job in the local supermarket. it was time to start a new life.

the first few days were just exhausting as you tried to manage this new job of yours and properly set your apartment up, calculating the future expenses and everything else. just too much work. plus it was too easy to get lost in a new town too.

though your neighbour was the sweetest man you had met. tall and rugged, yet having this sense of gentleness adorning his features constantly whenever your eyes would meet his, making your heart literally melt.

he had a little daughter too, definitely not older than five. her name was beth and she was the sweetest girl you had ever met, always coming to greet you whenever her father and her would spot you across the street, always urging you to walk with them, rambling everything about some silly stuff she liked. these types of interactions always seemed to happen, making you feel more and more connected to this little family, even making you feel as if you were a part of them.

john was always there to help you. got a leaking pipe somewhere in your bathroom? expect it to be fixed soon. ran out of vegetables? he was just about to go to the grocery store too! he’ll give you company.

he somehow always knew that something was going to go wrong in your apartment or literally anything else. he was observant, those blue eyes of his always taking note of each move of yours, reading you like an open book.

a part of you wished that he actually took fancy of you. he was just so different from all the other men in your life — he actually listened.

soon came a night where your heater just ran out, on a very cold night too. you were trying to get as much warmth as you could get from your blanket and even tried to make some hot chocolate, but nothing seemed to calm your shivering body down.

too overwhelmed and cold, you sheepishly made your way to your neighbour’s apartment door after wearing the warmest sweater you owned, feeling awful for disturbing john at this hour, frustrated tears stinging your eyes.

john was quick to open the door once you knocked on it, surprised to see you at this late hour. his other hand held a glass filled with scotch while he was dressed lazily in a pair of sweatpants and a nice sweater, fully warmed up. he looked so cozy.

“h-heater broke and it’s too cold in my apartment… i don’t know what to do.” you managed to mumble out through your chattering teeth, your arms hugging yourself.

poor little thing. john’s eyes looked up and down your dishevelled form, a concerned frown soon making its way on his face. he should just go and fix your heater for you, but that’d take too long, right?

“no worries, love. why don’t you spend the night here? beth and i were just having a late night christmas movies marathon.” he cracked his signature smile, making you feel oddly warm all over again, eyes looking up at him with utmost gratitude and even some traces of fondness.

he guided you inside, showing you the way to the kitchen where beth was sitting, having jumped excitedly and rushed over to hug you tight with her little arms once she saw you. "hello!" she happily chirped, making you smile.

after john had given you some blankets, you sank down onto the couch next to him with beth in between you both, a relaxing feeling settling deep within you as your eyes looked over at the movie playing on the telly.

john’s eyes watched you throughout the movie, multiple ideas swarming inside his head. maybe he should secretly mess up your heater one day so you can come more and more to spend the nights here.

maybe he can somehow convince you to start living with them forever. after all, nobody had ever made him feel like this except you before, made him feel so obsessed.

[bruciemilf]

No thoughts. Only gf

[yeyinde]

nah but price thought!!! about him being obsessed with your pregnant stomach and while you’re both lying in bed he’s just lying right beside you rubbing your belly and staring at it with such joy cause he can’t believe his wife is creating a whole human -‼️

stopp, this is the cutest thing ever!!!!!

He'd be the type to just wrap you up in a blanket and keep you in bed as long as he can. No moving—just let him take care of everything.

"Don't wanna hurt the baby, love."

He'd give you massages, rubbing your belly with oils and lotions, and look entirely bewildered when you sulked about stretch marks. "You look like a goddess right now, love. How could I ever look at you after this and think you're anything other than fuckin' perfect?"

He's there for it all, of course. The good, bad, ugly.

He runs out late at night when pregnancy cravings hit without a word. Rubs your back, grinning, while you heave in the morning ("atta girl, get it all out. I'll run you a bath and make you some breakfast, eh?").

He invests, too. Books, videos. Anything he can get his hands on. Asks for advice from the doctors, and listens to each word intently. Snags brochures from the receptionist until he has a stack of each piled in his desk at home, his overnight bag, his car. Reads them in between watching football, and highlights certain things he wants to ask the doctors about.

He texts you while he's away about baby names and this crib he found online. Comes home with gifts for the babies that aren't even born.

Gets misty-eyed sometimes when he stares at you, swollen and heavy with "our" baby.

He'd attend every single doctors visit (or expect a complete rundown of he couldn't make it), and buys everything you need—whenever you need it.

"Fuck, I'm just—," he picks up the habit of talking to your belly late at night, especially when he thinks you're asleep. Rubs his hand over the curve, and clears his throat. It clicks, thick and heavy, when he speaks. "I'm just so fuckin' excited to meet you. Can't promise I'll be the best dad there ever is. Might not be around often as you want. But I'll be a better fuckin' one than my old man, that I do promise."

The sincerity in his voice nearly makes you weep, but his next words shatter you. "You better not come when I'm away. I wanna see the look on her face when she sees you for the first time. Want my whole family in my arms." His hands stroke your belly with reverence. Just the barest brush of his fingertips. "Better promise me that." There's a kick, then. His breath catches. You pretend you can't hear the sniffle in voice. "Fuckin', eh. Good girl."

[monsterspet]

Had a thought about Captain Price

A/N: Don't we all?

Going to need you to trust me on this.

So - as of MW3 John's age is set at 38 in the year 2023. We also know he joined the infantry at 16 - then onto the army properly at 18.

John would have been 16 in 2001. In the UK. Which was when arguably we were still in the midst of a teen pregnancy epidemic across the country. Things have significantly improved since then.

I know you know where I'm going with this but just stick with me.

Now - for those of you who are maybe from outside the UK I can tell you now that recruiting kids right out of high-school has always been a bit iffy here in the public eye. Even more so when that kid hasn't even sat their A-levels at 18.

John dropped out of school to become a military man. That's just a fact. Which you can totally do from 16 - but most schools discourage it heavily.

English teens do not drop out of school to join the army if they have other options. We have apprenticeships or college if they don't like the traditional school route. And both of those can lead on to University courses.

John's only other option was to work - likely for minimum wage which I believe was like £3.50 an hour back then. It may have even been less given he was under 18.

