caffeineforbucky

[caffeineforbucky]

craziest photo ever. like what

[caffeineforbucky]

‘you’ll get used to it.’ | captain john price

“Good girl,” he mutters, voice thick with it, and your cunt clenches around him in response. “God, you take me so—” you whimper, rolling your hips to meet his, and he hisses. “Yeah,” his mouth finds your ear. “Show me what you can give me—”

WARNINGS - 18+ mdni. smut. so much smut. darker themes ie death. a super deep and twisted interpretation of a solider who’s being reckless in attempt to run from their feelings. captain price is bred to hunt so it’s futile. piv. mirror sex. multi orgasms. size kink. dirty talk. dubcon slightly. we shouldn’t be doing this trope. slightly morally grey. a lot of sleep token references. fingering. reader afab. mentions of blood, injury. slight brat/dom dynamic. overstimulation.

The first thing you register is the weight of him.

Not his hands, though they’re there too — firm around your arms, holding you steady — but him. The heat of him at your side, sweat and cigarettes filling your muddled senses with each laboured breath you gasp for. The quiet, infernal energy that pours off him, taking up too much space, too much air from your already airless lungs.

“You with me?” His voice rumbles close to your ear.

You try to nod, but the motion sends a fresh bolt of pain ricocheting through your skull. Your breath hitches, and his grip tightens.

“Easy.” A low murmur, meant to soothe. “Almost there.”

There being the med bay, where fluorescent lights paint everything sterile. Too bright, too fucking loud alongside the offset drumbeat in your ears. He doesn’t let you sit on your own — eases you down onto the cot himself, hands as steady as they always are, even when yours are the furthest from.

You wince as you shift, and his eyes flick over you. He’s still assessing.

“Shouldn’t’ve let that bastard get a hit in,” he mutters, half to himself.

You know what he’s thinking. The result of your own impulsivity. Reckless. “Yeah, I’ll try to avoid that next time.”

He exhales sharply. A shake of his head. “Could’ve been worse.”

You know that. Just like you know he’s only saying it to ease your dread. But you can see it in the way he looks at you, something unreadable tightening at the corners of his mouth, that he’s seen it. Many more times than you think.

“I’m fine,” you tell him. “You don’t have to—”

He doesn’t let you finish.

Just gives you that look, the one that shuts people up without him having to say a damn thing. It’s something you’re still learning about him — the way he often communicates without words. How his silence and pointed stares hold more meaning than most people’s shouting. You’ve also learned the effort to argue with him when he’s like this is a futile one. You’re a part of his team. He’ll be with you through it all.

Then, without asking, he reaches for you — because he knows you’ll let him. One hand bracing your chin, tilting your head so he can get a better look at the damage.

And even through the agony, it’s all too much.

The touch, the closeness, the way he hasn’t taken his eyes off you for one goddamn second since you’d been hit. Your throat goes dry at the realization that it’s doing more to you than it should. But you’ll never get used to how he does it. How a man like him — a wartime killer with more bloodshed on his fingertips than skin covering his limbs — can still look at you with something even remotely soft, when he’s bred to be everything but.

“You always this stubborn?” His voice is quieter now. A rough rasp against his throat.

You swallow, pulse hammering. “You always this persistent?”

His lips quirk, but his grip stays firm, fingers cool against your fevered skin.

“You’ll get used to it.”

You wondered then, if you ever really would.

———————

Months later, you’re still wondering the same thing.

It’s been months since that night in the med bay. Months of keeping yourself at arm’s length. Of keeping things professional. Of projecting platonic renditions despite the cursed thing threatening to take its place.

Or, well, trying to.

Because if there’s one thing you know for certain, it’s that tension like this doesn’t fade. It festers.

No matter how deep you try to bury it, perseverance is its ally. Helps it crawl out of the grave you dug for it in every brush of his fingers against yours when he hands over a magazine clip, every order spoken gravel in your ear, every glance held a second too long when neither of you are fast enough to look away. It leaves claw marks in everything, has been ever since the day he carried you through crumbling stone and mortar — ever since you felt him so fucking close and you realized you didn’t mind it. Since the moment you learned more about him in twenty minutes than you have in the entire year by his side.

That night relinquished something. Made you see him in a new light. What was once a beacon is now a solar flare for dead gods.

And it erupts here. Now.

In the barracks washroom after a mission gone sideways. After a fight that took too much out of you — left your bones aching, your skull pounding with the remnants of a concussion you’re beginning to suspect never fully healed — skin still humming raw, soaked in adrenaline and something a little too fucking reckless.

After he follows you in.

The door slams behind him, the sound ricocheting off the tiles. You don’t turn around, just strip your tac vest off with more force than necessary, breathing hard, hissing under your breath as exhaustion begins smothering out the fire in your blood.

“You got a fucking death wish?”

You can feel him staring at you. You know he’s seeing red — the heat of his eyes on your back incomparable to the even the greediest hellfires.

You exhale, press your palms flat against the edge of the sink. “Don’t start.”

“Don’t start?” He steps closer. “You ran straight into that firefight without cover.”

“I handled it.”

“You barely walked away.”

Finally, you turn, glare at him over your shoulder. “That what this is? Another fucking lecture?”

He doesn’t scowl. Doesn’t snap at you like your previous COs would. He just watches. And somehow, that’s worse.

“That what you think I’m doing?”

You scoff, shake your head, turning back toward the sink. The mirror in front of you is cracked down the middle, splitting your reflection in two. And you think, rather ridiculously, that it’s a perfect fucking picture of how you feel. Torn. Between the persistence of him and the need to keep your distance. Between what you’ve spent months trying to ignore and the way it still catches you off guard—how you keep finding yourself watching him, noticing him, like something inside you has already made a decision you can’t retract.

Behind you, he exhales slow. You hear the shift of his boots against the floor.

“Can’t keep doing this,” he mutters. “Won’t.”

Something in your chest tightens.

“What, watching my back?” You force your voice to stay even. “That’s your job, isn’t it?”

“Not like this.”

The simplicity of that response has currency, and you know the behaviour. The familiar silence that tells you there’s more to this. Syllables pleading behind his teeth which he isn’t quite yet dignifying — but that slice along the back of his throat all the same. You meet his gaze in the mirror, and you see it then. In the dim light of his ocean eyes.

An emergence.

“I can’t watch you go down again.” There it is. Words coaxed out in that thick accent of his that inflicts them like a wound. He’s moving closer now, extinguishing the space. Stepping up behind you. “You haven’t been right for months. I need to know why.”

At that, you almost recoil — each syllable thrusting the knife deeper into your resolve, and you realize it’s not his accent that makes them cut, but the way he speaks them. Certain. As if he’s looking at you bare. No layers left to protect you. Like you’re nothing but sinew and marrow. Like your eyes and limbs are instruments to pick apart.

You stare at the sink. “So you are always this persistent.”

It leaves your lips exactly as you mean it — a callback, a test. You don’t watch his face, but the silence stretching long tells you it landed exactly where you wanted. A synapse snap back, an echo from the depths of whatever is eating you from the inside out.

“And you,” a pause, breath ghosting against the shell of your ear. “Are always this stubborn.”

He says it like an indictment.

You’re sure it’s because he knows you. Because he sees how you bleed and pretend you don’t. How you’ve been keeping yourself at arm’s length for months. Because you’ve cornered yourself — because you let the bruises fade without ever acknowledging how deep they burrow.

Your fingers tighten around the porcelain, like if you hold on hard enough you can keep the charade going. Pretend you don’t feel what you feel. But then, you glance up, and there it is — your reflection wavering in the split mirror, cut through by the fault line of your own indecision. Your own internal warfare.

“Yes,” you whisper. “But you knew that long ago.”

“I did.” His hand braces against the sink beside yours as he all but cages you against it. “But I keep thinking, sooner or later, you’ll let yourself stop.”

Another pause. A breath suspended in air too thick, in a space that feels too small.

“You want me to stop?”

He exhales through his nose. “I want you to want to.”

It’s an invitation. A quiet demand.

You swallow against the burn in your throat because it’s clear he knows what’s hiding behind your eyes. He’s just asking you to be honest. To pull the words from where they’ve been buried, to stop dissolving them like acid on your tongue. To let him in.

“Then you want for nothing.” Your voice is softer than you mean it to be, dangerously close to breaking. “Because you know I’d tell you anything if you asked.”

His eyes meet yours in the mirror.

“Tell me what’s making you reckless.”

You’d expected that — or something like it — but it still takes you apart. Thread by thread, a rope cinched through the hollow of your ribs. Pulling, pulling —waiting for you to give.

And you almost do. Almost let it spill, let it take shape in the open air between you. The truth of it. The rot you’ve kept pressed beneath your tongue, the slow, patient decay of something you know you shouldn’t feel.

But instead—

“It’s the head injury,” you lie.

A hollow offering. Brittle. A crumbling thing in place of the real answer.

His fingers twitch against the porcelain, reflection sharpening in the mirror — cutting through the fractures he’s causing. He doesn’t scoff. Doesn’t accuse you of lying. And that’s worse. So much worse. Because it means he’s seeing you. Means he’s waiting — sifting through the hollow, the fractions of you that no longer fit together in search of the thing you hesitate to give him.

“You can’t lie to me.” It sinks deep. Sticks somewhere you can’t pull it free. He’s right. “We both know it isn’t just that.”

You exhale something like a laugh except it’s boneless and bitter, just nerves spilling out because they’ve got no where else to go.

“Didn’t know you were a medic now.” You break your eyes back to the sink. “Or a mind reader.”

“I don’t need to be.” The words come fast. Convicting. “I just need to know you.”

And that. That makes you look up at him again. Makes you meet his eyes. Makes you burn.

“Price—“

His lips are against your ear. “Tell me.”

Your throat closes. The rope pulls tighter. You know what he wants — what he’s asking. But the answer feels like it won’t fit in your mouth. The swell of truth too large. Too longly suppressed because god this is your Captain and all he did was save your life. You know you should just be grateful and yet the only thing on your mind is granting him more than the debt you owe.

Because when you can’t swallow your demons, they don’t just disappear. They turn to hunger instead.

It was his hands that had fed them. They’re still starving now.

“The truth will ruin everything, Captain.” The words tear from your throat like he’s ripped them out himself. “This isn’t something you, or anyone, can help me with.”

You feel him go still the moment the words leave you. Feel it in the hand bracing against the sink, the exhale of his breath against your neck.

“So that’s what this is.” Your stomach coils, something twisting tight as you turn your head to face him. He doesn’t move back. Just dips his gaze to your lips. “You’re feeling too much, yeah? Think by being reckless you can run from it.”

It’s startling, the way he sees right through you. Your silence is a telling confession and he reads it like scripture.

You’ve always known it would be hard with him. Knew it from the beginning, because he’s as sharp as he is skilled, because he knows how to look at a situation and read the words left unspoken.

You nod. All while wishing it was anyone else.

“You can’t outrun this.” His voice drops, dragging his free hand up the nape of your neck. “Can’t outrun me.”

He tugs you toward him, something dark flashing beneath his eyes — something like possession, something that makes your bones ache as his mouth ghosts over yours. A torturous, drawn-out motion, withholding what you know he’ll take.

A breath passes between you, your eyes closed, a million things unspoken. Spinning. Thrumming in the silence.

Then, he brushes his lips to yours. And there’s fire.

A slow-burning ruin, heat licking through your stomach, curling in your spine, and it devours you — every breath, every instinct screaming at you to pull away, to run. It’s all gone. Gone until the moment he pulls back. Presses his forehead against yours.

“I know.” You reply, and for a second you think he’s backing off.

He doesn’t.

Lips against yours again, he takes. Your mouth parts on a sharp inhale. Shock, surrender, his tongue slipping against yours, before he kisses you hard. Like he’s been waiting for this, waiting for your admittance. Like this is something he’s fought against just as much as you have.

Your hands find his shoulders, something to brace against as he pulls you in deeper. The breath is gone from your lungs, your pulse pounding for an entirely different reason now. You open your eyes as he pulls back again. Take in the sharp cut of his features — the shadow of a beard against his jaw, the darkness of his gaze, drinking you in like he wants to keep you there.

“You don’t get to die on me,” he murmurs, and it makes your world tilt. Makes you wonder if you hit your head harder than you thought, all those months ago. Makes you wonder if you’re hallucinating. “Christ.” His fingers flex at your waist. “You don’t get to be careless.”

There’s something in him you’ve never seen before. Something undone. Something you don’t understand but do at the same time — because you feel it too. The decades of loss. The battle scars. The countless near misses that linger for life. You weren’t thrusting yourself into open fire with some raging death wish — but you weren’t being as methodical as you should have been either, all to chase that fucking adrenaline spike. You didn’t think he’d have this reaction.

And there’s so much you need to say. So much you need to do. But all you can do is whisper, breathless against him. “I’m sorry.”

There’s a pause. A click of his tongue.

“I’m not done with you.” His mouth finds yours again, something softer this time, but no less demanding. You don’t fight it. And when his free hand dips down your back, you tilt your head up into him, hands fisted in his shirt, wishing you didn’t miss the feel of it so devastatingly when he pulls back again. “You want reckless? I’ll show you fucking reckless.”

You don’t have a chance to answer before he spins you around and shoves you against the counter. A groan slips from your lips, but you relish the feel of him — the warmth of his chest as he steps into you, crowding you until all you know is his heat.

His hands slide down your sides, gripping at your hips, the heat in your gut burning hot as he holds you in place.

“This what you want?” He mutters against the side of your throat, his nose nudging your jaw. “Or do you still want to run?”

You swallow, mouth parted, breath coming hard. It’s a question, but you know he doesn’t really want an answer. Not with everything he’s doing. Not with the way he’s holding you, the way his hands slip beneath your shirt, calloused fingers grazing bare skin as he tugs the fabric up.

Your breath hitches. “Christ, Captain—”

You feel his mouth brush against your neck, tongue lavving out to taste you. Like he’s hungry and you’re a goddamn four-course meal. You moan. It’s all you can do to stay upright, legs going weak when he nips at your jaw.

“No Captain.” A demand. His hand sliding lower, dipping under the fabric of your cargos. “John.”

John. You shudder at the implication of it. John is a rare thing—something you’ve only ever heard him give to a handful of others, and no one else. John is personal. John is when he’s no longer your superior, but instead, your equal.

“John.” Somehow, it rolls off your tongue like breathing, like it had always been waiting there for this moment. Another moan follows it, just as his fingers find your clit. “Ohgod, John—”

He hums, teasing you, fingers moving in paced, languid circles like he’s got nothing but time despite the way his chest is pacing against your back. Pressure building beneath his skin. You feel the tension in him — the way his muscles shift, the way he tenses in response.

“That’s it,” he grinds out, fingers speeding up just enough. “You like that?”

Your answer is an afterthought. You don’t speak, don’t need to. Your mouth finds his again, and he swallows the breath you try to take. All you can do is nod.

And you know you have no fucking right to know what he sounds like. How he tastes as your tongue wrestles his. Your head spinning too fast for you to think because he is everywhere, a heady mix of lust and need as you desperately try to chase the way he makes your blood race. It’s all so new. So fucking wanton. Needy. As if all the months of wanting have finally caught up to the moment, a wildfire that seems to burn all logic. You know this is wrong — but fuck you don’t care.

You know in a second, he’ll be pressing you against the granite and you’ll have to make a thousand apologies to whatever god may be listening.

But then he pushes a finger into you, and you only have one prayer on your tongue. “Oh, John.”

He exhales against you, a quiet growl that goes straight to your head. It’s the same sound he makes when he’s in a combat, and there’s something about the idea of being able to make him feel the same as he feels when he’s a man of war that makes fireworks light up behind your eyelids.

“Mm. She’s fucking tight.” He mutters as he curls his finger and presses deeper. You gasp, the sound swallowed between you. “This is what you needed, hm? Needed me to pin you down. Make you fucking feel.”

That— that’s exactly it. Your eyes dart up to his in the mirror because yes. In the fractures he’d caused he’d found what you were too afraid to verbalize. And it makes you keen — the way it’s like he can rip out your soul and hold it in his hands. You know you can’t hide it in your gaze, the desperation that comes with that kind of dependency.

Of course.

“You. Mm. You always know just what I need.” You moan out, as teasing as possible, while your climax barrels closer.

And he relishes it. Every second. It’s obvious in the sharp inhale he takes, the way his pupils dilate until the blue in his eyes look like a halo in a sea of blackened lust. Your head feels like it’s splitting in two, caught between the pressure building inside you and the heat that seems to be coiling so tight you could implode.

He adds a second finger, and you have to grip onto the counter if you want to still find your feet.

“Ohmygod—fuck, John—“

You don’t know how you look, can’t bring yourself to face your reflection — but you know how it feels, the way the world is tipping like you’re on the deck of a ship, the way your stomach clenches and your nerves light like fire under your skin. The irony of the situation isn’t lost on you. You spent months running from him just to end up here. You realize now that he’s always been a step ahead in a way you can’t understand, and you know you’re playing a game you won’t win.

“Let me feel it.” He purrs against your ear, fingers pumping. “Let it happen.”

You moan loud at that, clenching around his fingers because it already is happening. The pleasure is hot and blinding.

“Ohgod—“ your voice breaks between words, your head falling back against of his shoulder. “Fuck. I’m—“

He knows. The heat building in your gut so bright it seeps through your skin. So, he dips his other hand back beneath your shirt, palming your breast and you know it’s to make you fall even harder — and christ, he manages it. You erupt, climax hitting you like a train.

The bliss is blinding, and you want to scream — but can’t because his mouth is on yours, capturing every strangled gasp you give as you try to catch your breath. You’re trembling, legs shaking, your body trying to find some sort of ground as you gasp for breath — but then he’s pulling his hand out and sliding off to one side. You feel empty. Breathless. You think, in some dim place in your mind, that you should feel embarrassed now, but you’re too distracted to care. As your breathing returns, you can hear him sucking on his fingers.

Tasting you.

You can barely stand it, the noise curling through the fog in your head. You hear a soft pop, and suddenly his hand is on your jaw, tilting you towards the mirror, and you finally look.

You think you almost look the same. You can almost pretend that that this is what it’s always been — something fleeting and nameless and reckless — but there’s a flush on your cheeks, a gloss in your eyes, that you can’t deny. In fact, the only thing that breaks you out of the fantasy is the way John’s eyes meet yours.

As if there was ever any mistaking what you would allow to happen here. You know, looking at him, that that the hunger in your gaze would always give away the truth. That he would always know how to read you.

“Reckless.” He mutters, as if he knows exactly what you’re thinking, as if it’s something he’d known all along. You watch his jaw clench, his fingers digging into your cheeks. It’s not angry — it’s something more. A possession. “You do not get to leave me.”

You’ve known this man for barely a year, and yet he understands something you cannot. Something different from all your previous CO’s. Something that goes deeper than protection of a superior. And for the first time, you realize you can’t hide—not from him, not from whatever this is.

“Is that an order?” You whisper. Smirking.

He leans in, the heat of him branding against your spine, and you feel his words before he speaks them, rough and low on your throat.

“An order,” he echoes, hands sliding down to your hips. “And a threat.”

Your breath stutters, head spinning too fast to think. This is dangerous — whatever this is. It’s like the two of you are careening off the edge of a mountain, barreling toward something irreversible. You should stop this. You should pull away.

“Mm.” Instead, you arch your back, pressing against him with a low, breathy hum. “Now who’s being reckless.”

“Mhm. Knew you’d like that,” he mutters, mouth dragging against your jaw. His hands are already working, tugging down your zipper. “Brat.”

You should hate that word. Before him, you would have even more so. But something about the way he says it makes you bite your lip.

“You want to be put in your place.” His hands are purposed. Tugging down your cargos, undoing his belt. “That it?”

“Depends.” Your breath hitches. “Where exactly is my place, Captain?”

“Right here.” He presses you forward, palm splayed between your shoulder blades. His other hand grips your hip, dragging you against him, the thick weight of his need sliding along the slick between your thighs. You swallow a moan. “Right underneath me, Sergeant.”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Your head is spinning too fast to think. Then, he’s pushing inside you, and you lose the last of your breath.

“Fuck.” Your eyes catch in the mirror, watching as he sinks in, stretching you wide, splitting you open. The breath punches from your lungs, knuckles strained where you brace against the counter. Your head falls back, and he groans — a low, guttural sound that ripples through you. “Price—“

His fingers press into your jaw, turning your gaze back to the mirror. “Look at me.”

You do. And God. You wish you hadn’t.

Dark, blown-out pupils devour the blue of his irises. His chest heaves, the cords of his neck pulled tight. You don’t think you’ve ever seen anything more wrecked, more devastating, than the way he looks at you now.

“Good girl,” he mutters, voice thick with it, and your cunt clenches around him in response. His breath stutters. “God, you take me so—” you whimper, rolling your hips to meet his, and he hisses. “Yeah,” his mouth finds your ear. “Show me what you can give me—”

You try. You really do. But fuck—

“Huge,” you gasp, tipping onto your toes for respite as he buries himself to the hilt. “Fuck—John—”

“Mhm. Don’t run—” his hand slides up your throat, fingers curling, just enough to make it dangerous. You gasp, pulse hammering against his palm. He knows. Of course he does. The way he knows everything about you. “You’ll get used to it.”

You’ll get used to it.

The words echo back at you. The same ones he murmured the first time you asked him if he’s always this persistent. If you could think, you’d laugh. But you can’t. Because now you know the answer. Yes, he is always this persistent. And no, you will never fucking get used to it.

Your moans have long since lost restraint, spilling from your lips in time with his thrusts, raw and wanton and so fucking desperate. He takes you like it’s not the first time, like he’s not far too big to be this deep — his grip bruising in the best way, dragging you closer and closer to the edge. You feel the fractures of yourself, a thousand pieces of you suspended midair, trembling on the verge of shattering. You’ve never been this close to the sun. And god, if it doesn’t feel like fire.

Then, he says your name.

Your name. Your real name.

And it’s like breaking the surface of water after nearly drowning—like oxygen flooding into starving lungs. It strips you raw, turns the world molten beneath you, sends you spiraling into release all over again, the pleasure so sharp it almost aches. His hand claps over your mouth, muffling your sob of a moan as your body locks up, trembling.

“Yeah. There we go. Let it all out f’me.” His voice is dark, rough with something that sends another sharp pulse between your legs. His hips slap against your ass, relentless. “I’ve fucking got you.”

And you know he does. In a way you don’t trust your breath or your bones. In a way that terrifies you just as much as it makes you need.

Your vision blurs, heat rippling through your limbs, but he—he is unmoving. Steady. Like steel. Like he can take you at your best and your worst. Like he could tame this thing between you, whatever reckless, nameless thing this is, and make it his.

“That’s right. You look at yourself,” he grunts, one hand digging into your hip, the other still clamped over your mouth. Your glassy eyes flick up to the mirror, catching his reflection behind you—pupils blackened, lips parted, gaze locked on you. “M’gonna dumb you out. Fuck you ’til you can’t walk, never mind run.”

Your nails scrape divots into the granite as he shoves you further over the counter, forcing you to take him deeper. A wrecked whimper slips through your teeth, body caught between overstimulation and desperate, eager want. You squeeze your eyes shut, feeling the slick drip down your thighs, soaking into your ruined cargos — you know he can feel it too.

“Shit.” He rasps, voice fraying. His hand leaves your mouth, slides down to your throat, not squeezing, just holding as his other moves. Fingers finding the mess between your legs, pressing slow circles over your swollen clit. “Tight little slut.”

Your body jerks. “Fuck—John—”

“That’s it. Gimme another,” he mutters, rolling his hips, hitting something deep inside you that makes your vision blur. “C’mon, sweetheart, I know you can.”

It’s too much. The thick, hot drag of his dick with every punishing thrust — the rough slide of his fingers. The weight of his body pressing you into the counter like he’ll never let you go. You can’t think. Can’t breathe—

And then he growls your name again, deep and needing, and it sends you over with a broken sob, body writhing, mind slipping into static as you cum again, clenched so tight around him it makes him stutter.

His hand fists in your hair, dragging your head back so his lips brush your ear. “Good girl. Fucking perfect—”

You feel it when he loses himself. Through the fog of pure bliss. When his grip turns almost punishing, when his hips stutter, when the ragged groan tears through his throat. He grinds deep, burying himself to the hilt, body rigid as he groans and spills inside you with a choked curse.

And then, there’s stillness.

Both of you breathing uneven — more so him, heavy against the nape of your neck. And for a long moment, it’s just that. Just the sound of your bodies slowing, just the lingering thrum of pleasure untwisting from both of your bloodstreams.

Then, his fingers tighten on your throat. Just enough. Just to make sure you feel it.

“You ever pull some reckless shit like that again,” he mutters, voice raw, scraping against your ear, “you won’t be able to fucking talk when I’m done with you.”

Your breath stutters, thighs twitching at the promise in his tone.

“You got a problem, you come to me. You don’t run. Don’t put yourself into the fire just to fucking feel something.” His hand slides up, grips your jaw, tilts your head just enough so you can see him in the mirror — blue eyes all pupil, sharp jaw clenched. “You’re mine,” he murmurs. “And I take care of what’s mine. No matter what.”

A slow, shuddering breath leaves you. He watches your lips part, watches the way your body reacts to his words. Then, his grip on your throat eases. A slow drag of his hands down your body, like he’s memorizing the feeling of you ruined under him.

“Understand me?” His voice is quieter now, but no less dangerous.

You swallow. Nod. “Yes sir.”

He hums. Seemingly satisfied, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to the back of your shoulder.

“Good.”

[caffeineforbucky]

Everything about this was spectacular. I couldn’t help but appreciate the way emotions were captured without the dialogue and how the characters essence were so well articulated. Kudos for this and thank you for sharing! I loved every single minute of this piece of art.

florist!reader x butcher!tf141 🫣 reader whose job involves cultivating life and beauty in bouquets. tf141 whose job involves blood and dealing with dead meat. any and all thoughts of yours on this would eat 🙏

Hey!! First of all, thanks so much for the ask / request! But I have to apologize because I don't really write all of 141, mostly just Price. However, your prompt inspired whatever this has turned out to be, featuring butcher!Price - I hope you'll still enjoy it! ♥️

carve your name into my bones

【 AO3 Link (full tag list) || masterlist 】 ✦ John Price x OC ✦ Butcher John Price carves through flesh and bone - he never expected a florist’s touch to cut the deepest. ✦ 7.1k words ✦ tags/cw: butcher!john price, florist!oc, smut, piv sex, creampie, grinding, desperation, pov third person

The scent of blood clung to John Price. 

No matter how many times he scrubbed his hands, how hot the water ran, how deep the soap burned into his skin – it lingered, woven into the calluses of his hands, caught beneath his fingernails, trapped underneath the fabric of his clothes. Butchery was a craft of precision: sharp knives, clean cuts, steady hands, careful separation of flesh from bone. The muscle knew what to do before the mind did, guided by instinct and experience. He didn’t hesitate, he didn’t flinch. Meat was meat, whether on a battlefield or a butcher’s block. He had carved through flesh in war and in peace, through man and beast. 

Everyone knew who he was. A butcher, ex-soldier, harbinger of death – taking lives in every profession he mastered. The whispers followed him, just like the apprehension in people’s eyes, how they subtly shifted away, giving him space and room to be the monster they imagined him to be.

His knives were lined in perfect order, their blades honed to a lethal sharpness. Everything in his life was structured, clean, compartmentalised, and contained. 

It had to be. Order was the one thing he could always control. 

His world was cold. The hum of refrigeration units droned on, the low temperatures numbing his skin as he moved through his shop, surrounded by carcasses hanging from metal hooks. Beef, pork, lamb – their pale forms swayed gently in the artificial breeze, their lifeless eyes staring out into the sterile space. The tile floor, perpetually slick with a film of water and blood, offered no warmth beneath his boots. The combined scent of raw meat and antiseptic clung to him, thick and cloying, an invisible shroud he carried everywhere. It was a smell that both repelled and comforted him, a constant reminder of who he was, what he did.

The first time he noticed the flower shop across the street wasn’t because of its pretty colors and beautiful decor. It was because it didn’t belong.

It was an anomaly, a splash of vibrant life in a landscape of grey and grit. A fragile thing, nestled between brick and mortar, standing out from the rough businesses around it. In the mornings, when he wiped the condensation from the glass of his shop, he would see it through the frost: a burst of color among the dull storefronts. Its door was always open, inviting people inside and carrying the scent of flowers and soil into the world. 

He never gave flowers much thought before. Temporary things. Fading the moment they were plucked, doomed to wither and die. A waste, really.

And yet, he found his gaze drawn back to the shop across the street –

Back to her. 

She moved among the blooms with practiced ease, brushing stems and leaves with her hands and tending to them with a care he did not understand. 

Small hands, deft and quick, stained green where his were red.

He hadn’t meant to enter. It had been impulse, a brief lapse in routine that led him through the flower shop’s open door. 

The warmth struck him first. It was thick and humid, pressing against his skin and clinging to the fabric of his clothes like something alive . The scent of damp earth, crushed leaves, and the intoxicating sweetness of a thousand blossoms curled into his lungs and settled deep. It was rich, almost overwhelming – so different from the cold sterility of his own shop that he nearly stepped back. 

This place was not meant for him. His boots felt too heavy against the wooden floor, his presence an intrusion among the delicate, living things arranged in careful disarray. He felt like an intruder – some beast from another world, unfit to stand among such fragile things.

She stood behind the counter, hands cradling a bundle of stems, her eyes meeting his without a flicker of surprise or apprehension. She didn't flinch. Didn't recoil from the dried blood under his nails. She simply looked at him. She did not avert her gaze like most did.

And for a moment, he could not breathe.

He left without a word.

But he returned. Again and again.

At first, he told himself it was curiosity – nothing more than that. He would stand in the doorway, arms crossed, watching her work. Her hands moved deftly and certain, arranging each petal and leaf with careful precision. He understood that kind of precision – the quiet, practiced ease of someone who knew their craft intimately. Sometimes, he left without speaking, just a nod in her direction as he walked out. Other times, he lingered, absorbing the peaceful atmosphere, allowing the unfamiliar warmth to settle in his chest.

And eventually, he started to understand why.

It wasn’t just curiosity. It wasn’t just the routine.

It was the way she made him feel normal.

Here, he wasn’t the butcher. Wasn’t the soldier. Wasn’t someone marked by the scent of blood and steel.

She didn’t stare too long, didn’t measure her words carefully, as if afraid of saying the wrong thing, and didn’t glance at his hands as if searching for something hidden beneath the scars.

She just let him be.

And that did something to him. Something that settled into his bones like an ache he couldn’t name.

It had been a long time since anyone had seen him as just a man.

No reputation. No past. No weight of expectation.

And that – that was what he didn’t know how to hold.

Gratitude had always been an exchange. A life saved. A debt owed. A service provided.

But this?

He wasn’t sure what to do with the feeling of being given something he hadn’t earned.

So, he bought her flowers. A way to repay the unspoken kindness, a way to balance the scales.

He had not really planned it, hadn’t even thought about it, until the coins left his palm, and she wrapped the bundle with practiced movements. The paper crinkled as he took them, and the weight was foreign in his hands – light, delicate, absurdly out of place against the roughness of his skin.

He should have left. Instead, he hesitated.

Then, he offered them back with a motion that felt clumsy and unfamiliar, as if his own body had acted before his mind could catch up. 

And then, the thought hit him too late. 

What the fuck was he doing? Who buys a florist flowers? 

The realization weighed heavy on his chest. It was a stupid, too-late impulse that left him standing there, feeling absurd with something so light and fragile in his hands. 

His fingers brushed hers as he pushed them toward her, and for a moment, she only blinked. The touch was light and fleeting, but he felt it – the warmth of her skin, the gentle pressure, the way the moment stretched just a little too long. 

She looked at the flowers like they were something precious. Like they meant something. And then, slowly, she smiled. Soft at first. Small. But growing, stretching across her face, bright enough to make something in his chest tighten. Her fingers curled around the bouquet, carefully, as if she needed a moment to take it in. 

It wasn’t until she glanced down, blinking quickly, that he noticed the slight shimmer at the corners of her eyes, the way she swallowed, as if pushing back something rising too quickly in her throat. 

No one had ever bought her flowers. 

Not because she didn’t deserve them, but because people assumed she already had enough. She spent her days giving beauty to others, arranging delicate things for their celebrations, their grief, their confessions of love. 

But no one had ever given something back. No one had ever thought to give her something just for herself. 

For a moment, she was the one caught off guard. The one with no words. The one who could only look at him, still clutching the bouquet, smiling at him as if trying to hold back something overwhelming. 

He left before she could say anything, the urge to retreat to the cold familiarity of his world overwhelming. And yet, he returned. 

Again. And again.

It became a ritual. Each time, he bought her flowers, each bouquet different, each purchase without a stated purpose. Each time, she accepted them, her fingers tracing the delicate edges of the petals. Each time, she attempted to offer him something in return. He always refused.

He always shook his head, stepped back, put space between them before it could mean something. He told himself he wasn’t worthy of her gifts, that he couldn’t accept something so pure, so full of life, into his world of death.

Because taking would mean crossing the distance.

To accept. To admit what was happening.

And he could not do that.

Yet, something had shifted.

It was small at first. Subtle. The kind of thing that might have gone unnoticed if he hadn’t been paying attention.

But he was . He was acutely aware of her, of every nuance of her expression, every subtle shift in her demeanor. He caught the way her fingers lingered on the petals after he handed them to her, the way her touch softened, like she was memorising them. He saw it in the way her eyes met his, in the lingering warmth of her smile, in the quiet understanding that passed between them without words.

She set them down more carefully than she should have, as though they meant something more than the thousands of flowers that had passed through her hands before.

And maybe – he had changed too.

At first, he told himself he still came for the flowers, for the ritual between them, for the excuse that let him step inside her world without admitting why.

But that was a lie. Because he found himself lingering longer. Because the warmth of her shop clung to him long after he left. Because the scent of earth and petals stayed on his clothes, sinking into the fabric, into his skin, a reminder that there was something beyond his shop's cold, metallic sterility. A reminder that there was life, and beauty, and warmth, even in a world that often felt cold and harsh. Because something in his world was soft for the first time in a long while. 

He noticed the sunlight streaming through his shop window, the dust motes dancing in the air, and the ice crystals forming intricate patterns on the glass. He saw the small details, the subtle shifts in light and shadow, and the quiet beauty that had always been there but had gone unnoticed for so long.

And he did not know how to turn away from it. He didn’t know how to resist the pull he felt towards her.

It was not supposed to be like this. She was not supposed to linger in his mind long after he locked his doors. He was supposed to be immune to such things, hardened by war, by death, by the cold reality of his existence.

And yet, she did. She lingered in his thoughts, a persistent presence that softened the harsh edges of his world.

Then, one day, out of nowhere, she invited him to dinner. It stunned him. 

For the first time since this unspoken ritual between them had begun, he was caught off guard, unprepared in a way that felt foreign to him.  

This was not a simple sprig of rosemary pressed into his palm. Not a jar of jam left on the counter, waiting for him to accept. This was something else. Something more.  

For a moment, he did not move. They had existed within carefully drawn lines, an unspoken agreement neither had dared to acknowledge. 

He bought her flowers. She tried to return something in kind, but he always refused. It was simple: a balance held in silence, a dance they performed without ever speaking of it. 

But this changed the rules. This was not a fleeting exchange, not something he could leave behind on the counter or shake his head at before walking away. This was an invitation. A quiet request that asked for more than a brief moment at her counter, more than the safe distance he had maintained between them.

He should have said no. It would have been easier. It would have left another line unbroken, another boundary intact, and another reason to believe he was still in control of whatever this had become. 

But instead, he offered to cook. 

The words left him before he could stop them, before he could consider what it meant to let her step into his world. 

Before he could acknowledge the truth – that it wasn’t just about letting her in, it was about the fact that, deep down, he wanted to. 

And then, she had nodded, not surprised. Not hesitant. As if she had always known he wouldn’t refuse her forever. As if she had seen beneath his carefully constructed walls, seen the flicker of warmth beneath the surface, and knew that eventually, he would break.

Her smile was small but unmistakable, a quiet warmth that settled across her face like the first touch of sunlight after a long winter. It wasn’t just happiness, it was certainty, calm and unshaken, as if she had been waiting for this moment all along. 

And for the first time, he felt it. Not fear, not hesitation – warmth. A gentle, persistent thing pressing against the cold edges of him, finding the places that had long since gone numb and stirring them back to life. 

It was unbearable. 

Because it made him feel . Because it was soft where everything in him had learned to be hard. Because it seeped into the cracks he had long since sealed shut.