Admittedly the army is good money for a kid that age. Especially if you don't see yourself going down a more traditional employment route.

But in what world would Price be so eager to earn good money fast? We know he's a smart guy - we've seen it in game. The man could have easily gotten into Uni. This is where we veer off the rails into glorious fanfic girly nonsense and I apologise.

Say he got his then girlfriend pregnant. We know he's a sensible guy - and we know he has a strong sense of responsibility and loyalty to the people he cares about.

He's obviously going to support his child and the mother of his baby. That's just in his nature.

He joins the military in order to be able to provide for them both. Now admittedly that means he's away from both his little family and everything he knows but let's be realistic - most teen parents don't stay together long term. I know so many personally where they don't even make it to the due date.

But if he's bringing a baby into this world he's damn well going to make sure it's taken care of.

Which leads me to my next point about what Price is like as a man in basically every fic he's in.

This man does not just radiate "Daddy" energy - this man is a Father.

Endlessly supportive of his boys in the unit, and fiercely protective.

He is willing to do almost anything to keep not only the 141 safe but the people back home as well (we see this in game as well when he drags in the Butcher's family to interrogate him).

We all know this man is wearing socks and sandals on holiday. We all know he's manning the grill at the BBQs. We all know he can't get up out of a chair without the iconic "Dad groan".

He is also far too good at putting up with the nonsense we write about Soap and Gaz in particular. They're the unit children and they certainly put John through his damn paces. Which he seems to put up with - with remarkable ease most of the time.

This man is a "weekend Dad". He sees his kid briefly when on leave or every other weekend depending on whether or not he's deployed. We've seen no evidence of a ring.

Now admittedly when you're running secret missions across the globe you don't want the enemy figuring out you have something at home to lose but this gives us some really nice single-dad!Price opportunities and I'm going to run with that.

But - assuming he had a kid at 16. That child is now 21/22. Prime age for the military. And roughly the right age for a steamy workplace romance with one of the other 141 members? Maybe?

I saw on here a while back this great series where Soap was in a secret relationship with Price's niece (I cannot for the life of me remember the creators name and I'm SO SORRY) and I raise you:

Secret relationship 141 x Price's!child

The angst - the steamy forbidden romance - the angry Dad energy - the potential SLOWBURN.

It's all right there for the taking.

Even better if we get some daddy issues from Y/N because John was never around. Like they didn't even tell him they were signing up in the first place. Maybe they don't have his last name and suddenly turn up under his command. The DRAMA.

I swear one day I'll actually have the time to write all these fics.

-Pet x

[marblemoovt]

Bake A Wish - John Price/Reader

Masterlist

Rating: Teen

Word Count: 7.2k

Warnings: Fluff with a smidge of angst

Summary:

You bump into a man and his daughter at the grocery store. The kid is really insistent you join them for dinner.

------

She’s been on a tangent about her father, who you assume she’s hiding from, for ten minutes now. From what you’re able to gather, he works in the military. 

Unwilling to dampen her excitement, you crouch down and listen to every word. “Is that so, little one?” you say, propping your chin up with your hand. 

She nods, brown strands flying everywhere. “Mhmm. And he’s super handsome, too! A lady called him a dill, but Daddy’s not a pickle! She was so silly.” Your eyes widen, and you slap a hand over your mouth to barricade the gurgle in your throat. A fucking DILL.

Note:

This has been sitting in my wips for over a month but it's finally done!! I apologize if the quality feels sporadic throughout the fic. Writing consistently is just something I can't seem to do and my motivation/inspiration has been in a slump lately. The amount of fluff fics I've written that involve baking is ridiculous, I didn't realize that's the activity I default to lol.

I've never written for John before, so I'm still trying to get a feel for his character.

Anyways, thank you @yeyinde for introducing John Price to me. I was debating on not tagging you but I can't be a coward forever.

Happy Reading! ヾ(•ω•`)o

─── ⋆ ｡ﾟ☆: *. ☽ .* :☆ﾟ｡⋆ ───

John holds the hand of his six-year-old daughter, Rose. The little munchkin is a ball of energy, and he fears the consequences if he were to let her run wild. “Don’t let go of my hand, ok Rosy?” Rose grins with more mischief than a little child should have. She attempts to run away, and John scoops her in his arms.

“I’m too big to be carried, Daddy!” she squeals, arms flinging around his neck to stabilize herself. The scent of her strawberry shampoo tickles his nose.

“You have to promise me you’re not going to do that again,” he says. Rose holds out her pinky, and he accepts her promise. Her finger looks tiny and frail compared to his. He sets her down and ruffles her hair despite her whinging. “Do you remember what we came here to buy?” he asks.

She claps her hands with glee and exclaims, “Cookies for Santa!!! Because Daddy can’t bake, so we have to buy cookies from the store!” John smiles, but he can’t help but feel the sting of her bluntness. Kids are way too honest.

“What kind of cookies do you want to get?” he asks.

“Not chocolate chip. Everyone uses chocolate chip.” She strokes her chin, imitating the gesture she’s seen her father do whenever he has to think hard about something. “Candy cane cookies!” She ponders over it for another minute before nodding her head. “I bet Santa’s never gotten candy cane cookies before.”

“I don’t think they sell those, rosebud,” he says, and she frowns.

“I guess they’re too special to sell in a store,” she laments, her enthusiasm wilting a little.

John crouches down to Rose’s eye level. “Why don’t we look at all the cookies they have and pick one afterwards?” he suggests.

“Ok,” she sighs, holding her hand out for him to grab. Large, calloused fingers swallow her hand whole, and John wonders how much longer it will stay like this. Her brown locks are a few inches longer than last time, but the beaming smile on her face when she sees him remains constant. He blinks the heat away from his eyes and leads Rose to the snack aisle. 

There’s an entire shelf dedicated to cookies, some of them themed for the holidays. But the snowflake shortbread cookies further deflate Rose. She droops when they come across sugar cookies in the shape of Christmas trees. John silently curses the corporate companies for manufacturing every winter holiday cookie except for a candy cane. He squeezes her hand, and his heart aches when he catches Rose biting her lip. Tears are on the verge of spilling, but she will not cry. He actually can’t remember the last time he’s seen her cry. The thought bothers him more than he wants.