She stepped into his butcher shop that evening, just as he was finishing for the day. The air inside was sharp with the scent of iron and disinfectant, thick with the lingering chill of refrigeration. It was a smell that clung to everything, a constant reminder of the death that permeated this space.

The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed softly, casting stark shadows across the room, highlighting the deep red stains that would never fully wash out of the grout. Carcasses hung from steel hooks, their weight swaying faintly with each shift of air, their presence heavy, unignorable. The slow, rhythmic drip of blood against tile filled the silence, a sound he had long since stopped noticing. 

The counters bore the remnants of his work: carved sections of flesh, bones stacked in careful order, knives laid out in their proper places, each honed to a lethal sharpness. The blade he had just set down was still slick, with a thin sheen of red clinging to the steel. The cutting board beneath his hands was scored deep with years of use. 

A lifetime ago, he had seen war. The battlefield had been different, but the weight of bodies, the thick, metallic scent of blood, the raw understanding of what his hands could do – none of it had changed. The setting had changed, and the tools had changed, but the essence remained the same. He was still taking lives, still separating flesh from bone, still carrying the weight of death on his hands.

Most people, even those intending to buy from him, hesitated when they stepped into his domain. Their gazes flickered uneasily over the hanging carcasses, over the knives gleaming beneath the cold light, over him – standing there with an apron still damp with blood, sleeves pushed to his elbows, forearms marred with faded scars that told stories no one asked about. 

She did not. 

She stepped inside as though it were any other place. As if she were merely crossing the threshold of her own shop, as if there weren’t animals suspended from steel hooks, and as if the blood on his apron was no different than the dirt that darkened her fingertips. 

Her eyes flicked over everything; the carcasses, the knives, the deep stain of red against his skin. She took it in. Measured it and absorbed it. But never recoiled. 

And he felt it. The way something in his chest tightened, something foreign, something unnameable. The way his body stilled, not out of discipline, not out of control, but out of something unfamiliar, disarming. The way he watched her watch him, waiting for the moment when she would falter, when she would shift her weight, when she would glance away – uncomfortable, realising, reconsidering. Waiting for her to see him as everyone else saw him. As a monster.

But that moment never came. She only looked at him. 

And for the first time, it was he who felt like something delicate, something exposed, laid bare beneath a gaze that did not flinch. His breath came slow, measured, though he wasn’t sure why. He felt vulnerable, exposed, as if she could see straight through him, and he hated it. He hated losing this control over himself.

And then she reached for him. Her hands, small but certain, moved with determination as she untied the knot at his back. The apron was stiff with blood, the fabric thick and unyielding after hours of wear, but she did not hesitate. The strings slipped free. Its weight loosened, then fell away entirely. 

Beneath, the scent of blood still clung to his skin, the sharp iron tang impossible to scrub away. It lived in the lines of his palms, in the creases of his knuckles, in the places beneath his nails where no amount of washing could reach. It had seeped into him, woven itself into the very grain of his existence. 

But she did not care. She did not wrinkle her nose at the lingering scent, did not glance at his hands as if changing her mind. She simply looked at him. As if the blood didn't matter, as if it didn’t define him.

And then she touched him.

Her fingers ghosted over his forearms, light and careful, tracing the scars etched into his skin. Some were thin and clean, the careful work of a blade. Others were jagged and deep, healed poorly from wounds that had never been properly mendable. 

Most people ignored them. Some women had admired them in the past, their fascination rooted in fantasy. They had mistaken his quiet for something dangerous, thrilling. They wanted the idea of him, not the reality. 

Not the man who woke before dawn, who worked with his hands, who carried the weight of a thousand deaths, who smelled more often of meat than of cologne.

But she – she studied them. Not with pity. Not with hesitation. Not with the morbid curiosity of a stranger. Just acceptance. And he did not know what to do with that. 

He should have sent her home. Should have put the apron back on, taken a step back, rebuilt the distance between them before it could be crossed. 

But then she touched him again. 

Not just his hands. Not just his arms. His face. 

Her fingers curled into his beard, into the coarse hair flecked with the first hints of gray, tracing the sharp edge of his jaw with a touch that was neither hesitant nor demanding, only patient. Her touch was gentle, exploratory, as if she were learning the contours of his face, mapping the lines etched by time and hardship. Her thumb dragged across the corner of his mouth, lingering for a moment too long. The contact sent a shiver down his spine, a spark of something he hadn’t felt in years.

His breath shuddered. He closed his eyes, savoring the feeling of her touch, the warmth of her hand against his skin.

He had spent years mastering restraint, honing control so sharp it had become second nature – but this was not something he could discipline away. This was something primal, something visceral, something that bypassed his carefully constructed walls and went straight to the core of him.

And he broke.

It happened before he could stop it. Before he could think. Before he could list all the reasons why he shouldn’t. 

His mouth crashed against hers – rough, desperate, uneven – the kiss of a man who had never let himself have this, who had spent too long resisting, too long convincing himself he did not need. It was a kiss that demanded a response, a kiss that begged for connection, a kiss that spoke of years of suppressed longing.

She gasped into him, the soft, breathless sound swallowed by the heat of his kiss, and it only spurred him on, sent something deep and aching spiraling through him. 

His hands found her waist, fingers flexing, gripping too tightly, holding her like something slipping through his grasp, like something he had no right to touch but couldn’t bring himself to let go of. 

And she didn’t pull away, didn’t flinch from the intensity of his kiss, from the desperation in his touch. Her hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer and deeper, and he let her. He let her guide him, let her take as much as she gave, and let himself sink into her warmth, into the softness of a world he had spent his life keeping at a distance. 

He let himself fall. For the first time, he let himself want. 

And that – that was the most dangerous thing of all. Because wanting meant needing, and needing meant vulnerability, and vulnerability was something he had spent a lifetime avoiding.

He tore himself away, breath ragged, chest rising and falling too fast, pulse pounding in his ears, the taste of her still lingering on his lips. His hands trembled at her waist, his grip loosening, but she didn’t step back. He looked at her, his eyes searching hers, looking for any sign of regret, any sign of hesitation.

She was still watching him. Still waiting. Still untouched by the violence of this place, by the death that clung to his skin, by the things he had done. She saw it all, the darkness, the violence, the death – and she wasn’t afraid.

She did not belong here. She never should have belonged here. This place, this world, was not meant for someone like her, someone so full of life, so full of light.

And yet, standing in the center of his shop, lips swollen from his kiss, breath uneven, she looked like she did.

Like she had always belonged.

Like she had always known he would bring her here, had always known he would break eventually, had always known that, in the end, it would never be her who walked away. She had seen the flicker of warmth beneath the surface, and she had known, with unwavering certainty, that eventually, he would let her in.

So he led her upstairs. Not because it was a decision. But because there had never been any other choice. Because something had shifted between them, something had broken, and there was no going back.

The old wooden steps creaked beneath their weight. His boots felt too heavy, each step measured, as if he were walking toward something he hadn’t fully decided on yet. And she followed without hesitation. 

His flat was small and practical, a place made for solitude. There was no unnecessary warmth or indulgence in comfort. The furnishings were simple: a battered leather chair, a wooden table scarred from years of use, and shelves lined with books that had gone untouched for too long. 

A space meant for one. 

Not for visitors, not for softness, not for moments like this. 

And yet, she was there.  

His hands still ached from the way he had touched her downstairs, from the desperate grip that had left his knuckles white and trembling. His lips still burned from the kiss, from the way she had let him take it, from the way she had met him with equal fervor, equal want, equal need. 

He kept telling himself that bringing her upstairs was about dinner, that it was something simple, a meal in exchange for whatever this was, a way to acknowledge what had been growing between them without letting it consume him completely. He told himself it was a gesture of gratitude, a way to repay her kindness, a way to maintain the illusion of control.

But now, standing in the dim light of his flat, watching her, he knew he had lied to himself. 

There was no dinner. 

There was no conversation waiting to be had. 

Because she was still standing there, watching him like she always did. 

Calm, certain, unafraid. As if she knew exactly what he was thinking, as if she knew exactly what he wanted.

And he couldn’t take it any longer. His restraint, already frayed, snapped.

Before he could think, before he could stop himself, he was moving. Two steps closed the space between them, his hands catching her, dragging her against him, his mouth crashing onto hers in a kiss that was nothing like the one before.

This was harder, heavier, desperate – less like a man giving in and more like a man coming undone. And she met him just as fiercely. Her body molded against his, her fingers slipping into his hair, nails scraping against his scalp, tugging him closer, deeper, until a groan tore from his throat, low and raw, swallowed between them. 

His hands traced the curve of her spine, pressing, gripping, memorising the heat of her, the shape of her, the way she arched into him as though she needed him just as badly. He wanted to imprint her onto his skin, to memorize every curve, every angle, every plane of her being.

For so long, he had held himself back, retreating behind control, behind distance, behind silence. But there, with her pressed against him, with her hands on his skin, with no more space left between them – there was nothing left to run from. 

And then her hands were on him. Her fingers found the hem of his shirt, slipping beneath the fabric, dragging it up over his stomach and chest, baring him inch by inch. 

He let her. 

Let her strip him bare, peeling away the layers of fabric, peeling away whatever was left of his resistance, until there was nothing between them.

Because when she looked at him, she did not see the things people whispered about him. She had heard the stories. 

The butcher. The soldier. The man who had taken lives and never looked back. 

They were wrong. Because the man standing before her now was not untouchable. Not cruel. Not something to be feared. 

He was beautiful. 

Not in a way that was easy. Not in the way of men untouched by hardship, but in the way of something raw, something worn, something real. 

His belt came loose in her hands, the leather slipping free with a quiet rasp, and then her fingers moved lower, undoing his trousers with slow, deliberate movements, watching the way his body tensed beneath her touch, as if bracing himself, as if holding something back. But he let her. Let her work the buttons, let the fabric slide down his hips, let the last of his barriers fall away without a word. 

And when she finally pulled his trousers down, when she saw him fully, she did not falter. She did not hesitate. She only looked. She took him in the way she had taken in the flowers in her shop – reverently, as if committing him to memory, as if she had been given something delicate and rare.

And he could do nothing but stand there and let her. 

His cock was thick and heavy, already full, already aching for her, standing dark and flushed against the sharp lines of his stomach, against the rise and fall of his breath. 

She traced over every ridge and vein with her gaze, let the moment stretch between them, not to tease, not to torment, but simply because she wanted to see him. Because she wanted to know him. 

Finally, she reached for him. Her warm and soft fingers curled around him, a stark contrast against his solid weight. Her grip was firm but slow as she explored him with quiet, unhurried precision, learning his shape, the heat, and the way he reacted to even the slightest touch. 

A sound escaped him, low and rough, unbidden, wrecked. 

A sound no one had ever heard from him before. 

Her thumb dragged over the sensitive ridge just beneath the head, a teasing, testing stroke, and he felt the way his body responded instantly, the way his stomach clenched, the way his fingers twitched uselessly at his sides, as if fighting the instinct to grab, to hold, to claim. He wanted to pull her closer, to bury himself inside her, to lose himself in the heat and the friction and the pure, animalistic pleasure of it all. 

His control was slipping. And she wanted him to let it go.  

She leaned in, pressing a kiss to his stomach, to the sharp lines of his hip bones, her mouth trailing lower, her breath ghosting over him, teasing, testing, waiting to see how he would break beneath her hands. She felt the roughness of him beneath her lips – coarse hair dusting over firm muscle, darkening down the center of his abdomen, leading her toward where he was already hard and waiting for her. 

But then –

He stopped her. 

His hands, so accustomed to certainty, to precision, shook . He hesitated, a flicker of doubt, a momentary resurgence of the control he had fought so hard to maintain.

He had handled bodies before. Countless of them. He knew the weight of flesh. The dense resistance of muscle, the slick glide of a blade through sinew, the way tendons strained just before they snapped. His hands were trained for separation, clean breaks, and cutting things down to what they were meant to be. But this – this was nothing like that. 

His palm covered her breast, weighing it instinctively, the way he would assess a prime cut of meat, gauging its firmness, its yield beneath his touch. The familiar gesture, the automatic assessment, was a reflex, a habit ingrained deep within him.

But the comparison fractured the moment his thumb brushed over the peak, and she responded.

A soft breath. A quiet arch. A warmth that had never existed in the things he had touched for a long time. The warmth of her skin beneath his palm, the soft sigh that escaped her lips, shattered the comparison, reminding him that this was not meat, this was not death, this was life, warm and pulsing beneath his fingertips.

His other hand drifted lower, sliding between her thighs. And that was when his mind fractured. 

His fingers met heat. 

Slick, molten warmth. 

A dampness that coated his skin instantly. Silk and fire. 

Softness yielding beneath his touch. His breath caught in his throat. He traced the delicate, swollen flesh, parting her with slow, deliberate strokes, mapping the contrast of soft folds and the firm, pulsing center of her. He felt the way she quivered beneath his fingertips, the way her breath stuttered, the way her thighs trembled slightly as he explored her. 

Wet. Hot. Slick. Alive. 

It unmade him. Stripped away the layers of control, the carefully constructed walls, the defenses he had built around himself.

The weight of her body, the heat, the slow, quiet response of her body to his touch, the gasps that left her mouth, the way she was clenching around nothing, aching for more – it burned through him, scorching away instinct, training, and the careful detachment he had spent a lifetime perfecting.

It sent a violent shudder through him, his lungs burning, his pulse hammering in his ears. He was losing himself in the sensation, in the heat, in the pure, primal pleasure of it all.

And he nearly groaned aloud.

His mind stilled.

No calculations. No measurements. No cold, lifeless flesh beneath his hands.

Only warmth. Only heat, pulsing and alive, wrapped around him, pulling him into the moment, into something he could not sever, butcher, or separate from himself. He was connected to her, bound to her by a force he couldn’t understand, couldn’t control.

And suddenly, it was no longer enough. 

Touching her, feeling her. It wasn’t enough. 

He needed more. 

He needed her. 

He pulled her up, their bodies aligning. He couldn't wait, the need a physical ache. With a groan, he lifted her, carrying her the few steps to his bed before letting his weight settle over her. His cock slid against her, slick and waiting, coating himself in the heat of her, teasing at the place where she was softest, where she was open for him.

And still, he hesitated. Because he knew. 

The moment he sank into her, he would never come back from it. 

No turning away. No undoing this. This was not a fleeting encounter, not a momentary indulgence. This was a commitment, a surrender, a crossing of a line he could never uncross.

This was not like the meaningless encounters of his past – fleeting, forgettable, nothing more than friction and release. This was something else. Something dangerous. Something that threatened to unravel him, to expose the raw, vulnerable core of his being.

Something that would carve itself into his bones and never leave.

The first push stole the breath from his lungs. The sensation was overwhelming, a rush of heat and pressure and pure, unadulterated pleasure. Her body stretching, taking him inch by inch, slick, tight heat gripping him like she never wanted to let go. 

He groaned low against her throat, his forehead pressing into her shoulder as he forced himself to stay still, to let her adjust, to savor the unbearable moment where he was inside her, a part of her; where there was no distance left between them. 

She gasped – a soft, broken sound that sent something sharp and deep spiraling through him. Her body shifted, tightening around him, seeking him, needing him. 

His arms curled beneath her, pulling her even closer, his muscles trembling, his breath dragging in heavy, uneven pulls. He couldn’t get enough of her, of the feel of her skin against his, of the scent of her hair, of the taste of her on his lips.

He started to move, slow at first – long, deep strokes, dragging himself out of her inch by inch before pressing back in, sinking into the impossible heat of her, shuddering at the way she clenched around him. 

She was so wet, so tight, so perfect. 

Her legs curled around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back, pulling him deeper, urging him on, and he gave her what she wanted, what they both needed. 

His hips found a rhythm, slow but steady, every thrust pushing him deeper, every movement pulling him further from who he had been before this. 

His hands roamed her body, gripping her thighs, her waist, fingers flexing over the soft curves of her as if trying to commit her to memory, to anchor himself to this, to her, to the only real thing he had ever let himself have. 

Her moans filled his ears, soft, breathless, growing louder with every thrust. Her head tilted back, her hands clutched at his shoulders, his arms, the back of his neck, pulling him closer, dragging him deeper. 

Every sound she made fed something primal inside him, something starving, wild, and desperate. 

And then he couldn’t hold back anymore. 

His movements turned rougher, his hips snapping forward with urgency, his grip tightening, his thrusts turning shallow, erratic, urgent. 

The pleasure built, unbearable, overwhelming, his body wound tight, every muscle tensed as he fought to hold on, to drag it out just a little longer, to keep himself from falling completely. 

But then her hands found his face, fingers tangling into his beard. She gripped him tightly, forcing him to look at her. 

And he had no choice. His breath caught. 

He lifted his gaze, blue eyes meeting hers, dark with pleasure, hazy with warmth. 

And what he saw destroyed him. 

Because she looked at him like he was something precious. Like he was something to be cherished, something to be held, something to be loved . 

No fear. No hesitation. Just acceptance. Pure, unconditional acceptance.

And that – that was what finally shattered him. 

A strangled groan ripped from his throat, raw and guttural, as pleasure seized him, his muscles locking tight, his hips jerking forward as he buried himself deep inside her, spilling himself into her in thick, pulsing waves. It tore through him – violent, primal, stripping away everything until there was nothing left but this.

He shuddered against her, hips grinding down hard, forcing himself deeper still, filling her with the hot rush of his release as if he could imprint himself into her bones, claim her in the only way he knew how. 

His jaw clenched, breath ragged, the world narrowing until it was just her, just the way her body held him, clenched tight around him, pulling him in and holding him together even as he shattered apart.

And through it all, she was there beneath him – her arms tight around him, her thighs trembling, her breath uneven against his shoulder, grounding him, anchoring him, holding him steady through every violent aftershock.

He had come undone completely, unraveled by her heat, her softness; the fierce, unrelenting way she accepted everything he had to give, everything he was. And in that moment, he knew – she had broken him in ways that could never be mended.

But it wasn’t a breaking, not really. It was a shattering of the old, a dismantling of the walls he had built around himself, a making way for something new.

As his body stilled, as the aftershocks rippled through him, something wasn’t finished. His breath was still uneven, his body still heavy against hers, but beneath him, she trembled—her pleasure still just out of reach, still waiting for him. And that wasn’t right. That couldn’t be right. He needed to feel it, needed her to come undone just as violently.

Because this wasn’t just about pleasure, it wasn’t just a culmination of their quiet, unspoken ritual. If it had only been that, it would have been easier . He could have walked away, could have told himself it was nothing more than a moment, a need met, a fleeting indulgence. But it wasn’t. He knew it wasn’t. Because if it were, he wouldn’t need this—wouldn’t need the confirmation, the undeniable proof that she had fallen just as hard as he had. He needed to see her shatter, needed to witness her surrender, needed to know that this connection, this vulnerability, was mutual.

His hands slid down her sides, gripping her thighs, spreading her open for him once more, his weight still pressing her into the mattress, keeping her exactly where he wanted her. His cock, still thick inside her, was softening, but he wasn’t done. Not until she had felt everything, until he had wrung every last ounce of pleasure from her body, until she broke the way he had.

His softening cock dragged over her clit, thick and warm, pressing against the swollen bundle of nerves with each slow, rolling thrust of his hips, smearing the evidence of his release over her, marking her as his in every way that mattered. She gasped sharply, her fingers tightening against his arms, nails biting into his skin as her body jolted beneath him. 

He did it again. And again. And again.

He needed it. He needed to know that it wasn’t just something fleeting, that their ritual hadn’t just been a game. That it meant something, that it had always meant something, even before either of them had dared to acknowledge it.

His hips moved against her, slow but insistent. He drank in every tiny sound, every trembling breath, every helpless, stuttering moan. He felt her body twitch, felt the way her thighs trembled, felt the way she clung to him like she didn’t know whether she was trying to push him away or pull him closer.

But he didn’t stop. Wouldn’t stop. Not until she was gone for him. Her fingers curled into his hair, her nails raking against his scalp, her breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps. And then – she broke .

Her body arched, her breath caught, her muscles locking up as pleasure overtook her, hard and fast and devastating . A strangled cry spilled from her lips, something raw, something perfect, something meant only for him. She clenched around nothing, her thighs tightening, her nails digging into his skin as she came for him, because of him, with him. 

And fuck, he felt it.

Felt the way she trembled, the way her body surrendered, the way she lost herself completely beneath him. And that— that —was what he needed. That was what made it real. The proof of her, the confirmation of this, the undeniable, inescapable truth of what had just happened between them. It sent something shuddering through him, something deeper than pleasure, something weightier than relief.

A quiet, breathless exhale left him, his forehead pressing against her shoulder, his arms curling tighter around her, keeping her against him.

His body was pressed to hers, and her skin was warm beneath his fingertips. It was flushed with heat, with the rawness of something inevitable from the moment she had stepped into his world. 

She didn’t let go of him. Neither did he. 

But something pulled his attention. His hand, still resting lightly over hers, his fingers brushing absentmindedly over the delicate curve of her wrist, felt the rough ridges of calluses. 

His brows furrowed slightly, his thumb turning her palm over, tracing the hardened skin along the base of her fingers, down to the small, shallow cuts that had healed over time – some fresh, others nothing but faded ghosts of past wounds. 

For a long moment, he simply looked. They had the marks of someone who worked and shaped the world with her own hands.

Hands that tended to delicate stems but did not break them, hands that wove bouquets together with precision. 

Hands that nurtured life where his had only known death. 

And yet, they were not so different. 

His gaze flickered down to his own hands, his own scars, his own history written into flesh. His rough, calloused palms were marred with lines from blades, war, years spent carving into bone and sinew, and a lifetime spent wielding knives. 

The irony of it struck him. 

She worked with tools, just as he did. She bore the same marks. Carried the same evidence of labor and time. 

She was not fragile. She had never been. She was not untouched by the harshness of the world, just as he was not untouched by its moments of beauty. 

And somehow, they had met in the middle. 

They were two halves of the same whole, night and day entwined, shadows and sunlight bleeding together at the edges. Their contrast was no longer a division but a balance. 

A paradox – life and death, in their eternal dance, had fallen in love. 

And as her fingers curled around his, as if grounding him there, he let himself believe it.

[caffeineforbucky]

one day i’m going to fuck a man who looks like john price and when i do you will all know ALL about it

[caffeineforbucky]

Bucky's metal arm apreciattion post (I'm unwell) 🖤

[caffeineforbucky]

"The Gulf of Empathy" by Jerome Steuart

[caffeineforbucky]

Reblog the writers’ fortune cookie for luck!

[caffeineforbucky]

*silent reblog*

professor price

professor price x reader. age gap. older man/younger woman. pining. pre-relationship. jealousy. angst. guilt. voyeurism. mvp alejandro. lightly explicit. - A Christmas gift to my friend @guyfieriii, centered around her own Professor Price au from all the way back in early 2023. I have linked each fic of hers that I reference in this work—highly recommend you check them out.

The first day of class you’re in the front row—center seat.

Old instincts never really retire even if the body leaves the field; a moment’s evaluation opens you like a book. Pencil pouch on your desk, set parallel to the edge. Syllabus in the middle, creased at the stapled corner but otherwise pristine. Water bottle at the corner, solid blue.

You: hair neat. Wearing clean slacks and a knitted sweater like a uniform, ankles crossed, buckled straps of your Mary-Janes intersecting in an obtuse V. Like a flock of birds in formation, flying southwards for the winter. There’s a curated look to you, a careful arrangement of details meant to declare the essence of who you are and what you’re about.

It’s clear immediately; from only a glance.

You’re a good girl.

The eager-to-please kind. The five A-levels kind. The kind who does her bonus assignments because they’re available, not because she needs them. Prim, polished, ironed at the creases.

Straight from a 90s teen drama, or porn of an equal vintage.

You meet his eyes—

And Price knows how it goes.

Boredom and professional stagnancy are the bane of active men. Men with egos. Men who long to fix things. Men who have reached the heights of every achievement now looking for the next peak to summit.

It’s the curse of middle age’s collision with machismo. How does a man prove his masculinity when there’s no proving left to be done? When the panopticon has finally turned its eyes away, satisfied at his self-regulation enough not to constantly surveil it?

Suddenly the performance can end, if he wants it to. Only, if it ends, how does the actor not disappear, when the role is the only identity he’s ever had?

In academia, the answer is—of course—simple:

Fuck a student.

And oh. It’s right there, in those wide, sweet eyes, looking up at him with the reflexive veneration of a star student.

You’re begging to be fucked.

Fucked right. Fucked by someone who knows what he’s doing. Fucked so good that it upends every clean line of you, like breaking furniture, like smashing crystal. Fucked crying, whimpering, groaning beyond recognizable language, sweaty and gross until it’s impossible to tell whether or not his body and yours have begun to fuse.

Fucked the way no snot-nosed twenty-something twat, the age-appropriate kind that sleeps in the back of his lecture hall and then emails him at the end of every semester begging for extra credit to fix his grade, could possibly fuck you.

He holds your gaze for too long. You smile at him, shyly, and he gives you a brusque nod before distracting himself with the papers on his lectern.

You’re too young for him.

Not that it matters.

Price is all about lines. Stark delineations between will and won’t. Before his untimely retirement, the lines had meant everything. They separated the kind of man he was from the kind of man he did not want to be, and they kept those men separate, even when the distance from one to the other narrowed so sharply that the differences between them were a matter of context rather than consequence.

The important one now is the one that splits his lectern off from the rest of the lecture hall. Students are allowed to cross it, of course, or else he would be neglecting his duty to them as their instructor. But they must inevitably leave, and his feet must remain planted squarely on his side of it.

It’s not even a line he drew himself, although he would have if need be. No—professors, at the beginning of their tenure, are warned. Students will construct feelings of intimacy with their teachers, interpreting their passion for academics as passion for the conduit thereof. Close relationships between mentor and mentee, to be sure, can be deeply beneficial for the young scholar’s development—

But they must remain impersonal. The work must be the lens through which student and teacher look at each other. That barrier must never be lifted.

So it doesn’t matter how old you are or aren’t, or that you’re a second-year grad student, or that every time you walk into the classroom Price wants to drag his desk chair over to yours because you’re the only one who seems like she gives a damn about what he teaches.

He may draw his lines, but he never crosses them.

He’s seen it before. Never done it himself. Phillip Graves has a reputation for it.

Of course, as the Americans like to say, innocent until proven guilty, but it’s hard to argue with the pretty girls Graves always seems to have floating around him every semester. Undergrads, even, though to his credit they seem usually to be the older ones.

Price doesn’t think that even Dean Shepherd’s lapdog could get away with fucking freshly legal coeds—mostly because, if Graves tried to pull something like that, Price might actually take matters into his own hands and kill the bastard himself.

As it is, he can’t actually prove that his colleague is sleeping with anyone he shouldn’t be. He’s not in the army anymore; he has no desire to lose sleep over staking out the man’s house.

The only consolation is that no one besides his students and the Dean seem to like Graves—something the man doesn’t seem concerned to rectify, if he even notices. Though Price can’t imagine that he hasn’t noticed. He’s always sitting alone at staff meetings if Shepherd isn’t present, and if he does try to talk to anyone, it’s usually the adjuncts, young women just beginning their careers in higher academia who know the drill by now and merely humor him.

So it shouldn’t surprise Price when, one day, he catches Graves chatting you up.

“Hey, congrats on the election, kid,” he hears him say to you, referencing your recent appointment as president to the student association of his department. Graves smiles, dimpling, all that American charm amped up to the maximum.

And Price sees red.

“Thank you, Professor Graves,” you say politely. You have your arms crossed over your binder, held to your chest, as if a makeshift shield.

“I’d have voted for you if I could’ve,” the other man says. “And hey, I know you Brits like your formalities, but it’s just Phil with me.”

“Erm…”

“There you are,” Price announces from the other end of the hallway.

You turn, and give look you shoot him is so relieved that, almost immediately, it clears the haze from his eyes, like a cool breeze moving through the hottest part of a summer day. Relief of his own floods him, washing the jealousy he’d barely had time to confront completely away.

“Hello, Professor,” you say, “I was just on my way to your office!”

“Good,” says Price, approaching. “Wanted to talk about your last paper. Had some issues with your secondary sources.”

You blanch, and he immediately feels guilty for the lie.

“Ah, go easy on the kid,” says Graves. “I keep telling you, John, no one likes a hardass.”

For some reason, there are two men in the department that Phillip Graves makes a consistent effort to interact with, and Price has the misfortune of being one of them. He’s not sure why—he thinks he’s made his distaste for the man very clear. It’s probably some dick-measuring contest for him; Price’s standing in the department, even despite Shepherd’s favoritism, is secure.

Whether it’s secure enough to withstand this…thing happening between you and him has yet to be seen.

“I hold my students to a higher standard, Graves,” Price says shortly. Then, to you, “Come along, and we’ll talk about it.”

He turns and leaves, and as he hears you hurry after him, an ugly kind of gratification begins purring behind his sternum. The two of you walk for a ways in silence.

“Was it the interviews?” you finally ask him, sounding genuinely upset. “I thought they would be okay, given that they were original transcriptions…”

“Your sources were fine,” Price soothes, unable to take it. “Just needed to give you a good out, didn’t I?”

You falter beside him, but quickly catch up. “Oh no, was I that obvious?”

He looks to you as he walks, catching the anxious expression on your face, and smiles, amused. “Don’t worry, promise you he couldn’t tell.”

Then you laugh. It enter’s Price’s bloodstream and pumps through his veins, all the way to the arteries in his neck. It fills the lobes of his brain, rapidly bringing the world into sharper focus.

“I’ll hold you to that, professor,” you say, and it’s a tether he welcomes, a sting of pleasure as its hook lodges in his ribs.

Price looks over his shoulder, and finds Graves watching the two of you walk away. He doesn’t like the expression on the other man’s face. It’s…knowing. Understanding, in the way of a man having competed for something and lost to the better opponent.

He catches the Graves’ eye, scowling at him; he means for the expression to be disapproving. For Graves to know that Price knows what he’s about, and has no intention of humoring it.

But he knows how it actually comes across.

Back off. She’s mine.

Price’s colleague and friend Alejandro Vargas is the only other man in the department that Graves cares to know, and, luckily for Price, Alejandro shares his dislike.

“He is too young to be acting the way he does,” he says one evening after work. He and Price share a pint at a pub nearby campus on a regular basis.

“Too young?” Price repeats. “What is he, thirty-five? Forty?”

“Who cares,” Alejandro says. “Anyone chasing after his students the way he does should at least be fifty. That way a midlife crisis can at least be a valid excuse.”

Price’s stomach turns. His forty-sixth birthday has already come and gone.

“So you’re sayin’—”

“Man his age can get his ego boost somewhere else,” Alejandro mutters into his tankard. He has a strange way of looking at things, sometimes; as if he were a much older man himself, and not in his prime at thirty-eight. “Don’t they make apps for that nowadays?”

“No excuse for messing with students,” Price agrees, although he tastes the bitter note of hypocrisy in the back of his throat as he thinks of you, and that rainy afternoon.

Driving you home was a mistake, although he can’t think of anything else he would’ve respected himself for doing. He clings to that excuse like a buoy in the ocean—no matter his feelings for you, leaving you on campus to wait until the storm passed, no umbrella, no coat, would have been unforgivable.

He’d played it off as simply doing a favor for his favorite student. A willingness to go beyond his usual responsibilities to you, since you excel beyond what even his high standards demand of you.

Something the two of you should keep between yourselves, for professionalism’s sake, because he has an obligation to treat every student equally.

I can be discreet, you’d said, the tone of your voice playful and also…not.

The way one says something that they mean, while framing it as a joke, just in case it’s taken the wrong way.

Mitigation.

Something he could’ve brushed off, if your hand hadn’t moved toward his.

Good girl. He’d moved his away. Focused on the line. Accepted your apology with grace, determined not to embarrass you for feelings that are only natural—

That are reciprocated, even though they shouldn’t be.

“That is less the problem to me,” Alejandro muses.

“What?” Price exclaims. “Mate, we have a responsibility to these kids. We can’t go treating classrooms like bloody Love Island.”

“It is about the man,” says his colleague. “If a man shows respect in his relationships, then it is not so important where they happen. Graves, he is not a respectful man.”

“No one his age should be with girls that much younger than him,” Price growls.

Alejandro fixes him with an intense look, a serious expression tightening the sharp lines of his face.

“This is what I mean by respect,” he says evenly. Purposefully. “Knowing who is right and wrong to be with. Girls that young? No. They do not know themselves, and Graves will try to tell them who they are. But not every girl is that young.”

Price shifts uncomfortably on his barstool, remembering one late afternoon—when Alejandro had stopped by his office, to find you sitting on the small couch there, studying, as Price finished grading essays.

Innocent, he’d thought. A mentor and his student, sharing space, making room for scholarship to flow between them.

He realizes now, chagrined, that Alejandro has always been too perceptive to accept what he merely observes.

“Mate,” Price says, measured, “It isn’t like that.”

“No,” Alejandro agrees, “it isn’t. That does not mean it can’t be.”

“Alejandro—”

“You are not your father, hermano,” his colleague says, knowing exactly where to strike. “That is the end of what I will say.”

And he sips his beer while leaving Price to seethe.

You’re seeing one of the twats.

Price convinced himself the first couple of times you walked out with him—Will—that you were taking on a charity case. You’re a student leader, after all. Helping a classmate with their ailing grades falls under your purview. You’ve hosted tutoring sessions before, and the pride of it had nestled glowing in his chest so warmly that he couldn’t help bragging about your academic promise to his colleagues.

Even outside of the ache for you that sits in his gut every time he sees you, Price could not be prouder. The students’ Historical Society’s fundraiser last month had gone off beautifully thanks to you, and everyone who had attended was still talking about it: from the brilliant idea for a fifties dress code, to the truly impressive array of antiques you’d convinced donors to contribute to the silent auction.

You’d looked so beautiful in your little red dress, too. The sharp lines of your burgundy lipstick had made your smile so bright all evening that he’d fallen asleep thinking about it.

His student. His protege, really. Of course you’d notice someone struggling, and make an effort to help.

Except, Price has never been very good at fooling himself. The truth is too valuable an asset for him to disregard.

The first time you leave with Will, he feels it clench around something in his gut. He has to remind himself he has no right to feel anything about it at all.

The second time, it starts burrowing deeper. Gnawing a hole in his stomach. The look on the twat’s face, as he follows you out like a lost puppy, is too smitten to allow Price his illusions.

Then one day, you take that twat’s hand in yours at the end of class, slotting your fingers between his.

It descends again. That film of red over his eyes. He stares at the two of you as you make your way to the door—and you throw Price a look, Price, aimed straight for his center.

You’re his. His.

And what has he done about it?

The accusation is in your eyes. It’s honed by everything he’s done—and hasn’t. The late-night chips after fundraiser planning. The cigars between classes, and the scotch in his office he pours every time you stop by to discuss your thesis.

The cufflinks he wears for every single class you’re in, and the box you wrapped them in sitting open on his beside table. Like a conduit for bringing the warmth of your touch into his home.

The same warmth, in his weakest moments, that he imagines wrapped around his cock. As his fingers find the soft give of your cleft. As his tongue meets yours, and tastes the liquor he now only drinks in your company.

Imagines, but never pursues.

Why had he believed you wouldn’t search for the same elsewhere?

The anniversary comes up faster than Price would have liked, despite the fact that the calendar isn’t missing any days.

He goes to the cemetery alone. Bouquet of English roses clutched in the vice of one hand. It feels like a day it should be raining, but the sky betrays him, the gray covering of clouds thin enough to let the dyed sunlight through.

He buried his mother in the plot she’d bought for herself and his father, Price the elder, according to her wishes. He’d buried his father beside her against Price the younger’s own.

It had happened within a year of each other. The chemotherapy hadn’t worked, after years of fighting it, and the last months of Mrs. Price’s life happened far sooner than it was fair. She hadn’t left any regrets behind, she promised in her will, but young John Price knew it for a lie.

He remembers sitting with her in the mornings as a boy, flipping through old issues of National Geographic. His mum would ooh and aah over exotic pictures of the American west—the Russian steppe—colorful bird’s eye shots of the Taj Mahal or Burj Khalifa.

“We’re gonna go there someday,”she would enthuse, squeezing him around his toddler-belly with one arm as he perched in her lap.

Even then he’d known it was a dream, and not a goal. All he had to do was look around at the yellow tint of their kitchen with its laminate countertops, the scuffs on the corners of its scratch-and-dent fridge, the mismatch of cookware hanging on a smoke-stained wall. Peeling wallpaper they didn’t have the right to tear off, because they needed their deposit back very badly when they moved out.

His father was a tradesman—they could barely afford to visit Wales.

And his mother, at the elder Price’s insistence, did not work.