John spots a box of rainbow cookies on the top shelf. He releases her hand to grab them, “What about these?” When he turns around, Rose is gone. The box tumbles to the ground. “Rose?” His eyes sweep the shelves. Rows of cookies and other snacks, but no sign of her. “Rosy?!” He begins jogging through the store, checking every aisle before moving on to the next. Icy claws grip his chest, and all of his senses are on high alert. He fidgets with the dog tags around his neck and has to remind himself that he’s not on duty.

Sharp laughter slices through the pounding in his eardrums; a high-pitched fit dissolves into familiar giggles. Rose. He flexes his clenched fists to relieve the stinging in his palms. He pinpoints the sound to the baking section and sprints like a madman. Sliding to a stop, he spots her at the other end of the aisle. His body sags against a shelf, and the air enters his lungs with ease once more.

“My Daddy’s amazing! He can shoot bad guys from reeeeally far away,” Rose brags to a stranger crouched in front of her. That stranger is you.

A faint giggle grabbed your attention. Twinkling lights accompanied by the pounding of tiled flooring. A little girl beelined straight toward you, veering to the side to hide behind a display of chocolate bars. She covered her shoes with her hands to dull the blinking, peering around for someone. She spotted you holding a bag of flour and asked if you bake. Her eyes lit up when you confirmed that you do. 

She’s been on a tangent about her father, who you assume she’s hiding from, for ten minutes now. From what you’re able to gather, he works in the military. 

Unwilling to dampen her excitement, you crouch down and listen to every word. “Is that so, little one?” you say, propping your chin up with your hand. 

She nods, brown strands flying everywhere. “Mhmm. And he’s super handsome, too! A lady called him a dill, but Daddy’s not a pickle! She was so silly.”

Your eyes widen, and you slap a hand over your mouth to barricade the gurgle in your throat. A fucking DILL. You don’t have the heart to correct her. Correction: You’re too busy trying not to collapse on the floor in a fit of laughter. The misunderstanding is best left alone, but your curiosity is piqued. What does this man look like?

“Rose!” A voice booms from the other end of the aisle, and the child hides behind you. You stand up and shield her with your body, eying the stranger with a frown. Brown hair with silver streaks, and his eyes—fuck, you wish the sky would be that blue instead of grey. He approaches you two, and when Rose makes no further movements, you stick your arm out to block him.

“Who are you?” you ask. He must be at least six feet tall, with broad shoulders, and built like he could beat you into a bloody pulp if he wanted. 

He mirrors your frown, eyes flickering to the brown hair peeking behind your figure. “I should be asking you that. Who are you, and what are you doing with my daughter?”

You narrow your eyes. “How do I know you’re not some pervert who kidnaps children?”

He chuckles; the low rumble sends the butterflies rampaging against your stomach walls. “Sweetheart, I could say the same about you,” and he crosses his arms—his thick and muscular arms. The way his biceps bulge underneath his sweater…. You bite your lip. The metallic tang in your mouth grounds you. You swipe a tongue across the fresh wound, and the sting helps you regain a few brain cells. 

Turning to Rose, you ask, “Is this your dad?” and squeeze her hands. “You can tell me if it isn’t, and we’ll find a nice employee to help you.” You talk slowly, enunciating each word with care. Rose glances at the man behind you before settling on your face. 

She cups her hands around her mouth, and you lean in, her warm breath tickling your ear. “Yeah, that’s my dad. What do you think? Super handsome, right?” she whispers. You glance at him and huff. A fucking dill, indeed. 

“Rosy, stop bothering the nice stranger,” her father says, gesturing for her to come to him. She skips over and fails to dodge his hand. Rose groans and buries her face into her father’s stomach as he ruffles her hair. You avert your eyes and ignore the heat that prickles the back of your neck. Wringing your hands, you stare at the floor as their laughter echoes in the aisle. You hardly know these people. Plus his wife must be somewhere in the store, ready to pop out at any second. 

“The ‘stranger’ has a name,” you speak up, introducing yourself. You keep your eyes trained on the shelf of sprinkles above his right shoulder as if the plastic bottles of sugar will stop you from falling.

He holds out a hand for you to shake. “John, John Price.” Firm warmth envelopes your skin and dissipates far too quickly for your liking. Sparks of electricity fizzle before they get a chance to light your nerves on fire—and you want to burn.

“Heh, P as in Pickle,” you snicker, making the mistake of meeting his gaze. Your arm drops to your side, and your bones turn to lead. The sky must be grey because all the blue was stolen and contained in his eyes. There’s no coldness, no ice, only calm ripples of water. The gentle drag of the ocean as the waves lap against the shore, inviting you into its depths.

John raises a brow. “An odd observation, but yes.” He smooths Rose’s hair to no avail. Baby hairs and cowlicks in all different directions are a continuous reminder that he’s been meaning to learn how to style hair. 

Rose beams at him with her toothy grin. “Cause Daddy’s a dill!” she adds.

John’s confused expression quickly morphs into one of horror. “Where did you hear that?!” He narrows his eyes at you. 

You throw your hands up in surrender. “Don’t look at me. This is the first time we’ve met.”

Rose tugs on his shirt and says, “That lady who used to babysit me. She also called you a fox, but I told her you’re a man.” Your eyes widen, and your shoulders tremble. John runs a hand through his graying hair, and you rip your gaze away because witnessing that felt illegal. Every time you look at him you notice another thing that attracts you.

John sighs and rubs the back of his neck. “I’m sorry about her. I love Rose, but she can be a handful at times,” he says, whispering the second half. His head tilts forward, and now all you can focus on is how his moustache frames his mouth. Plump and pink.

Your lips crook upwards in a slant. “It’s not a problem. She’s an entertaining conversationalist.” You find yourself drawing nearer to his face, wandering from the shore and deeper into the ocean—oblivious to the current that will pull you under.

Rose tugs on your shirt and asks, “Why don’t you join us for dinner?” You pull away with a sharp inhale, processing how John’s eyes flicker to your lips. The little girl gazes at you with a hopeful smile, but you look to her father for confirmation. 