It’s in a nice place, the grave. Far back away from the entrance, where it can’t be trivialized by passing cars or dog walkers. Price can stand at the end of it and reckon with death without having to think of life going inexorably on right behind him.

Except, it’s the years to the right of the dash that he stares at, not the left. Even as a boy, he’d always noticed the disparity between his mother and father. How, before the younger even turned fourteen, grey streaked Price the elder’s temples, scars of age furrowing deep from the corners of his nostrils— while the decades his mum still had left to face radiated from her so brightly that sometimes people took her for his father’s eldest, and not the baby she bounced on her hip.

Decades she never even got to see.

Price rounds to his mother’s side and lays the bouquet beneath her epitaph—Loving Wife and Mother. He’s almost as old now as she was, in her last year, and he feels the epicenter of it sit somewhere between his heart and lungs. It burns, furious, indignant.

“Got tenured this year, Mum,” he murmurs to her. “Probably pay off the house next.”

He hears birdsong in the tree line beyond the border fence. Tries to feel her fingers running through his hair in the breeze, and fails. It’s just wind.

His father—who he sees in the mirror too often lately—he does not address.

He makes the mistake all men eventually do—

He calls his ex.

“Hallo?” Ada says, after picking up on the second ring. She’s one of the few people he knows to keep a house phone these days. She’d explained she enjoys the novelty, and the surprise on the rare occasions it actually rings.

“Hi, darlin,’” says Price.

“John, hi! How you doin’?”

“I’m alright. How’s the new place?”

He hears a shift in the background, like she’s thrown herself at a haphazard angle into a chair. She’s always been like that; she moves through any space she occupies unafraid of what she might bump into.

“Tidy!” she enthuses. “Got a view of the sea down the hill. And there’s a market on Saturdays! I got the loveliest Gruyère from one of the stalls, says he ages it himself. Can’t wait to put it in a sauce.”

“Sounds nice,” Price says, meaning it.

“Yeah, it is,” Ada replies. He pictures her twirling the cord between her fingers. “Heard about your promotion, by the way, congratulations—you earned it, John.”

“Thank you,” he says. “Have you settled in okay there? Students giving you trouble?”

“Not at all! Bit touch and go at the start of the semester, but you know me,” she laughs. “That’s how I thrive.”

“I know.”

A pause. Long enough for Price’s regret over dialing her to make itself a part of the conversation.

She sounds good. She sounds better than good—she sounds great. Happy with where she is in life, and where she’s going.

Nothing like she did when she lived with him.

“So…” Ada trails. “I know you didn’t just call to chat, John. Not that I don’t appreciate it.”

“That obvious, am I?”

He can hear the sympathetic smile in her voice when she replies, “I can look at a calendar too.”

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I just—just wanted to hear your voice. Hope that’s alright.”

“Yeah, it’s alright,” she says. “Didn’t stop caring just because I left, you know.”

He hears the unsaid: just because you didn’t follow.

“I know,” he replies. He leaves the me neither unsaid as well. “Ada, do you—do you regret it, at all?”

“Regret…what?” The tone of her voice edges toward the defensive.

“Being with me.”

“What? John, of course not!” She laughs, tension evaporating. “We had some bad times, sure, but we had some good ones too. I’m grateful for all of them.”

“Even the bad times?” he asks, frowning.

“Yeah, John, even those. They showed me who you were. And I liked that person, a lot. If you had—”

She cuts herself off from the what if John knows had been coming. The speculation about what their relationship might have looked like, if he’d made a different decision. It would only hurt both of them more to think about it.

“If you’d been a worse man I’d have left a lot sooner,” she amends. “But like I said. No regrets. It’s over now, and I’m sad about that. But I’m glad it happened.”

Something happens behind Price’s ribs—something hard, trying to claw its way upward, that he has to draw his lips between his teeth and sniff hard to foil its escape.

“Thanks, darlin,’” he says, hearing the tremor in his own voice, and, for once, not hating himself for it with her listening. “I feel the same way too.”

He catches you with the twat in the library. It doesn’t surprise him—he hadn’t expected anything else. You hadn’t even looked at him this time as you’d pulled Will out of the lecture hall, nor had you noticed him following at a remove behind.

So when he opens the door to the sound of smacking flesh, it doesn’t shock him in the slightest.

You’re on a reading table with your skirt flipped upward, underwear dangling from one ankle as you curl your legs around the twat’s hips. The boy’s arse quivers and clenches as he jackhammers into you with neither art nor precision.

The look on your face is one of concentration. Focus. Like whatever pleasure you could derive from this is something you must actively keep hold of, otherwise you’ll lose it.

Your eyes land on him then, and for a split second—a fraction of a heartbeat—you seem relieved. Pleasure radiates from you, and you begin to roll your hips as you hold him in your gaze—and then, suddenly, horror overtakes it. Your eyes widen. You raise a hand to grab Will—

Price shakes his head.

You freeze. Your chest heaves. (The twat is oblivious.)

He stares you down. Leans against the bookshelf with his hands in his pockets, unblinking.

His.

His.

The thing about lines is that they can be redrawn.

You run your tongue along your parted lips, hands coming up to rest on the twat’s back. Price looks down at the place Will’s body hides yours from his gaze, then back up.

He inclines his head. Go on, then.

And again, you move. Right as his command. Pull the body between your legs closer, brows creasing together, undulating into each thrust as you let Price’s eyes cage yours. You draw up higher and higher, the pitch of your breath thinning as your climax stretches taut inside you—you beg him with your eyes—

He nods.

You seize on the desk, throwing your head back, jaw dropping open. No sound escapes you—he sees the muscles in your throat work to contain it.

What will you sound like when he gets his hands on you?

By the look on the twat’s face next class, you’ve ended it. Price hardly cares. His phone is hot in his pocket, a grenade with its pin nearly out.

In case your memory fails when you find yourself thinking of me.

And, in the center of the photo, the exact thing the twat’s hips had been hiding away.

You’re there, in the front row. Every time his gaze falls on you, you shiver. The same skirt from before leaves the soft expanses of your thighs bare, for him, this time.

His. You know it now, too. It intersects the line, perfect in its perpendicularity.

You have lessons to learn. You’re already a good student; the despondent expression on Will’s face, even now, as he gazes at you like a lovelorn puppy from the back of the hall, proves it.

But you’re not there yet. You’re only just now catching up, after all. And only Price has the duty—the right—to teach you.

You’re too young for him—

Not that it matters.

a/n: If this seems disjointed or missing context, it's because a few things I reference are no longer available on the internet. Ash, I mourn daily what you have withdrawn from us.

Thank you for reading!

[caffeineforbucky]

reblog the money pigeon for a financially stable future

[caffeineforbucky]

So...decided to rewrite my JP fanfic. I felt like it was too rushed and I didn't do everything I wanted to do with it. So, if Cruel Summer is gone, that's why.

P.S: I took down part 2 and I will eventually take down part one to tweak it and probs make it longer. Thank You and goodnight!

[caffeineforbucky]

I hate how fandom has become "if you haven't created anything in this very specific time frame after the release of the show/movie, everyone will have moved on"

And call me old fashioned, but that's just not me. I sometimes take ages to create and publish. And I will love a show or movie for such a long time (years, babes, years) that I just can't relate to the fast consumerism that's going on.

Because, let's be real, it can get really lonely in a fandom if most have simply moved on to the next shiny thing. Is what's created less worth, just because it was created outside the hype? Why is it such a taboo for this new fandom generation to love an old or "late" fic or art?

It's so tiring and I'm too old for the 30-seconds-hype-tiktok-shit. Just tired. So, so tired.

[caffeineforbucky]

Oh, this was so damn cute!

Change

John Price x wife!reader OC

Summary: John Price struggles with missing his children growing up so fast.

Warnings: sexual themes, swearing, not edited.

——————

It was approaching noon on this picturesque spring day. The sun was out, not a cloud in sight, and the birds were chirping their usual tune. The light breeze rustled the leaves in the tree tops where Evelyn Price was stationed. She sat in her treehouse reading her latest book. She had her hair tied up in a high ponytail and wore blue jeans and her favorite bright pink t-shirt with a small rhinestone heart in the center.

The kitchen timer she had nicked from the stove lightly beeped. In a flash the young girl was turning off the timer, dog earing her page and tossing the book on the floor next to her. Crawling towards the only window in the sturdy wooden structure Evelyn snatched her father’s binoculars that she had also ‘borrowed’ for this specific occasion. Pressing the cool plastic to her face she began to survey her yard.

She could see you through the bay window cooking lunch with her little sister, Lily, on your hip. You looked to be dancing around and singing to whatever music you had popped on. Turning her attention to the drive Evelyn patiently waited.

“Daddy!” The sweetest voice echoed through the breezy afternoon air.

John took in the sight of his home, feeling an immense weight lift off of him to finally be back. He realized as he got to the top of his long driveway that the chicken coop in the far corner would need some repairs. What he hadn’t noticed was his little girl peering from the tree tops right above the coop in her treehouse with his binoculars, waiting to see his car pull up the drive. The sight of his old beat up truck had her sprinting out of the structure he built and down the ladder, jumping from much higher than you would have approved of.

“Daddy, Daddy!” Waving her arms in the air the little girl was doing everything she could to get her father’s attention.

The light wheeze of the truck door shutting was followed by bare feet thudding quickly against the grass. This spring afternoon turned brighter for Evelyn Price at the arrival of her father. The sun seemed to get brighter and the breeze lit up her tingling skin. Her little legs worked hard to get her from the farthest point of the backyard where the treehouse was to the driveway where her father stood.

John stood at the front of his truck with a beaming smile as he watched his seven year old sprint as fast as she could toward him. This was the best feeling for the military man. A warm welcome from his child who clearly missed him as much as he missed her. It was what made deployment worth it and I caused him to hug a little tighter and love a little harder. Somehow seeing her ponytail fly in the wind and those big blue eyes made his body stop aching and all the tension from deployment wash off as if he was doused with a bucket of ice water.

Dropping his duffle bag to the ground John was ready to squat down and pick his first little girl up, spin her around to hear her amazing laugh, and roughly kiss her cheek. Only, the little girl tripped a few yards away and fell face first into the grass with a smack. She fell so hard her feet and legs flung up behind her showing off how dirty her bare feet were.

“Oh shit.” John quickly dashed over to Evelyn who had her face smushed into the grass.

“OW!” Evelyn’s voice whined while she moved to get up, one hand rubbing her forehead.

Most children would cry or make a huge stink about taking a hard tumble; but not John’s kids. He taught them from a young age that no matter how hard you fall you dust yourself off and get back up. Before Evelyn knew it her body left the ground and she was picked up and jostled on to her father’s hip. The pain seemed to wash off her as their blue eyes met.

“You okay?” John asked, brushing his hand over her hair and inspecting her forehead which took the brunt of the blow. There was a tiny bit of panic hidden in his voice but ultimately culminated in a chuckle he tried to hold back.

Without answering Evelyn went from rubbing her reddened forehead to flinging her arms around John’s neck. She hugged him as tight as she could finding the comfort she had missed so much the past month in his arms.

Inhaling deeply John hugged his daughter tight and rubbed her back lovingly. He could feel how tense she was and after a moment she seemed to relax against his chest.

“I missed you.” John whispered into her ear. His left hand came up and played with her ponytail that was much shorter than he remembered.

“You get a hair cut?” John asked in which he could feel Evelyn nod in affirmation. She never liked having her hair short so it was strange seeing the normally mid back length ponytail come up to just the nape of her neck.

The cutest giggle left Evelyn as she pulled back and placed her small hands on John’s hairy cheeks. Pushing them together Evelyn squished John’s face and started to laugh loudly when he crossed his eyes to make a silly face at her.

“Missed you too, daddy.” Evelyn hugged John around the neck again. Attempting to put her down did not go well as she fussed dramatically. So, John carried her and his duffle bag into the house.

“Mummy’s cooking lunch.” Evelyn informed John as he walked through the back door.

She was right, and there you were, with one year old baby Lily on your hip. Lily was dressed in only a light orange short sleeve onesie with white foxes decorating it. You had your hair tied up, wearing athletic shorts and a new t-shirt John had never seen. It was fitted and had your favorite artist on the front which John could only glance at when you turned around. Music filled the house like it almost always did when you were cooking but John didn’t recognize the album. It was still your favorite artist, he could tell that much but they must have released new music you hadn’t shown him yet.

“Hi.” You sighed out at the sight of John. Having him back home was all you wanted and in an instant the weight of doing the parenting all alone was lifted.

Your face warmed and you felt your heart beat flutter at the sight of the man you loved so dearly. He was holding your daughter who was wrapped around him like a serpent with her head resting in the crook of his neck. John had his signature charming smile plastered across his rugged face as he dropped his faded green duffle back to the ground.

John looked tanner and his bucket hat more sun faded. The fitted green t-shirt he wore was tighter around his shoulders and biceps, showing off how Johns muscles were more toned than when he first left. The way his shirt tucked into his beige cargo pants made it seem like his waist was slimmer and you knew once you got him naked later tonight he would rival a Greek god. You saw it as one of the few perks of John being deployed, he would come back all muscular and then you would set to work to pack on a slight layer of fat from all your cooking. You loved seeing John go from ripped to having a bit of pudge around the edges because it meant he had been home for a while.

“Hello, darling. You look beautiful.” John breathed out the words and set Evelyn down who tried to protest.

Lily took a minute to realize who was here and once she saw her daddy was home she shrieked in joy then began to cry. Quickly John made his way over to you and kissed you swiftly before scooping Lily into his arms to help soothe her. It may have been a fleeting kiss but it was undeniable how sparks flew between you two.

“We’ll have a proper hello soon.” John promised you but you didn’t mind. Yes, you wanted to be wrapped up in his arms and stay there for hours. But, seeing him holding your little girls and already falling right back into being a father was making you fall in love all over again. You would get him all to yourself when the kids were asleep.

“Hello, there. You’ve filled out quite a bit.” John squished her chubby thigh and cooed at Lily who was crying pathetically into his chest. She rubbed her face back and forth leaving a trail of spit behind on a John’s once clean shirt. Your little girl was quite dramatic which was incredibly endearing until it wasn’t.

Rubbing her back John turned to you to say something snarky but he was stopped. Suddenly a burning, wet, pinch lit up his left pectoral muscle. It went from a pinch to stinging painfully. Pulling Lily away so she was at arms length, she had stopped crying but had a pout on her face and crocodile tears daring to spill from her sapphire eyes. John’s face was twisted in pain and shock as he glanced between the oval wet spot on his shirt from having just been bitten to his curly haired baby.

“You have teeth now!?” John spoke completely exasperated.

“Think that’s pay back for being gone so long.” You snickered.

Sitting Lily on the kitchen island John stuck his fingers into her mouth to inspect how many teeth she had gotten. Surprisingly she was docile while John took a look. There were three, two bottom, one canine, and it looked like her front tooth was just about to poke through.

“Wash your hands before you do that.” You scolded pulling John’s hand away by his wrist. The last thing you two needed was a sick baby.

“Since when does she have teeth?” John’s face looked so cute to you. He seemed floored that Lily had grown so much but you wondered what he was expecting.

“Right when you left. She got all three at the same time so you’re lucky you missed that. We had a very upset Lily who let us know how much her poor little teeth hurt.” Running your fingers through Lily’s mop of curls you admired how much she looked like John, down to the freckle on her nose.

John didn’t feel lucky. He wanted to be here for first teeth, he wanted to be home for first everything’s. It stung and the memory of missing Lily’s birth started to invade his mind. This was a guilt he was desperately trying to leave behind. You two had gone to couples therapy to work through it and in time you had forgiven John as much as you could; but it would always be a reminder of what could be missed in his absence.

“Yeah! Lily got a fever and mummy had to wake us up and take us all to hospital in the middle of the night.“ Evelyn said in a cheery tone as she hung off John’s waist.

“You had to get the kids up in the middle of the night?” Guilt immediately creeped up John’s throat at the thought of you having to handle all that on your own. If he were home you would have stayed back with the kids and he would have taken Lily to the hospital or vice versa.

“It was an adventure. Nothing to feel bad about.” Kissing John’s cheek he knew you well enough you were trying to make sure he didn’t feel bad. One of the notes you had taken from couples counseling was to not punish John by being snarky or passive aggressive; but to be kind so he could start forgiving himself.

“Doctor said it was teething so it was quick. We came home and all snuggled in bed.” The toss away comment didn’t do much to make John feel better.

“Did I miss anything else?” With Lily now on his hip and snuggling up to him, John wrapped an arm around your shoulder and kissed the top of your head. You could feel this hug was suppose to comfort you but you didn’t need comforting. That didn’t mean you didn’t enjoy being tucked into Johns side.

“Mummy dinged the car when we were getting sweets at the bakery.” Evelyn slyly added.

John gave you a raised eyebrow, choosing not to comment. You could have wrecked the car and he would give you a pass for how guilty he felt at the moment. You awkwardly laughed and avoided his gaze.

“Yeah you’ll have to fix that with a bit of paint.” Patting Johns shoulder you slipped from his hold and went back to finishing up lunch.

“Do you and your brother want to help me fix that?” The questions was met with a wide toothy grin and an enthusiastic nod of Evelyn’s head.

“Where’s J?” John asked, making his way to pop Lily in her high chair for lunch.

“He’s in the bath. Someone pushed him into the pond.” Giving Evelyn a sharp look she returned it with a very innocent looking one.

“I’m pretty sure he fell.” Sounding as sweet as she could John cast a look at his ponytailed girl and chuckled knowing she was absolutely fibbing.

“If I didn’t see you push him I might’ve believed you.” Not bothering to turn around you started to plate up the pasta with veggies and sauce that you made. You made sure to give John an extra large helping with extra Parmesan cheese.

“Dad!” Jj’s voice cut through the air.

The little boy was quick to bolt toward his father who was standing by Lily’s high chair. It took John a second to process seeing his boy standing so much taller and with a new hair cut. Flinging himself at John, Jj hugged him as tight as he could. John squatted down a second later to hug him back until he pulled away and ruffled his damp hair.

“Everyone get a haircut?” He asked before putting Jj into a head lock. The two wrestled around for a bit while you handed Evelyn her food and brought the other plates to the table.

“Knock it off you two, before you-“ Unable to get the full sentence out John bumped into you with Jj struggling with all his might to weasel out of the headlock. Lily’s plastic bowl smacked straight out of your hand and on to the floor with a thud; pasta and red sauce splattering everywhere. The two of them froze both locking eyes with your frustrated gaze then down at the mess all over the tiled floor.