“Rose, you can’t invite people you barely know to your home,” he reprimands, and her smile flatlines. It’s probably for the best. At the current pace, it’s like you’re in a sappy romance novel! John shoots you an apologetic smile, but you wave your hand and shake your head in understanding. 

Rose pouts and stares at her shoes. She shuffles her feet, and the lights twinkle with each tap. “But then there’ll be someone who can bake cookies,” she says, looking up at him with puppy eyes. John winces.

You notice him wracking his brain for a response and decide to help him. “They sell rolls of sugar cookie dough; next to the puff pastry,” and you jerk a thumb behind you. Sometimes you buy a roll or two when you feel particularly lazy but crave cookies. 

John mouths a “Thank you” and holds Rose’s hand. “C’mon, rosebud. Let’s buy some, and you can make your candy cane cookies.” 

Rose perks up at the mention of cookies, her shoes now fighting to match the brightness of her eyes. “Wow! They sell everything here!” She drags him to the pre-made dough section. Well, she tries to drag him. Rose is less than half her father’s size. It reminds you of those cartoon characters that try to move a comically large boulder. Blue eyes meet your gaze one last time and wink at you. 

Did. Did he just?

You stand there, unblinking, staring at the corner they disappeared behind. 

Holy fucking shit. He did. 

You don’t register going through the checkout and packing your things in the car. With a blink, you’re in front of the steering wheel, key in hand. Where were you...? Home. You were on your way home. Slotting the key in the ignition, you start the engine and begin the drive home. For once, the clouds have gone, and the world mocks you with its clear skies. You don’t think you can stand to look at the colour blue for a while. It’s a good thing you’re sitting right now. 

The drive itself is unremarkable. You go through the same streets, pass the same buildings, pull into the same parking lot, and park in your usual spot next to a truck. You admire the muscular arm resting on said truck window. Funny. Guess that sweater is popular around here. Large hands run through brown hair flecked with grey—John.

Shit. Shit. Shit. 

You creep out of your car and circle around to the apartment building, abandoning your groceries.

Just a few feet. Just a few feet, and you’ll make it to the door. Conscious of your steps, you slink across the pavement and concrete. You wrap your hand around the handle, and the tension bleeds from your shoulders. 

“Are you playing hide and seek, too?” a voice from below asks. You jerk and pull the door instead of pushing. A loud rattle echoes in the vicinity. Who decided it was a good idea to make doors out of glass? A sadist who likes to watch people open doors incorrectly, that’s who. You glance down. Long lashes frame blue eyes that stare into your soul. Your fingers itch to adjust the cowlick in the disarray of her hair. You spot a few leaves clinging to her locks. Was she hiding by that bush beside you?

“Are you hiding from your dad?” you ask Rose, scooting behind the potted plant when she beckons you closer.

Rose shrugs and peeks around you. “Daddy was taking too long. I’m waiting to see when he’ll notice I left.” 

Your brows pinch together. “That’s not safe, Rose. You should stick close to him. What if something bad happens to you?”

“Don’t worry, I have a lot of uncles, and they taught me how to beat up baddies!” She punches the air a few times. Her face pulls tight in concentration before loosening into a grin. She shrinks behind the bush and brings a finger to her lips.“Now shhh, we have to be quiet.”

Boots thud against the pavement, the strides between each step growing shorter. “Rosy! Where did you run off to this time?” There’s a divet to his tone beneath the loudness, like the warning tremors of an avalanche. “I need to put that girl on a leash.” There’s a smile in his tone, but it stretches taut like a rubber band, ready to snap and whiplash you with his increasing agitation. He runs a hand down his face and sighs, eyes darting across the rows of cars. 

You can’t watch this any longer. You move to reveal yourself, but Rose beats you to it. She tiptoes behind her father, giving up halfway and slamming herself into him. 

“Boo!” Rose screams, voice muffled by his shirt. 

John stares at Rose and shouts half a second later. “Ah!” Half a second too late.

Rose pulls away with a sullen frown. “I didn’t scare you, did I?”

John crouches down and pets her hair. “No, no, rosebud. Was so afraid I forgot how to talk,” he insists. 

Rose gives him a scrutinizing look. “Liar,” she pouts. John leans in and whispers something into her ear, scratching her smooth cheek with his beard. She giggles and squirms, pushing his face away with both her hands. He deliberately rubs their cheeks together, and it causes her to laugh harder. 

Once again, you’re watching the two of them from afar. Heat pricks your skin, and your gaze steers toward the door. You should be able to slip unnoticed if you’re quiet. Standing up, you wince as your joints pop. You might as well hang a giant neon sign to denote your presence. 

John’s voice glues your feet to the ground. “Let’s bring everything inside, then you can bake your cookies,” he says. You press your back against the wall and exhale through your nose. No big deal. You just need to wait until they head inside first. Your palms dig into the stony material of the building. As if with enough force, you’ll be able to reorganize your atoms and disappear into the walls to escape dying from embarrassment. 

“I have a surprise for you, Daddy!” Rose’s voice draws nearer.

You are a wall. A silent, still, and formidable wall.

“Did you find another pretty stone?” John asks, tone laced with amusement. 

You close your eyes, but the ocean will not leave you alone. The waves lap at your feet on the shore, and you shrink away. Stone presses hard into your back.

They won’t find you. They’ll walk past you and go inside. Your erratic heartbeat fragments your thoughts into mismatched puzzle pieces. You can’t think with all this drumming and adrenaline.

“It’s pretty, but it’s not a stone.” Rose runs up to you and tugs you from your hiding spot. “A special guest for dinner!” she presents you like a prized animal. You stumble, and your eyes snap open in fear of hitting the ground. Strong arms rush forward to steady you. You lift your head, and your mouth dries.

Cerulean eyes pull you into their depths, crinkles forming at their edges. John’s accent caresses your ears, and you tamp down the unintelligible noise that threatens to destroy your last shred of dignity. “I didn’t know you lived here too,” and the corners of his lips twitch.