“Make a mess.” You finished.

“Sorry.” John quickly blurted out, letting go of Jj.

“Sorry, mum.” Jj was quick to add.

You didn’t bother telling John to pick it up. The stern look you shot him had him heading for the cleaning supplies while you got Lily more food. Jj didn’t waist a second to go sit down and start eating, narrowly avoiding being the one you were cross with. Him and Evelyn both shared amused looks and started whispering how they missed seeing their dad get in trouble. Their giggles picked up in volume once John was on his hands and knees cleaning. Normally it would annoy John and he would tell them to knock it off but he hadn’t heard those giggles in far to long, and he was going to soak them up.

It was amazing to be home for this man who had just spent the past month under the beating sun, weighed down by tactical gear and life and death decisions. Surrounding himself with what he felt were the most important people helped his fried nerves and anxiety diminish. The feeling of your stealing his hat off his head, fingers scratching through his hair as you walked by made it all better.

John was content sitting down in his usual spot at the head of the kitchen table, with you to his right and Jj to his left. Lily was caddy cornered between you and John while Evelyn was sat to your right.

“Wow, she’s really downing that.” John watched in awe as his one year old scarfed down the food from the little bowl on her high chair trey. Lily’s face was covered in red sauce, some even getting into her curly auburn locks.

“She eats like crazy now. One day to the next went from having my appetite to yours.” Your comment had John pausing. Watching Lily shove food into her tiny mouth, looking to Evelyn’s short ponytail, and Jj’s cropped haircut left John with a twinge in his chest. Jj sat taller than John remembered and Evelyn was looking more and more like you. Lily even had teeth now.

It had only been a month that John was gone but it felt like so much had changed in that short amount of time. His children hadn’t stopped growing and it seemed life wouldn’t wait for him in his absence. The fact was, John was missing out on the little things you saw everyday. It was starting to brew a strange type of jealously he had never felt before towards his wife.

“You okay?” You asked.

John went from looking excited at being home to solemn. Moments ago he was loudly laughing and messing with Jj but now his lips were pressed in a firm line and there was a crease between his thick eyebrows. You watched carefully before checking in on him. Those blue eyes you loved so much were analyzing your children closely as if he were picking them each apart.

“Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?” With a charming smile John batted your comment away unconvincingly. He even held your hand and gave it a squeeze to appease you.

To anyone else they wouldn’t notice the turmoil in John’s eyes and deep voice; but you did. He was struggling with something he was unwilling to tell you in this moment. With time you hoped he would come talk to you about it. Which could take days most times, unless you dragged it out of him.

“After lunch I want you two to play outside. I have to get Lily down and don’t need you two waking her up.” Lunch was finishing up and your request was met with obnoxious groans from your two oldest.

“None of that.” John gently corrected, taking his last bite.

“Why don’t you two play outside for a bit and I’ll handle Lily.” John glanced at his baby who went from devouring her food to now having her face pressed against the high chair trey and lightly snoring as she slept. She was adorable with food decorating her face and clothes and John knew she’d lose it once anyone made a move to clean her up.

“That way your mum can have a well deserved lay down. Then we can go out to the shop-“ John placed his hand by his mouth as if you wouldn’t be able to hear what he said next, then whispered “and get her a present.” This seemed to brighten your children’s mood.

You lightly chuckled to yourself pretending to not hear. Whatever present John and the kids came home with would hardly compare to the nap you were about to take. It had been too long since you had the kids taken off your hands and it reminded you why having John home was so amazing.

“Dishes in the sink, then run along.” John ordered with a smile splitting across his face.

Evelyn and Jj listened dutifully and made their way outside. John’s eyes caught sight of red sneakers slipping on to his son’s feet, his blue ones no where to be seen. Once Evelyn had her yellow sneakers on she tapped her toes against the ground to make sure they were on correctly. It was a little idiosyncrasy she did without notice. It helped John feel somewhat better in this moment that not everything was changing in his absence.

“New sneakers?” John asked you and nodded to Jj who was now running out in the yard with Evelyn behind him. He grabbed your empty plate and his own then loaded up the dishwasher.

“He outgrew the old ones.” You said as you fiddled with your phone, looking through some emails that had come through. There was a long pause before John spoke again.

“They’re growing like weeds.” It sounded like an off handed comment which was usually John’s tell. He never wanted to let on what he was upset about so it usually slipped out like this. It was his way of trying to convince himself it was ‘no big deal.’

“Not that much.” You cocked your head to the side as you watched John. The comment had you wondering if that might be what was bothering him.

John was expertly cleaning Lily up without waking her. His gaze was focused and hands steady. It looked as if he were diffusing a bomb and it honestly felt that way. Neither of you wanted a screaming Lily; out of all of your children she was the biggest handful at this age. If John could get her cleaned up and down for her nap smoothly you’d be extremely thankful. You already felt relieved to not be doing this on your own.

The two of you slowly stripped her out of her food stained clothes and brought her upstairs. It was a team effort to get her diaper changed and new clothes on while she slept soundly. By the time you tiptoed out of her room you and John released the breath you were holding.

“Good work, Captain.” You sighed out feeling relieved everything went so smoothly.

John had his eyes set on you and how exhausted you seemed to be. Maybe this month was harder on you than you let on. But it’s not like he had taken the time to ask or check in on you since he walked through the door. You two were swept up in being parents and he missed you, his wife, lover, best friend.

Taking you into his strong arms John didn’t say a word; he didn’t need to. You could feel in the way he held you close and nuzzled his bearded face against the side of your face that he needed you. Placing a soft kiss to your cheek you held him with just as much love and tenderness. Time seemed to slip by and soon enough you two had stood there for much longer than intended in each others arms.

“I missed you.” John’s words rumbled softly from his chest. Oh, how you missed his thick accent and gravely voice. It sent a shiver up your spine that ignited into fire works when his thick beard tickled your skin as he kissed you slowly.

“Can’t describe how much I missed you too.” You were getting choked up finally having what you had been craving for the past month. You weren’t one to cry before starting a family but now it seemed tears came easier.

“I’m sorry if things were tough without me.” John held you close as you both spoke in hushed voices outside Lily’s bedroom.

“It’s always tough without you.” You admitted.

“Will a lay down and a surprise from me and the kids help?” The smile was evident in John’s voice because he knew it would.

Looking up into his beautiful blue eyes you nodded slowly with a content smile on your face. The love radiating off of him made everything feel okay. That life would go back to normal and you would have his support again with more than just the kids. You’d have your best friend to chat with endlessly and goof around with. The partner who’d play the bad guy to the kids so it wasn’t always you, and your lover to hold you close through the night.

“C’mon, I’ll rub your back the kids can wait for a bit.” Nudging his head down the hall you giggled with excitement.

“Think we have time for a quickie?” You asked giving John a cheeky wink. His eyebrows shot up and he was eagerly shaking his head. That was not what he was expecting but he’d be mad to turn you down when he wanted you the second he caught sight of you.

“C’mon, no time to waist.” With a swift pat to your bottom you both scurried down the hall to your bedroom, locking the door behind you.

——————

Tapping his foot impatiently John stood in blue jeans, a light grey champion crewneck, and all white trainers. He ditched the hat since you had babbled about how you missed tugging on his hair; which you had done quite a bit before he left to go shopping. His hands were shoved in his pockets as the shopping was coming to an end but his daughter decided she needed to take her sweet time.

“Why are you learning every bone in the body?” John was staring down at Evelyn who had just rattled off an obscene amount of bones in the human body, starting from her toes and getting to her elbows.

“I’m gonna be a doctor one day. So I might as well learn them now. At least that’s what mum said, she’s been teaching me.” Evelyn spoke matter of factly as if John should know this. She was squatted down in front of one of the shelves filled with Lego products in the toy section.

“Of course your mum is. Since when do you want to be a doctor? Thought you wanted to be an astronaut.” Scratching the back of his head John could picture you and Evelyn sitting at the kitchen table studying together. You had probably made it into a game at this point and were having a grand time teaching Evelyn something you knew so well.

“Yeah but there’s no people to help in space. I wanna help people like you do but have a fancy diploma like mummy.” Evelyn was only confusing John further. It was flattering to hear she wanted to be like him in some aspects.

“You don’t need a fancy diploma like a PhD, Evie. You can help people without one.” John felt like he was talking to an adult at this point and giving career advice.

“Your Auntie Sarah helps people as a nurse and she doesn’t need one to do that.” John added.

The pressure of pursing a PhD was something he feared for his children. Having heard your experience John worried about any of his children putting that kind of pressure on themselves. It had fueled your need to be an over achiever to a point John found unhealthy at times. He also knew how tough the medical field was from his sister so he couldn’t help but worry.

“Yeah but no one says how smart you are. They talk about how mummy’s a ‘genius’ or a ‘really clever lady.’” Evelyn used air quotes as she continued to search the racks for a Lego set in the price range John agreed to. John’s face fell at her comment. No one could break a man’s confidence like his own children.

“I’m just as smart as your mum.” John countered sounding as offended as he felt.

“Sure you are.” The sarcasm was evident and John had half a mind to tell Evelyn she couldn’t get a Lego set for that one.

“Mums scary smart, dad. I swear she’s a witch with how she can read our minds. You know, we were sneaking ice cream yesterday and she told us to put it back all the way from upstairs! No clue how she knew. And you’re scary in a totally different way.” Jj joined the conversation having been helping search for a Lego set for Evelyn. He was holding a video game for his switch which John agreed to buy.

“I’m scary?” John sounded exasperated but then he thought about his question for a moment. He was large, intimidating and military; who could lose his temper, of course he was scary to kids. He just hoped he didn’t scare them too much. Jj and Evelyn glanced at each other then went back to searching the shelves.

“No.” They spoke in unison clearly smart enough to not answer John’s question honestly. John swore the kids had never been more like you than this moment.

“You two clearly take after your mother.” John sighed defeatedly, taping the bouquet of roses he held against his thigh.

“Means we’re clever too!” Evelyn cheered picking out a Lego set and showing it to her father for approval. It was a little bit more expensive but John shook his head and then waved for his kids to follow him to check out.

John stayed eerily silent as his two oldest teased each other until they were bickering. There were a few attempts from him telling them to knock it off but they only continued to argue. John sat in silence on the car ride home as the spat the two Price children had fallen into only intensified. This taste of normalcy was helping keep him calm, although it was annoying.

Hearing Evelyn say she now wanted to be a doctor seemed to be the final change that crushed John. Home and family felt off now, like he was here but in a slightly different version of reality. In such a short period the little things he usually adored about life had changed drastically. It felt like he didn’t know his children as well and then the dread of not knowing you like the back of his hand began to set in.

What if the gift he picked up for you was no longer something you would like? That this month apart had changed your taste and John wasn’t there to pick up on the subtle difference like he normally would. Would you resent him? Would it drudge up past feelings of abandonment that you two worked on in therapy?

“You okay dad?” Jj’s voice interrupted John’s train of thought.

“What?” John asked, seemingly out of it.

“Are you mad at us?” Evelyn followed up sounding hesitant which was unlike her.

The two had noticed they hadn’t gotten scolded to the degree they normally would for being mean to one another. Their father had been silent, hadn’t even turned on the radio like he usually did. Or got on their cases to get along or those toys he just bought would be taken before they were able to enjoy them.

“No, just stop with the bickering.” With a sigh John went back to quietly driving them all home.

“Okay.” Jj sounded apprehensive. John glanced at the rear view to see the two Price children whispering to each other in the back seat.

“Dad?” Jj asked after a few minutes of silence in the car.

“Yeah?”

“We think you should stop at the shop. So we can grab one more thing for mum” Jj said with a straight face. He sounded adamant as if John didn’t have a choice.

“Why, we already got her present?” Confused John glanced in the rear view again to see both his children with straight faces. Jj nudged Evelyn and she quickly added on.

“Please daddy.” Evelyn asked sweetly. She was using her cuteness to her advantage to persuade John. It almost always worked.

“Fine.” John sighed not having much fight in him to deny his children, especially when Evelyn asked so sweetly and called him ‘daddy’; which was becoming less common. The only reason he splurged and bought that Lego set and video game was because he felt guilty for being gone for so long.

Once at the local shop John unbuckled ready to head in and see what his children were going to insist on buying; he’d say yes regardless. After all it was for you and John would spend every penny he had if it meant putting a smile on your face.

“No! You wait. Jj and I want it to be a surprise.” Evelyn leaned into the front seat and stuck out her hand expecting money.

“What are you two up to?” Turning to look at his children John watched as Jj hoped out of the truck ready to head in without John. This wasn’t unusual. Sometimes laziness won out for John and he’d send one of his kids in to grab whatever they were stopping for.

“Nothing, just want it to be a surprise.” The logic seemed sound to John so he pulled out his wallet and handed over more money than necessary.

“What is it?” John asked but not sure why because he knew the question would be dodged.

“You’ll see.” Evelyn sang, kissed John’s cheek, then jumped out of the truck and her and her brother dashed into the shop. John saw them wave hello to Mrs. Finch who had come to know your family well with your frequent stops here.

Pulling out his phone John checked to see if you had texted or called which you hadn’t. With a large sigh John’s mind wandered to what his kids could possibly be buying for you. Maybe some snacks but it couldn’t be anything crazy. After a few minutes the two emerged with two plastic bags stuffed full. Jj took Evelyn’s bag so she could get in and then handed them to her and ran around to his side.

“Change please.” Sticking his hand over his shoulder and into the back there was a lapse of silence. Turning John looked at his children who were staring at him as if they were about to get in trouble.

“We spent it all.” Jj whispered.

“Don’t know what I was expecting.” John grumbled to himself before heading home.

——————

“Why are you here?” You asked John as you sat shoulder to shoulder on the couch. His large hand was mindlessly massaging your thigh.

“No clue.” He was looking past you down the hall to where your children were setting something up to bring you.

After coming home Jj and Evelyn ushered you both out of the kitchen and became shrill at your questions. You didn’t mind since you had just made Lily her bottle and planned on letting her feed herself while you scrolled on your phone. They instructed you to sit on the couch where Evelyn ran out and brought you both juice boxes. They took the present John got for you and told him they would bring it out but he wasn’t sure why he couldn’t be involved in setting up this surprise for you. He also didn’t feel like fighting them on this. John had been catering to every whim they had and wasn’t sure when he would finally put his foot down.

“How are you feeling?” You asked taking John’s hand in yours.

“Happy to be home.” John continued to look down the hall not wanting to make eye contact because it would give him away. Slowly you leaned into his line of sight with a big smile until he was forced to look at you.

“Please tell me.” It was suppose to be a question but it came out a little too demanding.

With a heavy sigh John knew he didn’t have it in him to argue with anyone in the house, let alone you. He was too tired after deployment and everything else today threw at him.

“They’ve grown so much since I left. Lily has teeth, Jj’s got new trainers, and Evie wants to be a bloody doctor now.” Staring at Lily John watched as she happily laid back in her rocker using one hand to hold her bottle while the other played with the toys dangling over her.

“Yeah, they’re kids they change a lot.” You spoke sympathetically hoping John wouldn’t get to wound up.

“Yeah and I’ve missed a lot.” There it was. The confession you needed to finally be able to aid your husband in his turmoil.

“But you also haven’t. You made it to the daddy daughter dance, Lily’s first birthday, you even coached Jj’s soccer team. When have you ever had time for that before?” Taking your hand you played with the short hair at the nape of John’s neck. Giving it a playful tug you hoped to maybe spark the memories from earlier when he had you wrapped in his arms and bare chest pressed to yours. John had stepped up so much and had been making so much work with his busy schedule. You had been immesnsley proud of him for not having his job come first at all times.

“Football, darling.” With a small smirk John glanced at you from the corner of his eye. Your words helped his ego if only slightly.

“Whatever, you know what I mean. You’re here for the moments that matter to them and that’s what means the world to me and to them.” You leaned forward trying to get John’s eyes on you so he could see how serious you were.

“I’m happy for that. Truly I am.” John took a long pause before he spoke again.

“But, it’s not enough for me. I want to be here and see the little things. Take Jj to get new shoes, convince Evie she doesn’t need to learn every bone in the body. . . Be here to take Lily to the doctors when she’s ill. I want to be here and I’m not.” It was like word vomit. Once John started it seemed like he couldn’t stop. It hurt yet felt relieving to get this off his chest, because he was telling you and somehow you always knew what to say.

“I’m sorry, John.” Instead of trying to convince John to feel differently you let him sit in this. You rubbed his back and rested your forehead against his neck.

“I want to be here with you too so you don’t end up resenting me. I can only imagine how you’ve changed in the little ways.” John was staring down at his hand holding yours, playing with your wedding ring.

“I don’t resent you.” With a dramatic sigh you continued.

“Well, I still suck at rough housing with the kids compared to you. I sometimes forget to eat and skip a meal without you here to remind me. I still sing in the shower. My favorite color hasn’t changed, neither have my favorite sweets or snacks. I sleep on the right side of the bed and fall asleep with the tv on too loud. The kids still drive me crazy on Sunday mornings when I just want to sleep in. And you’re the love of my life and will always be.” You spoke with a giddiness in your voice. It was endearing to you that John was worried you had changed in the time he had been away. It made you smitten that he cared so deeply about each one of his family on an individual level not just as a whole.

“So you haven’t changed?” John chuckled. Your response was so sweet to him it had him feeling lighter, like things didn’t need to be so heavy. You were more intoxicating than a stiff drink and knocked him on his ass stronger than a shot of whiskey. There was something about how effortlessly you could talk him off a ledge and ground him when his anxieties became overwhelming.

“Nope, still 100% me. So sorry, but you’re stuck with it.” With a swift kiss to his scruffy cheek you watched as John’s mood began to turn around. He just needed a final push.

“No one I’d rather be stuck to.” John kissed you hard and you melted into him.

“You’ll be stuck to me all night if I have anything to do with it.” You flirted getting a warm chuckle from John and a searing hot kiss.

“Ew! Stop it!” Jj shrieked from behind you two.

“Gross.” Evelyn mumbled.

Pulling away you saw both your children standing in the doorway of the living room. They were holding either side of the wooden trey you used to bring out snacks and drinks on movie nights. You couldn’t quite tell what was on it as it had a kitchen towel over it. They moved around the couch and then struggled to place it on the coffee table. John ended up standing and helping them place it in front of you both.

“Surprise!” They both cheered, pulling the towel off.

The biggest grin spread across your face as you took in the sight before you. This was no surprise for you.