You force your tongue to articulate, the words scraping like sandpaper up your throat. “Neither did I—that you also lived here! Cause I know that I live here because I live here!” A shaky laugh warbles out of you. “I wasn’t following you because that would be creepy—and I’m going to shut up now.” You seal your lips together before you can dig a deeper hole for yourself. His hands are still on you, fingers wrapped around your arms. Your blood sings at the contact. 

“Do you think Daddy’s handsome?” Rose blurts out. Flames lick your skin, and your mouth becomes reminiscent of a goldfish. 

John’s fingers dig into your arms, and it’s not until you flinch that his hands drop to his sides. “That’s not a polite question, Rose,” he rumbles. It’s low, a warning. But when you’re a kid, you’re not afraid of anything.

Rose places her hands on her hips. “But you were like this in the car on the way home too! And when I asked you what was wrong, you told me I was too young to understand. I’m not stupid, Daddy. I’m six.” She stomps on ‘six.’ And you watch as this little girl brings this burly man to his knees. 

John sighs, “Not here, Rose. Please.” 

But Rose refuses to yield. “Why not? You both like each other, so why can’t we have dinner together?” she asks.

John rubs the back of his neck, the muscles in his arms flexing. “Would you like to join us tonight?” he asks, eyes flickering between your face and the parking lot behind you. 

“I’m afraid Rose will kidnap me if I don’t say yes,” you joke. 

Rose grumbles, “Just because you’re right doesn’t mean you have to say it out loud.” She grabs your hand and tugs you to the entrance. “Daddy can bring the groceries inside. I want to show you my toys!”

You dig your heels into the ground and say, “I need to bring my things inside as well. It’ll only take a few minutes.” Rose’s smile falters, and she reluctantly lets you go.

“Don’t worry, Love. I can take care of that for ya,” John offers

You fidget with the keys in your pocket. “Are you sure?” You’re not worried about him stealing your car. He can’t exactly hide if you two live in the same building. Besides, you want to believe that the kindness in his eyes is genuine. 

“Wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t,” he reaffirms. 

“Ok,” and you hand him your car keys. His fingertips graze your palm, and you shiver. God, you’re pathetic. Rose tugs on your arm, and you trail after her. She leads you up a few flights of stairs before stopping on the third floor, where you also live. Except she walks to the opposite end of the hallway, away from your apartment. She pulls a key out of her pocket and unlocks the door.

Rose drops your hand and runs inside, returning with a stuffed animal in her arms. “This is Mr. Bear. Daddy got him for me!” Mr. Bear is wearing tactical gear and a bucket hat. Frayed threads stick out of his body along the seams, and small patches of fur have fallen out. She cradles the stuffed animal close to her chest and rests her chin atop his head. 

You nearly melt on the spot. “That’s very sweet of him,” you say.

“Sometimes, when I miss him, I just need to squeeze Mr. Bear tight.” She gives you a demonstration.

A familiar warm timbre greets your ears.“I love you, rosebud.” 

You grin and say, “Your dad reminds me of a bear.”

“Yeah! He’s big and cuddly. But his face turned red when I told him,” Rose mumbles the last part. She straightens up and tugs on your arm. “Oh! And these are my action figures!” 

You walk into what you assume is her bedroom. It’s not as chaotic as you thought it would be. Her bed is in one corner of the room, with a collection of stuffies sitting along one side. There’s a shelf with knickknacks and picture frames. Your eyes land on a photo of John holding a small bundle in his arms. It looks like the picture was taken without him knowing. His eyes are wide, staring at the tiny hand wrapped around his thumb. 

There’s something that’s been bothering you, but you don’t think it’s your place to ask. Rose startles you when she starts barking out, “Hold your fire! We can’t alert the enemy of our whereabouts!” You whip around to see her sitting on the ground with a mini soldier in each hand. The large tub behind her is open, the lid propped neatly against its side. You sit next to her and watch the ‘mission’ play out. She hands you a soldier and assigns you the special position of super spy. Now a successful job rests on your shoulders.

Thanks to Captain Rose, your team retrieves the files, returning without a single casualty. Although you had a close encounter with the enemy’s Captain Pickles, which began some sort of enemies-to-lovers arc. You don’t know. She’s six. She reasoned that the power of love triumphs over all. Rose begins cleaning up, setting the toys neatly in the bin before snapping the lid shut.

“Did you learn all that from your dad?” you ask.

Rose shrugs and picks up Mr. Bear. “Daddy never tells me anything about work. It’s classified. Sometimes I watch TV. There’s a show where one of the characters looks just like him, but Nana doesn’t let me watch much 'cause it’s not for kids.” Dear lord. Could you imagine being sandwiched between two Johns?? 

“Rosy? Want to bake your cookies now?” John shouts from the corridor, snapping you out of your fantasy.

“Yes, please!” Rose replies. She grabs your hand and gives you a toothy grin. “You can be my assistant. Daddy’s hopeless at baking.” She leads you to the kitchen, where some bowls and a tray are on the table. Rose lets go and skips to a seat, plopping herself down. Mr. Bear is seated on the chair next to her.

You sit at her other side and ask, “What kind of cookies are we making?” There are no cookie cutters in sight to give you a clue. 

Rose clasps her hands together. Her feet swing beneath the table. “Candy Canes! Santa will be so impressed that he’ll grant my wish for sure,” she answers.

You don’t know what a six-year-old would ask from Santa, but you sincerely hope it’s fulfilled. Perusing the items on the table, you notice a vital ingredient missing. “Do you have food dye?” you ask. 

Rose strokes her chin. She hops off her chair and walks up to John. “Daddy, do we have any food dye?”

John’s head peeks out from behind the fridge door. “Sorry, Rosy. I don’t remember,” and there’s a sheepish grin on his face. 

Rose hums and grabs a stool, tottering to the drawers. “I forgot. You went away for a while. I think Nana left some the last time we baked.” Your eyes snap to the fridge when you hear a thud. An apple rolls across the floor and stops near your feet. You pick up the fruit, thumb brushing over the bruise blooming underneath its skin. “I found red!” Rose waves a small bottle in her hand and dashes to show you. 

You set the apple on the table and praise Rose. Her chest puffs up, and the smile she gives you is dazzling. She hops onto her seat, clutching the bottle to her chest. 