It was for John.

His favorite crisps were overflowing from the large blue popcorn bowl, the candies he loved laid out, there was every type of biscuit John normally reached for, a pint of strawberry ice cream, a cup of tea with cream and sugar laid out, a blueberry pastry, a single cigar stolen from his truck, and a piece of green construction paper torn in half that read ‘Welcome Home!’ in blue marker.

“Welcome home.” You whispered to your very stunned husband.

Looking to him you thought he was getting misty eyed with the way his bottom lip wobbled slightly. Yes, your children were doing something sweet for their dad but you knew they had no clue just how much this meant to him. That the little things may have changed slightly for them but they hadn’t for John. They knew him well and that wouldn’t have been possible without the countless hours he’d spent with them and all the outings he took them on even when they didn’t want to go. That the love he had for them, they had for him. You and John knew they did this completely on their own which meant so much more.

“Come here you two.” John outstretched his arms signaling he wanted to hug them and the two practically threw themselves at him.

“I’m the luckiest dad in the world.” These words were spoken with the utmost sincerity. You watched as the most genuine smile took over John’s features having his children in his arms. Giggles erupted from Evelyn and Jj as John picked them both up so their feet left the ground and squeezed them tight before placing them back down.

“Now it’s time for your mums surprise.” Nodding his head towards the kitchen Jj ran out of the room and came back with a white envelope and bouquet of roses.

“Flowers are from me and Evie. Dad got you this.” With a cheery smile Jj handed over your gifts. He then busied himself by eating some of the crisps from the bowl along with John and Evelyn.

“Thank you.” You kissed your son on the cheek which he then pretend gagged and Evelyn happily came over for her smooch and hug.

“What ever could it be?” You joked to John thinking he had written you a heart felt card.

Opening up the envelop your face split into a huge smile and excitement shot through your veins. It was a gift card to your favorite spa and massage parlor. It was for a 90 minute massage, facial treatment, hair treatment, and mani pedi.

“Ugh, you have no idea how much I need this.” Throwing your head back you sighed.

Getting pampered sounded like absolute paradise right now. You were ready to jump for joy and pop champagne. After a month of doing it all on your own you desperately needed to get all those tight muscles worked out and focus on yourself.

“Thought you could use a day for some self care.” Taking his hand John rubbed your back. He chuckled when you kissed his cheek and then leaned in to whisper in his ear.

“I’ll take very good care of you after this.” You purred and squeezed John’s bicep to emphasize your point. With a charming smirk he gave you a cheeky wink.

“I’m gonna call now to schedule this for tomorrow.” Pulling out your phone you stood and brought up the contact information for the spa.

“Tomorrow?” John sat up straight. He didn’t realize you would use it so quickly but that you two would chat about when was a good time for you to have a day to yourself.

“Yes, you four can figure something out for the day. Lily’s in charge.” You motioned to your children and Lily who was just finishing up her bottle.

“Darling, shouldn’t we do something together? As a family?” John was not ready to have all the responsibility thrown on him so fast. It was hectic enough to take the kids out shopping for an hour.

“We have all the time in the world to do something as a family. I only get so many days to myself and tomorrow is one of them.” You spoke assertively as you walked out of the room, phone pressed to your ear. John could tell there was no changing your mind and he would have to come up with something to entertain the kids. He would also be left to his own devices with a teething Lily which would be brutal.

“Will you share your candy?” Evelyn asked.

“Yes, go put this in the freezer before it melts.” Handing her the pint of ice cream John shoved a few crisps in his mouth before pulling out his phone to see what was open tomorrow to take the kids to. Having you occupied for the day wouldn’t be the worst. You coming home as relaxed as possible would honestly work in John’s favor in the long run.

“We could go to the trampoline park.” Jj was kneeling on the couch next to John and peering over his shoulder while munching on crisps.