John walks up to you two. “Here’s the dough,” and he holds out the cylindrical tube but changes his mind and leaves it on the table. The only seats left are the ones across. He picks the spot in front of you. 

“Thanks.” You snap the tube open and remove the packaging. “Alright, Rose. We split the dough in half, and you’ll colour one part red.”

Rose cocks her head to the side. “We don’t paint the cookies?”

You shake your head and say, “There’s an easier way to make them look like candy canes.” You hand Rose a wooden spoon and tell her to mix the dough while you add the dye. Once half the dough is red, you take equal parts from both bowls and roll them into noodles. Putting them together, you twist them to form a cane. You curve one end, and the result is a near-perfect replica of a candy cane. Rose marvels at the sight, face inches from the table’s surface. 

There’s a streak of food colouring on her face, and you grab a tissue for her. She’s engrossed in the cookie, picking it up and turning it over. Out of impulse, you wipe the stain on her cheek and her laughter tinkles throughout the room. She complains about being ticklish between her giggles. A low sigh draws your attention. You look over to John, who’s watching you with his head propped up with his hand. “What? Do I have something on my face?” you ask.

There’s a softness to John’s features. He looks at you like you’re holding his heart in your hands, squeezing the pulsating organ with every cookie you form. “Do good looks count?” It’s barely audible, but you hear it. His elbow slips from the table, and he clears his throat. “Just been a while since I’ve seen her so happy.” He folds his arms across the table, a wall of muscle to create a false sense of distance. 

You gesture your head at Rose. “Make a cookie with her; have fun together.”

John stares at the table, stroking his chin in a familiar fashion, but remains silent otherwise. You chew on the inside of your cheek and resume forming the cookies. The squeal of wood scraping against wood pricks your ears. John squeezes himself into the space between you and Rose. His shoulders brush against you, and he is radiating heat. “What have you got there, Rosy?” he asks.

Rose looks at him with furrowed brows. “A candy cane, silly. Here, I’ll show you how to make it,” she answers. Rose does a quick demonstration, but John still struggles. Somehow he’s managed to mix the parts to create pink. Rose shakes her head, lips tugging into a frown. “My hands are too small; can you help him?” She turns to you. Long lashes frame her doe eyes, and you can’t bring yourself to say no.

You glance at John to find he’s staring at you. Shifting in your seat, you say, “If you don’t mind…?”

John maintains eye contact. “I’m all yours,” and the smile he gives you is bashful. You fight the warmth rushing to your cheeks, but it’s like trying to douse a flame with gasoline. The heat intensifies, and you grab a tissue to wipe your clammy hands, muttering an excuse about the dye staining your skin. 

You focus on the table, resisting the temptation to turn your head and meet the gaze burning into your face. “You take equal parts of each dough and roll them into logs.” You pause to make sure he’s following along. “Once they’re the same size, you can twist them together to form a cane.” John is about to mush his cookie as children tend to do with playdough; always mixing the colours. You grab his hands to stop him. His fingers twitch against your palms, but he doesn’t recoil. “Like this,” and you twist your cookie, rolling it some more to flatten the cane.  

“You make it sound so easy,” John huffs.

You shrug your shoulders. “It’s not too bad once you get the hang of it.”

John shakes his head. “Give me a pistol, and I can field strip and reassemble in a few minutes.” He holds up a warped cookie. “This, this I can’t do.”

You bump your shoulders together. “I’ll have you baking like a pro.”

John grins; it’s boyish and charming—it pulls you in like a flower reaching for a ray of sunlight. “Is that a promise?” he asks, lashes framing an expanse of blue. And once again, you are hopelessly lost at sea. 

“Only if you’ll invite me over again,” you quip.

“Is this flirting?” Rose asks. Her head pops up behind John’s shoulder. “If Daddy won’t invite you, I will.”

You smile as John buries his face in his hands. “Thank you, Rose,” you say.

She returns the gesture with a wide grin. “You’re very welcome.”

You continue making the cookies in silence, gaslighting yourself into thinking that the numerous brushes against your hand are accidental. 7/10 times you’re grabbing something, John also happens to be reaching for the same item. The cookie under your palm flattens into a pancake when his body leans ever-so-slightly into yours. Thankfully this is the last cookie, and you place it on the baking tray with the rest.

Rose insists on putting the tray into the oven herself, and John watches her like a hawk, hovering behind her in case he needs to step in.

Once John’s certain the apartment won’t burst into flames, he rolls up his sleeves. You eye the veins along his arms as subtly as you can, wincing like a child caught in the act of misbehaving when John speaks. “Can you please help Rose clean up? I need to get started on dinner,” he asks.

“Yes, Chef,” and you give a mock salute. “Alright, Rose. I’ll wash all the dishes in the sink. Can you wipe the counter?” you ask her.

Rose straightens her back and nods. “Affirmative,” she replies, marching to grab a towel. 

You begin collecting the bowls and utensils, plugging the drain afterwards to fill up the sink. A few drops of soap and a mountain of suds form. With a sponge, you begin scrubbing away at bits of dried-up dough and red dye. In the corner of your eye, Rose is reprimanding Mr. Bear on how he needs to pull his weight too and that it doesn’t matter if he’s not heavy because he’s full of stuffing. 

“You’ve got an adorable soldier,” you say, turning your head to John, who’s heating a pan on the stove.

John watches Rose with deep affection. Those are the eyes of a man staring at the purpose of his existence. “She’s a trooper, alright,” and the smile on his face is lax.

“What’s on the menu tonight?” you ask, adding more soap to your sponge. The remaining traces of dye are giving you grief.

“Fish and chips; one of Rosy’s favourites,” John answers.

“Daddy makes the best!” Rose pipes up.

John shakes his head, and the base of his neck flushes. “She’s exaggerating,” he says.

You smirk, “I’ll be the judge of that.” The chuckle your words elicit from John fills you with a pleasant buzz.

“I have to warn you. I aim to please,” and the lilt in John’s voice encourages you further.

“Yes, you certainly look the type,” you say, eyes trailing up and down his figure. John’s body trembles under your gaze. “Is it just you and Rose here?” You don’t know if he’s divorced, but you don’t recall seeing a ring on his finger.

“She’s dead,” John says. Concise and well-practiced. The plate in your hand slips and splashes into the sink with a thud, shattering the silence. You look over at John, but his back is to you. Shoulders hunched and head low. “Died during childbirth,” he adds, and the slight wobble churns your stomach. You should have known. Should have guessed from how the pictures on the walls only contain two subjects. Rose only ever talks about her father and grandparents. How could you be so fucking blind?

You crush the sponge in your hands, and bubbles seep out between your fingers. An apology is on the tip of your tongue, straining under the weight of your rapid thoughts. Day one, and you’ve already stepped on a mine. A phantom pain aches in your chest, grieving the loss of a love you never had in the first place. John says nothing. Continues to fry the fish in silence. Pops of oil like the rounds of a machine gun, but not loud enough to drown out the hammering of your heart.

Rose breaks the silent war. “I cleaned the counter. Can I check on the cookies?” she asks.

The apology dies on your tongue, and you tear your eyes away from John’s back, missing how the tension bleeds from his body. “Of course,” you say, placing the last dish on the drying rack. “Do you know how?”

“Nana showed me the buttons because I accidentally turned off the oven before,” Rose replies. She hands you her towel, and you lump it in the sink with yours. Rose walks up to the oven, and John moves to the side. You hang back, grappling with the temptation to steal a glance. You’re not sure what’s worse: John catching you staring or the disappointment of him not staring back. In the end, you decide to focus on Rose. She awes at the cookies and beckons you closer. You shuffle towards her, sticking close to the opposite side.“We should leave extra for the reindeer and elves who want some too!” 

You smile and pat her head. “Next time you can buy peppermint extract so they’ll taste like candy canes too!” you suggest. Rose’s eyes widen. She looks at you like you have the biggest brain in the world. Your confidence skyrockets, but a quick peek at John sends you plummeting back to Earth. You can’t read the expression on his face, and it worries you.

“They look so good! Santa will definitely grant my wish!” Rose’s comment piques your interest.

“What’s your wish?” you ask, crouching down to her level.

Rose glances at her father before lowering her voice. “I can’t tell you with Daddy around; it might make him sad.” Your jaw slackens. What could a child wish for that would make their parents unhappy?

Dinner is served, and the seating arrangement remains unchanged. True to John’s words, Rose devours her dinner. She even asks for seconds. “I’m a growing girl,” is all she responds with when she notices your amused expression.

The conversation consists of small talk. You learn they moved into the complex two years after you did. It’s honestly amazing how you didn’t run into them earlier. John doesn’t talk about his job, but he asks you plenty of questions about yours. You’re happy to answer. Glad to have something to talk about that won’t prod old wounds. Before you know it, you’re cracking jokes, and John is struggling to breathe. His laughter is intoxicating, and like an addict, you crave another dose. Rose watches the entire interaction with a broad smile, nibbling on her food as her eyes ping pong across the table.

John leans forward and hangs off your every word. Every ounce of his attention focused solely on you. You pause mid-story, caught up in the softness of his features. Before he can ask you what’s wrong, your phone vibrates in your pocket. You pull out the device to see it’s a text notification. The time on the screen reads 9:30 pm. It’s getting late, and from the way Rose slumps in her chair, she should be in bed soon.

“I should go. Rose looks like she’s about to pass out,” you say.

“M’not sleepy,” Rose argues, rubbing her eyes.

John rises from his seat. “I’ll clean up. Rosy, why don’t you say goodbye to our guest?”

Rose gets out of her chair with Mr. Bear and holds your hand, leading you to the entrance. John steps forward but stops himself. He turns to collect the dishes, and you walk away, feeling the heat of his gaze lingering on your back. 

As you’re slipping on your shoes, you ask Rose, “Now that it’s just us, do you want to tell me your wish?” She glances behind her. The faint sounds of porcelain clattering against metal travel along the corridor. 

“You can’t tell Daddy, but I don’t want him to be lonely. He doesn’t cry at night anymore when he thinks I’m sleeping, but he still looks like a raccoon in the morning,” Rose says, pinching an invisible zipper between her fingers and dragging it across her lips. You copy the gesture and even go as far as to mime turning a key and tossing it over your shoulder. You have a sneaking suspicion, but you don’t want to get your hopes up. 

Unlocking the door, you reach for the doorknob. “Wait,” John shouts, stopping you in your tracks. He jogs up to you and holds out a reusable takeout container and your bag of groceries. “I made too much. Take some leftovers with you.” You peer inside, and there’s a generous portion. How much did he cook?

“I’m tired. I’m getting ready for bed,” Rose suddenly announces.

John chuckles, “I thought you weren’t tired earlier?”

“That was earlier. I’m tired now.” Rose walks off to her room, mumbling to Mr. Bear. The only snippet you catch is something about ‘having a moment.’ You take the container and bag from John, fingertips touching. He doesn’t let go, and you’re left standing there awkwardly.

“Don’t feel bad about what happened earlier,” John says, withdrawing his hands and shoving them into his pockets. 

Earli—oh. Your cheeks tingle with warmth. You clear your throat and bring the container close to your chest. “I didn’t mean to pry, I just wanted….” You pause.

“Wanted what?” John asks, and his eyes are wide and pleading. He waits and doesn’t push. Watches as you chew on the inside of your cheek and avoid his gaze.

When you finally gather the courage to look at his face, tender eyes observe you. Does he feel the same? A wave of confidence washes over you, and you decide to take the risk. “To know if I have a fighting chance,” you say.

The corners of John’s lips boomerang up and then back down. His eyebrows draw together, and he almost looks… scared. “Love, I work in the military. I’m a single father. I don’t have much to offer,” John rasps, the words constricting his chest like a vine of thorns. His throat bobs, and he closes his eyes, steeling his body. Because bracing for impact is a natural human response in an attempt to lessen the damage of an imminent crash.

You smile softly. “And if I said I didn’t mind? That I’ll wait for you to come back and become Rose’s favourite while you’re gone?” John’s eyes snap open wide. He stares at you like you’re some sort of mythical creature; a being that can’t possibly exist in this world. Here is a man with his own baggage, who carries a burden on his shoulders that you will never comprehend. And you want to learn how to love him anyway. His expression softens, and he gravitates toward you.

“When I saw how you handle Rose, I didn’t think I could like you more than I already do,” John says.

Your ears perk. “You like me?” you ask. You didn’t think the attraction went both ways.

John rubs the back of his neck, and his cheeks flush. “Might have seen you use the elevator a few times… regularly,” he confesses. “I’ve liked you for a while.”

“And you never tried to say hello?” you tease him, placing a hand on your hip. The pain that flashes across his face is brief, but it stops you from continuing. You decide to change the topic. “Can I kiss you goodbye?” Your face engulfs in flames. “On the cheek, I mean!”

The pink dusting John’s face darkens. “Only if I get to kiss you—on the forehead,” he clarifies.

“Deal.” You place a quick peck on John’s cheek, his skin an inferno against your lips. He cups your face and leans in. It’s soft and leaves you tingling from head to toe. A laugh bubbles in your chest. You slap a hand to cover the dopey grin spreading across your face. “Sorry. I'm just really happy.”

John’s thumb caresses your cheeks. His blue eyes are sparkling. “So am I, Darling. Goodnight,” he says, leaning forward to plant another kiss. You close your eyes and make a content hum, basking in his warmth. 

John opens the door for you and leans against the doorframe after you step out. The hallway is relatively dark, and the lights from the apartment bathe him in an ethereal glow. A smile graces his features, and the current that threatened to pull you under has settled into gentle ripples. “Night, John,” you reply, waving goodbye. 

A smug grin stretches his smile, and he winks at you. “See ya later, Love.” 

You skip to your apartment. The door behind you doesn’t click shut until you disappear from sight. You head to the fridge first to store the leftovers. You find a note when you put away your groceries. Fishing out the paper, it reads: ‘Rose’s bedtime is 10 pm.’

The clock on your stovetop tells you it’s 9:50. 

Where did you put that expensive bottle of whiskey you bought years ago?

Bonus Scene:

John tucks his daughter into bed, pulling the blanket to her chin. “What else did you wish for, Rosy?” he asks. It’s become a tradition to figure out her Christmas present. He makes sure to ask her right before bed when he’s certain she won’t remember the conversation in the morning.

Rose snuggles into her pillow, hugging the stuffed bear close to her chest. Her voice is muffled and thick with sleepiness, but he hears it crystal clear. “A little sister.”

─── ⋆ ｡ﾟ☆: *. ☽ .* :☆ﾟ｡⋆ ───

End Note:

Happy early Valentine's Day! I can't wait to consume the Valentine-themed content for all the fandoms I'm in. Not related, but I saw a cowboy ghost render on IG and I think I'm going to have to go back to writing something for him ¯\_( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)_/¯

Time to drop off the face of the Earth for a month or two again.

I'll see you guys at my next hyperfixation! (。・∀・)ノ

Reblogs are appreciated!

[pricesprettylittlehousewife]

somethin somethin, Price with a daughter.

this just hit me idk why or how. Kids be nice to your mom and dad-uhmm idk warnings: bad relestionship with kid, worse one with parent, single parent!Price, Daughter!Reader, SLIIIIGHT pricenik bc yes.

issue one: Vaping

"Give it-now."

Price held his hand out to her and she rolled her eyes.

"Why?"

Price gritted hi teeth. Of course his kid would be like him-just trendier and whatnot.

"Just a vape, dad. Not even anything bad."

"Just a vape?! Girl, it's nic-"

"Oh i don't care, Dad! Ugh, your just like Miss Jensen!"

Miss Jensen-her teacher? So she's been talked to before-and unnotified? ...Sketchy.

"Darling, please. Your far too young to be hitting that-your only fifteen, Love!"

"Dont pet name me, I ain't your dead wife!"

and she walked away. Taking her bag and the fucking vape with her.

"Fucking god, I hate him..."

Issue two: no manners

"Ha ha, noo! C'mon, Sal! He's cute an everythin' but he's older!"

she kept giggling and Price heard teh word "older" and walked into the room, only to find his daughter and some random boy flirting.

"Y/n-"

"Oh greeeeat, your home from work. Hi, John."

"Young lady-"

"Can you leave please? Thank you, ugh."

issue three: Jealousy

"Hey...Sweetie?"

"What now, Price?"

"...Do you...wanna go shopping?"

"So you want to spend time with me now? Pfft, fuck off, John."

"...just thought i'd ask before i went out tonight with Nik-"

"Your boyfirend? So Pizza for dinner again? Jeez, John...and you think I'd call you dad. HA!"

she got up, pushed past him and walked away.

Price siged and ran a hand through his hair.

"...This is all my fault."

issue four: Pettiness

"...So you Nik?"

Nikolai nodded.

"Da-err, yes."

"...Nice to meet you, I'll be in my room, dont come in."

"Y/n. Behave, please."

"Why? You brought him home to shag him, no? So i'll be in my room to let you. Headphones on and everything, bye."

"...is she always like this?"

"yes...ever since her mom died."

"how did he die?"

"...did it herself. Overdose...I was off with you and one four one on an Op."

"..."

"i get a call later that night, "Mom's dead, left a letter explaining why and your the fucking reason, Dad!" ...thats what she said."

"I'm sure-"

"My wife was petty in every way known to mankind."

"...Ahh."

idk what this was like i said before. I just wanted to make an oc for price, like his daughter but couldnt so i turned this into an x reader. your welcome.

[gomzdrawfr]

so many ideas so little time

[gothghostiie]

thinking about john price hiring reader as a babysitter. by the time he's back you're fast asleep on the couch, curled up, kids fed and happy in bed and he can't help but look at your sleepy, curled up form a little too fondly.

[ghostedbunnie]

the voices are whispering about single dad! price and a teacher! reader and i'm not strong enough to not start drafting ideas 😩

[lizclipse]

i’m tired and frustrated and grumpy and things around me really aren’t helping. i do miss having my own place a lot but fucking hell the prices of house and the interest rates mean that even if i could get a mortgage id be getting shafted each month and have no idea how long id be able to keep it up

[andorerso]

girls when they just bought Jedi Survivor ☺️

girls when they can't start it until Friday at the earliest because of work 😕