“Sounds like a plan!”

~~~~~tag list~~~~~

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[caffeineforbucky]

So distraught right now. I can’t believe it. I’m angry. I’m in anguish. And I can’t find a brighter side to this outcome.

[caffeineforbucky]

caught in the undertow

AO3 Link (full tag list) || masterlist

John made the right call that day. It could have cost you your life, but it saved a dozen others - innocent men, women and children. He made the right decision. …did he?

[7k words]

cw: injury, angst, feels, medical and military inaccuracies, guilt, trauma/ptsd, piv sex, …did i mention angst?

“Captain Price,” Kate Laswell stated in her usual cool, precise and professional manner. She was called forward to speak last, and the room seemed to hold its breath as she spoke. “Undoubtedly saved multiple lives. I was in communication with him the entire time, and the situation was dire. The moment the Sergeant moved to shield the mother and her child, the hostile shifted, presenting immediate danger and forced Captain Price to take the shot. His team's confirmations came almost immediately. Threat neutralized, Sergeant down, requesting immediate medevac. The sequence of events is clear. The timings, irrefutable. It was the only choice to prevent a larger loss of life.”

She paused, allowing her words to settle, her gaze sweeping across the jury, then to John. And finally, her eyes met yours, a flicker of empathy, a shared understanding of the burden of impossible choices, passing between you.

When you took your seat in the witness stand what felt like hours before, the air in the courtroom was thick, feeling more suffocating than the humid summer air outside. You felt the seams of your dress digging into your skin like a thousand tiny needles, the fabric clinging to your body like a second skin. The injury hidden beneath that fabric pulsed with a dull ache, a rhythm that echoed the beat of your heart, a constant reminder of why you were there in the first place.

Across from you, John shifted in his seat. Captain John Price. Your Captain. Your leader. The love of your life. Accused and tried for the choice he made that day. He held his composure with the effortless grace of a man who’d stared down far worse fates than a panel of judges, his gaze fixed on some point beyond the courtroom walls, as if searching for an escape. But you, who knew him better than anyone, saw the subtle signs of the storm raging beneath – the tension in his jaw and the way his fingers tapped a restless rhythm against the table.

It had been weeks since the operation, since the bullet meant for a terrorist found its path through your shoulder, but the memory was still vivid, a cruel film reel playing on a loop in his mind.

The mission had been textbook, up until the point it wasn’t. The intel, as so often happened in this line of work, had unraveled, leaving you and Gaz staring down the barrel of a hostage situation gone sideways. A dozen innocent lives held captive by a man desperate for freedom, his finger itching on the trigger of his AK. A man whose eyes held the cold glint of a cornered animal, ready to unleash a violence that could silence a room within seconds.

You aimed at him, your finger tightening on the trigger of your own weapon, but you couldn't fire.

A mother and her child were singled out from the rest of the group of hostages. He used them as leverage, as a shield, their bodies a barrier that prevented both you and Gaz from taking the shot. And then, without thinking, without hesitation, you moved. Instinct and years of training taking over, your body reacting before your mind could even process the risk, you stepped forward, ushering the mother and child behind you, shielding them with your own flesh and bone.

You’d made a choice.

And just as you made that conscious choice that second, so had John. It all happened in a blink of an eye. The radio comms were a mess, you heard your name, a strangled cry from John booming in your ear as he yelled for you to stand down, a mixture of desperate shouts that nobody had a clear shot – and then the unmistakable twitch of the finger on the enemy's AK –

The prosecutor, a man whose weapon was his voice, spoke up, his words cutting through the tense silence, slicing through your thoughts. “Captain Jonathan Price,” he began, walking slowly towards where John was sitting, “Let’s revisit the moments that led up to the point where you decided to fire upon the hostile. Was there any point during the hostage negotiation that didn’t involve engaging an armed man directly?”

John’s gaze shifted to the man standing before him, the predator circling its prey, seeking a weakness, an admission of guilt, that would seal his fate. “The situation was volatile,” he stated, his voice low, controlled. “The suspect had already demonstrated he was willing to use lethal force.”

“Yes, indeed,” the prosecutor agreed, his tone laced with a false sympathy that made your stomach churn. “One civilian had been shot, tragically. But tell me, Captain, were the remaining hostages in imminent danger at the precise moment you fired your – ” He paused, his gaze dropping to his notes, then snapping back to John. “...sniper rifle, an MCPR-300, I believe? With a compromised line of sight? Don’t you think that was reckless? Negligent, even?”

John didn’t answer at first, his eyes focused back onto a distant horizon beyond the room. He was taken back to that warehouse, the scene he had witnessed through his scope, the twitch of the finger of the man who was about to decide about the fate of innocent people, who was about to punish you for stepping in front of his only leverage, who —

“Captain,” the prosecutor repeated, “perhaps you haven’t been paying attention. I asked you a question.”

John took a slow, steadying breath, forcing himself to surface. “I heard the question," he said finally, his voice low and dangerous, almost sounding like a threat. “There wasn’t a second to spare. I had to take the shot. The second those hostages were moved, the hostile was enraged. He was about to shoot them all, and the Sergeant stepped into my line of fire. I knew that the shot wasn’t impossible. It was flesh and bone, no vital organ. I had to… I had to risk it.”

“So you risked the life of one of your own?” The prosecutor's voice dripped with disdain, a subtle emphasis on the word risked that twisted like a knife in John's gut.

“It was that,” John stated, his tone flat, devoid of emotion, a soldier reciting a mission report, the only way he knew how to survive this interrogation. “Or a far worse outcome. I made the choice that saved the most lives. It was the only choice.”

He refused to look at you, couldn't bear the sight of your bandaged shoulder, the visible reminder of his decision, his guilt. His gaze remained fixed on the far wall, as if he could will away the memories that haunted him.

The prosecutor, frustrated by John's stoicism, turned his attention to you.

“Sergeant,” he said, his voice taking on a deceptive gentleness designed to lull you into a false sense of security, to draw out the accusation he so desperately sought. “Perhaps you can help us understand what happened that day. Can you walk us through the events leading up to… the incident? In your own words.”

“Of course.” You stood, your back straight, your gaze meeting the prosecutor’s, your injured arm held slightly stiffly at your side – a consistent, throbbing reminder of the choice, the bullet, your pain.

You described how you and Gaz had entered the warehouse in hopes to clear the situation, how Price was in communication with Laswell about this unexpected turn of events, watching every movement through his scope; how Soap and Ghost were circling the perimeter outside to find any possible way to secure the situation from a different angle. You described the hostages huddled to the side of the room, their faces full of terror. You told them about the mother and her child, no more than five years old, singled out, terrorized by a man with nothing left to lose.

“Tell us,” the prosecutor interrupted, sharp and accusing, “why didn’t you fire on the man? You were closer. Why did you rely on someone outside to have a clear shot? Were you not confident in your own abilities, Sergeant?"

“Because, like I said, there was a mother and her child right in front of him,” you repeated, “and I knew he was going to shoot at them if one of us just lifted a finger.”

“But surely, a trained soldier -” The prosecutor began, his voice dripping with disdain, but you cut him off.

“There wasn't time, sir,” you shot back, “I didn't have time to think, to calculate, to consider my options. I acted on instinct. I reacted. And I did what I had to do to protect those innocent lives. Captain Price knew that, and he acted accordingly.”

“And by doing so,” the prosecutor pressed, “you put yourself directly in the path of Captain Price’s bullet. A bullet fired from a high-powered sniper rifle. A weapon designed to kill.”

You met his gaze, your jaw tightening. “Yes, sir,” you stated. “But if I hadn’t moved, that mother and child would be dead.”

You described the way you’d ushered the hostages behind you, ignoring John's desperate pleas for you to get down, knowing you had only seconds, maybe less, to act. “His finger was already on the trigger,” you continued. “He was unhinged. He wouldn't have hesitated. I did what I had to do.”

You looked at John, your heart twisting as you saw the agony in his eyes, the guilt he carried, the self-loathing that radiated off him in waves.

“And then?” the prosecutor pressed, his voice sharp, intent on dissecting this moment, this choice, until he’d found the weakness, the fault, that would bring John Price down.

“And then, everything happened very quickly. I saw the gunman fall, his weapon clattering to the floor.” You swallowed hard, forcing the memory down, the sight of the blood, his blood and yours, mingling on the concrete floor. “Then the pain hit. I fell… and then… everything went black.”

John’s shot, impossibly precise, impossibly fast, had found its mark, silencing a threat before it could unleash hell. 

“Captain Price’s shot,” you continued, “saved lives that day. He stopped a terrorist before he could execute any of those innocent men, women, and children. Before he could shoot Sergeant Garrick or me. It was the only shot, and it was the right choice.”

One by one, Gaz, Soap, and Ghost were questioned, their testimonies echoing your account – a chaotic situation, a volatile enemy, a split-second judgment call that had saved lives. 

Laswell’s testimony was calm, factual, and her words were carefully chosen. She offered no justification, no defense, only the cold, hard facts that painted a clear picture – there had been no other option, no other choice.

But his team’s words, their support, did nothing to soothe the guilt that burned in John’s gut. 

He’d fired the shot. He’d made the choice. And you, the woman he loved, the soldier who’d placed her life in his hands, carried the scar, the physical reminder, of that impossible decision.

Not guilty on all charges. 

John shook his lawyer’s hand, accepting congratulations with a curt nod, his gaze distant, his thoughts a million miles away. And as you watched him walk out of the courtroom, his shoulders hunched, his steps heavy, you knew, that the real battle had just begun.

The weeks that followed were punctuated by doctor’s visits, physical therapy, and the slow, agonizing process of reclaiming the strength and mobility you’d temporarily lost. Soap, Gaz, and even Ghost, took turns checking in, bringing you takeout, offering their clumsy attempts at comfort and companionship. It felt like you saw more of them during those weeks of recovery than you did John. 

But he was meticulous about your care, driven by a desperate need to somehow atone, to mend the damage he’d caused. He drove you to every doctor’s appointment, sat silently beside you in the waiting rooms. He made sure you had the best doctors, the best physical therapy. You’d find fresh ice packs in the freezer, pain medication neatly arranged on the kitchen counter, a schedule for your meds taped to the fridge with military precision.

He brought home flowers, he found that rare book you’d mentioned, the one you thought was lost forever, and placed it on your bedside table. A desperate attempt to bring back a sliver of the normalcy you’d lost.

He'd do it all to soothe his mind, to right the wrongs just a little bit. But it didn't help.

Just like that verdict hadn’t brought him any solace. He was a prisoner of his own self, the bars constructed from the barbed wire of guilt and self-accusation. He’d fired the bullet. With the knowledge that it would tear through your flesh, hurt you, make you bleed – 

Not guilty.

The words churned in his mind like a dark undercurrent, dragging him down, down, down into the depths of his self-inflicted torment. They echoed through the empty spaces of his days, a mocking chorus that followed him everywhere, laughing at him from the shadows.

Not guilty.

As the image of you being rushed into surgery repeated in his mind. His heart beating a million times a minute, replaying how your eyes rolled back into your head from the pain as soon as the adrenaline faded, how he had begged Laswell to send medical faster, how he watched his team tend to you because he was frozen in place, letting realization hit him of what he had just done with the force of a tidal wave.

Not guilty.

As he remembered pacing the waiting room like a caged animal, every thought about you a self-inflicting wound to his soul, every passing second an eternity. He saw your face everywhere, in the worried expressions of his team, on Laswell, as she relayed the surgeon’s updates on your condition. “It was a clean shot, John. Just like you knew it was. She will be okay.” But even those words – words of reassurance, of hope – couldn’t calm the storm raging within him, couldn’t drown out the relentless echo of that damning verdict.

Not guilty.

One centimeter. The surgeon talked to John personally, and it felt like a cruel joke when he praised the precision of the shot – painting him as the incredible soldier who’d done the unthinkable, the hero who saved the day – one fucking centimeter. A haunting reminder of your fragility, just how close he’d missed the subclavian artery, walking a thin line between duty and devastation, between love and loss.

Not guilty.

As he threw himself into his work, disappearing to the base for days, trying to outrun his own mind by getting lost in familiar routines – trainings, missions, briefings – a desperate attempt to swim against the current of guilt, but it was relentless, pulling him back into the depths of despair over and over again. 

He’d stand in the training room, the heavy bag swaying before him, a silent opponent that couldn't judge him, couldn't accuse him. He’d pummel it, again and again, the satisfying thud of leather against his knuckles a fleeting release.

Not guilty.

As he felt the sting of his knuckles split open, the blood a welcome distraction, a pain that grounded him in the present, momentarily pushing back the memories. He didn't stop, didn't flinch. He just kept hitting the bag, the rhythm of his blows a mantra, a futile attempt to atone for a sin he couldn’t wash away.

Not guilty.

As even his sleep was haunted by the echoes of that day. It was always the same - the screams of the hostages, the metallic clang of the terrorist's weapon hitting the concrete floor, your muffled gasps as the bullet ripped through you. He’d wake in a cold sweat, his sheets tangled, his heart hammering against his ribs.

He had to relive the moment over and over - his love for you against the lives of those hostages - the terror that seized him as his finger squeezed the trigger, the sickening thud of the bullet finding its mark, the knowledge that it was his skill, his precision, that had brought you so close to death.

Not guilty.

Could he have waited another second for a clear shot? 

No. He remembered it all too vividly; the frantic whispers in his earpiece - 

No clear shot, Captain. 

Civilians blocking the path. 

He’s moving. He’s gonna shoot.

The terrorist’s finger tightening on the trigger, the manic gleam in his eye. He was a cornered animal, desperate, ready to take everyone down with him.

The way you had moved, instinctively, selflessly, pushing the woman and child behind you, placing yourself in the path of the bullet he was about to unleash.

He’d made the only call he could, he knew that. But logic didn’t seem to matter against the gnawing guilt that had become his constant companion. The weight of it, the burden of that impossible choice, had him retreating further into himself, desperately seeking refuge from the truth he couldn't escape – he’d chosen to save those lives, and in doing so, had almost sacrificed yours.

Not guilty.

As he’d scrub his hands raw, the water running red in his mind, as if trying to wash away the phantom stain of your blood. He couldn’t bear to look at himself in the mirror, his reflection - the hard lines of his face, the haunted eyes - a constant accusation.

Not guilty.

As he’d walk through the door, late and weary, the aroma of his favorite meal would hit him, the familiar scent a painful reminder of the normalcy he craved, the domesticity he felt he no longer deserved. He’d find a bottle of his favorite whiskey already poured, two glasses waiting on the table, and you, in that soft, worn sweater he loved, would greet him with a smile that made his heart ache with a love he felt was both undeserved and unbearable.

Not guilty.

As he watched the aftermath of his choice everywhere. The way you winced when you tried to do mundane everyday tasks, reaching for the coffee on the cupboard, brushing your hair, finding a comfortable position to sleep. A reminder, constant and always present, of his choice, his bullet. 

And yet, when you caught him looking at you, you’d still offer him the brightest and reassuring smile. You smiled at him. You seemed to be so full of life, so full of love – something he felt he could no longer accept after what he had done. 

Not guilty.

It kept mocking him, over and over and over again – and the amber liquid in his glass did nothing to drown the demons that were laughing at him, their voices echoing the verdict, the words that condemned him more surely than any court of law ever could.

“Can’t sleep?” You’d ask, your voice soft and sleepy, as you approached him standing by the moonlit window, your hand reaching out to rest on his arm.

He’d flinch away from your touch, the reaction so instinctive, so painful, that it felt like a knife stabbed right through your heart.

“No.” His answer was short, clipped, and was followed by a silence that felt deafening, pushing the chasm that had been broken open between you even further. 

“Talk to me, John.” Your voice trembled, a mixture of frustration and sadness, a desperate plea for the man you loved to emerge from the shadows of his own making. You’d let him have his space, but you felt like you were losing him. You respected he would need time, but it was increasingly frightening to see him retreat further and further into this self-imposed exile.

“There’s nothing to say.” He set the glass down, the crystal clinking against the wood, a sharp sound in the stillness of the room. He turned to walk away, as if your presence was a physical burden.

You knew what he did wasn’t a rejection, but a shield, a desperate attempt to protect you from the shattered pieces of himself. He thought he was sparing you, keeping you from the darkness that threatened to drown him.

You longed for his touch, for the familiar comfort of his embrace, for the warmth of his laughter, the way he’d make you forget the world with a single glance. You longed for the man who laughed with his men, who stole kisses in the dead of night, whose touch had once been your sanctuary.

One evening, you stood in the bathroom to take a shower, as you desperately tried to reach for the clasp of your strapless bra. You hated that thing already, but you didn't have a choice, as straps would hurt your shoulder.

You couldn’t reach around, your shoulder throbbing with each awkward movement. The frustration of this simple task, the feeling of helplessness, amplified the deeper ache in your heart, the loneliness that had become your constant companion. You had enough.

“John!” It was both a cry for help as it was a plea for reconnection.

He was by your side in an instant, crossing your shared space to the bathroom in three quick strides, alert by the sound of your voice. “What is it? What’s wrong?” The urgency in his voice, the raw concern he couldn’t mask, a contrast to the coldness that had settled between you in the weeks since the trial, and it had tears flowing freely down your cheeks now.

The sight of you, usually so strong, so capable, brought low by something as simple as a stubborn clasp, tore through his gut like a burning blade.

He'd put that look on your face.

He did. 

“This damned thing…” you gestured to the bra clasp, your throat constricting as the emotions that had been suppressed for so long threatened to finally spill over. 

He didn’t hesitate. “Let me.” He said, moving behind you, his touch gentle as he brushed your hair aside and his fingers undid the clasp. Something he had done a million times before, but not with a touch that felt like you were made out of porcelain, about to shatter under the weight of his guilt.

“The doctor said I can change the bandages myself now,” you said, your voice soft, hesitant, “Can you… can you help me?”

He turned away, retrieving the first aid kit from the bathroom cabinet, his movements stiff, controlled, a familiar mask slipping back into place. But as you watched him lay out the gauze, the antiseptic, the scissors, you saw the slight tremor in his hands, the way his jaw clenched.

You knew, he was afraid of you. Or rather, he was afraid of himself, afraid of the damage he’d inflicted, the hurt he’d caused. He was afraid of hurting you again.

“Turn around, love,” he murmured, his voice husky, a rough caress against your ear. “May I?”

“You know you may.”

You turned, and you could feel the heat of his gaze, which burned into your back as if he could see right through you. You could feel the tension in him, the way he held his breath, as his fingers brushed against your skin, gently peeling away the old bandage.

Then you heard him inhale sharply, a sound that spoke volumes. He'd seen the bruise. 

“It’s…” His voice hitched, the word catching in his throat, the sight of that bruise, a grotesque masterpiece of purple and yellow blooming across your shoulder blade, a brutal reminder of the force of his impact, his choice, his guilt.

You didn't need to see his face to know the expression that twisted his features. You felt it, the self-loathing, the way it had poisoned him and had turned his love into a weapon turned against himself.

You tried to meet his gaze. “It's just a bruise, John,” you said, your voice softer now, a plea for him to see you, the woman who loved him, not the casualty he'd created in his own mind.

He worked silently to fixate the new bandage, the silence stretching between you, thick with unspoken emotions. Then he turned to leave, his hand reaching for the doorknob, but you stopped him, your hand reaching out, your fingers closing around his wrist.

“Don’t,” you whispered, your voice trembling, your touch a desperate attempt to anchor him to the present, to remind him that he hadn't destroyed you, that you were still here, still his.

He looked at you, his eyes clouded with a mix of emotions you couldn’t decipher - guilt, fear, longing, and a deep, abiding love that he'd tried so hard to bury. He wanted to pull away, to tell you that you deserved better, that he was no good for you, a danger, a threat.

“I should…” he began, his voice rough with the effort of holding himself together. “I have reports…”

But you weren't letting him escape. Not this time. You stepped closer, pressing your naked body against his, ignoring the ache in your shoulder, the protest of your wounded flesh, because the ache in your heart, the yearning for his touch, was a far more powerful force.

“Don’t,” you whispered, your breath warm on his skin, igniting a fire that threatened to burn away the carefully constructed walls he'd built around himself. “Don't push me away, John. Please.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, your scent filling his senses, something he’d craved, longed for, but felt he no longer had the right to claim.

“I don’t –” he started to protest, the denial on his lips, but you silenced him with a kiss, standing on your tiptoes to press your lips against his. He hesitated, a battle raging within him, then, with a groan that sounded more like surrender than anything else, he gave in. His hands, as if with a will of their own, found their way to your waist, pulling you closer, molding your curves against the hard lines of his body, seeking solace in the familiar feel of you, the warmth, the softness.

You moaned against his lips, a sound of pure need that seemed to break the last vestiges of his control. The weight of his guilt, the burden he’d carried for weeks, seemed to dissipate under the heat of your kiss, replaced by a more primal need; a raw, desperate hunger.

You pulled back just enough to catch your breath, to look into his eyes, the stormy blue depths you’d thought you’d lost forever, now blazing with a rekindled fire that sent a jolt of pure desire straight through you.

He kissed you again with a ferocity that had your knees going weak, his tongue a weapon claiming every inch of your mouth, his hands a possessive force on your hips, as if he could physically merge your bodies, your souls, erasing the distance, the doubt, that had haunted you for far too long.

He lifted you then, without breaking the kiss, carrying you towards the bedroom, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. He laid you down on the bed, his weight settling over you, his gaze never leaving yours as he reached behind you, tucking a pillow beneath your injured shoulder.

He loomed over you, his body a welcome weight against your own. “This okay?”

“Yes,” you breathed, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer, your body arching towards his, needing more, needing everything he’d held back for far too long. “God, yes, John… Just… touch me.”

His touch was no longer hesitant, no longer laced with guilt or apprehension. This was the John you knew. His hands, large and calloused, yet infinitely gentle, roamed your body with a familiarity like it was a map he had studied for years.

“Like this?” he rasped, his fingers tracing the line of your jaw, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin beneath your ear, a spot he knew made you shiver with anticipation.

“Yes!” You moaned, arching into his touch, needing more, needing all of him.

“Tell me when it’s too much, yeah?” 

You wanted to tell him that nothing he could ever do would be too much, that the thought of him hesitating, of holding back any part of himself from you, was more unbearable than any pain he could inflict. But the words wouldn’t come, caught in the swell of need that tightened your throat, that turned your insides to molten gold under his hungry gaze.

He’d shed his clothes in a heartbeat, and then he was pushing your thighs apart. His knee settled between your legs, and the heat of him, the solid evidence of his desire, his erection standing full and proud, made you ache with a need you hadn't thought possible.

This was him, offering up his vulnerability alongside his desire, reminding himself, reminding you, that he was still the man you’d fallen in love with somewhere between the training ground and the front lines.

“John,” you breathed, his name escaping your lips as he positioned himself at your entrance, the tip of his cock, slick and hot against your aching core, a sensation both familiar and intensely, unbearably, arousing.

He entered you with a force that stole your breath, the feeling both familiar and overwhelming after weeks of forced abstinence.

He was fucking you. Hard, fast, with a ferocity he hadn't unleashed in weeks. Every thrust a desperate attempt to exorcise the demons that haunted him, to rewrite the narrative of his actions, to find solace, oblivion, in the heat of your body and the taste of your skin.

For a stolen moment, it almost worked. He lost himself in the feel of you, tight and hot around him; the scent of you, the taste of you on his lips, a drug that dulled the edges of his pain, offering a fleeting escape from the torment.

But the past had a way of catching up, even in this vulnerable, shared haven of yours.

You arched into him, your head thrown back against the pillows, a moan escaping your lips as he pushed deeper. Your face distorted, your features twisted in the throes of passion, and something within him snapped.

His vision blurred, the lines of your face dissolving –

Your eyes, rolled back, your brows furrowed –

From pleasure. Not pain.

Your breath hitched as he moved – as the bullet hit your shoulder.

Pleasure. Not pain.

He repeated those words over and over like a frantic litany in his mind, trying to erase the image that superimposed itself onto you —

He saw it again, your face, contorted in agony, not ecstasy, as he ran towards you in the warehouse, your body a broken doll sprawled on the blood-soaked concrete, a testament to his choice, his aim, his failure.

Pain.

The warehouse lights glared in his memory, harsh and unforgiving, reflecting off the pool of blood that seemed to expand, to swallow him whole. The metallic tang of it filled his nostrils, choking him. He felt the phantom weight of the rifle against his shoulder, heard the echo of the gunshot, the sickening thud as his bullet found its mark.

His stomach churned, the pleasure, so intense moments before, turning bitter in his mouth, a sour, acidic taste that had bile rising in his throat.

He couldn’t breathe. The room seemed to spin, your body suddenly a stranger, a fragile thing he needed to put at a distance before he destroyed you all over again.

“No…” The denial escaped his lips, a strangled whisper. His body shuddered, a wave of nausea rolling over him, forcing him to pull back, breaking the contact, leaving him stranded on a shore of his own making again, the waves of his guilt crashing over him again, threatening to drag him under again.

“John?” You sat up, the sheet pooling around your waist, concern furrowing your brow as you watched him recoil from you, his face distorted with an anguish you couldn’t decipher. You reached for him, your hand hovering hesitantly above his arm, unsure of how to navigate this sudden shift, this retreat back into the darkness he'd been fighting for weeks.

He shook his head, unable to speak, unable to face you. The shame, the self-loathing, was a physical weight that had him collapsing back onto the bed, his back to you, his body curled in on itself, seeking a refuge he knew didn't exist. It was as if he were trying to fold himself into the smallest possible space, disappear into the shadows, become as invisible as the ghosts that haunted him.

“John, what's wrong?” You whispered, your hand still hovering above him, wanting to touch him, to offer comfort, but afraid of intruding, of shattering the fragile shell he seemed to have retreated into.

He shook his head again, the gesture frantic, a silent denial of your offer. He couldn't look at you, couldn't bear the judgment, the accusation, he knew he deserved. The guilt, the remorse, the images that replayed in his mind – they were a relentless tide, an undertow dragging him down into a darkness he wasn’t sure he could escape.

“God, I don’t…” His voice cracked, the weight of his guilt crushing him, squeezing the air from his lungs, stealing his breath. “I don't deserve you… I don’t deserve… any of this.”

He finally turned to you then, and you flinched involuntarily. The pain in your shoulder was nothing compared to the agony etched on his face, the raw, unfiltered torment in his eyes, a reflection of the hell he was living in.

“I look at you…” He choked out, the confession a jagged piece of shrapnel piercing his heart. “And all I see is... the blood. Your blood. Everywhere…” He buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking as a sob ripped through him, the sound raw and guttural, a stark contrast to the strong soldier you'd always known, the man who had built his life on control, on burying his emotions beneath layers of duty and discipline.

This wasn't the John you knew, the man who faced every challenge head-on, who commanded a room with his presence. This was a man undone, a warrior stripped of his armor, reduced to tears by the torment of his guilt, the terror of his own actions and his love for you. Vulnerable and exposed.

And as he sat there, his body trembling, his breath coming in ragged gasps, the dam finally broke completely. He was a ship caught in a hurricane, the waves of his guilt crashing over him, the mast of his resolve snapping, the sails of his self-control ripped to shreds. His sobs, raw and guttural, filled the room, a lament that echoed the turmoil in his soul, a sound that had your heart shattering into a million pieces.

“It’s… it’s everywhere. On my hands... On the walls… In my dreams… God, I can't… I can't escape it.”

You reached out, your hand settling gently on his arm, but you didn't speak. You could offer no words, no reassurances, that could alleviate this pain. You could only offer him your presence, your touch; show him that he did still deserved you and your love.

“Those nights… Every time I close my eyes, it's there. The warehouse, the hostages, the look on your face, the blood…” He shuddered, his voice breaking as he continued, “It's like… I’m back there, in that moment, but this time… this time you don’t get up.”

His gaze, filled with a desolate pain you'd never witnessed before, settled on the bandage on your shoulder.

“One centimeter,” he whispered then, “one fucking centimeter... and it was my choice, my bullet… ” He trailed off, the realization of it all, the weight of his actions, crashing over him all over again. “God, I’ve seen men die… good men, the best… I've held them as they bled out, watched the light fade from their eyes… But this…” He shook his head, the words choking him. “This is different. I… I can't…”

He shifted slightly, his gaze still settled on your shoulder. “You’ve been injured before,” he choked out, “hell, I've been shot, stabbed, blown up…” He laughed, a harsh, brittle sound – he’d survived a hundred battles, a thousand close calls, only to be brought down by his own hand, his own love. “But this… this time, it was me. I was the one who…” 

He couldn't finish the sentence, the words dissolving into another sob that racked his body. He pressed his palms against his eyes, as if he could physically erase the images that haunted him, but the memories were too vivid, too deeply ingrained - your startled gasp, the sickening thud of the bullet, the blood, your blood, blossoming against your skin. He saw it everywhere: on his hands, on his uniform, on the sheets of your shared bed. A stain he couldn't wash away, a mark of Cain branded onto his soul.

“I’m a monster,” he choked out, the words a strangled cry, a confession ripped from the very core of his being, a truth he'd been running from since the moment he'd pulled the trigger. “Don’t you see? I could have killed you... I almost killed you…”

You could see that he was losing the battle against himself, the fight for control he’d waged for weeks finally slipping through his fingers.

“Forgive me,” he whispered, his voice cracking again, the words an admission of his vulnerability, his need for you, the one person he felt he'd failed. “Please… forgive me.”

“John, stop.” You finally whispered as he seemed to have paused his emotional confession. You shifted closer to him, gently placing your hands on his ribs, his warmth seeping into your skin. “You’re not a monster. The hostages, they’re alive because of you. You saved Gaz. You saved my life. And you were the only one who could make that shot. You know that.”

Your hands found their way around him, to lift his head, so that he would look at you, so you could see him, the man you loved, lost in the depths of his own despair. You gently cupped his cheeks, your fingers wiping away the trails of tears that were rolling down, a gesture of comfort, of reassurance, and a silent plea for him to believe in your love, in the truth that transcended his self-inflicted judgment. “Listen to me.” You said, louder now, your voice a lifeline thrown out to pull a man drowning back to the surface. “There is nothing to forgive.”

“But I –” He started to argue, to protest, but the words caught in his throat, his breath hitched as he surrendered to the grief, the remorse, that had been bottled up inside him for so long.

"Shh," you soothed, leaning in, your forehead resting against his.

You pulled back slightly, meeting his gaze. “I don’t blame you for this, John. Not one bit. Not a single, tiny bit."

His eyes, shadowed with doubt, searched yours, as if looking for the lie, the accusation he was convinced he deserved instead.

“Yes, it sucks. Yes, it hurts.” You continued, your voice soft but firm, “but you know what would have hurt more? Dead parents and their children, and me… maybe not even here to hurt at all. He was about to fire, John. You know it. I know it.”

You held his gaze, your thumbs stroking the lines of pain etched around his eyes, lines that spoke of sleepless nights. “You may not want to be called a hero, John,” you whispered, leaning forward, resting your forehead against his again, offering him the comfort, the understanding, the love he so desperately needed. “But you are my hero. You did the right thing. If there's anyone on this earth who could make that shot, that impossible shot, who could put a bullet through my shoulder and stop a terrorist’s heart in the same breath… it’s you. It’s always been you.”

He stared at you, the intensity of his gaze softening as he listened to your words, the frantic beating of his heart gradually slowing, the storm within him beginning to calm.

“I just…” The confession escaped his lips on a shuddering breath. “I almost lost you. The thought of it…” He trailed off, unable to voice the terror that haunted him, the vision of your lifeless body, his bullet the cause, a constant nightmare from which there seemed no escape.

“I’m here,” you whispered, cutting him off before he could descend back into the abyss of his own making. “I’m alive.”

He closed his eyes, surrendering to the pressure of your touch, your warmth seeping into his skin. He let himself get pulled against your chest, his head resting so he could hear your heartbeat steadily in his ear. A reassuring lullaby to soothe him, a reminder that you were still here, with him.

“I love you,” he whispered, the words broken, a confession wrenched from his soul. “God, I love you so much… I almost… I’m so sorry…”

“I know, John.”

His breathing slowed as the tension ebbed from his body. He realized then, in the quiet aftermath, that pulling away, retreating into the silence of his own guilt, had only deepened the cut, amplified his pain. The distance had been a lie, a shield he'd put up to protect you from him, but now he knew: you didn’t need protection. You needed him, just as he needed you. The only force strong enough to pull him back from the abyss, the only remedy to heal those self-inflicted wounds, was you.

“I know.”

His tears continued to fall, but they were different now – not the hot, frantic tears of a man drowning in guilt, but softer, almost silent tears, born of exhaustion and a fragile hope that maybe, just maybe, he could find a way to forgive himself.

You watched him as he drifted off to sleep, his face finally peaceful. For the first time in weeks, he slept without nightmares and tremors. He was exhausted – emotionally, physically drained – the weight of his guilt temporarily lifted by the power of your presence, your touch, your love.

You leaned down, your lips brushing against his hair, your lips lingering, as you rested your head above his.

“I love you, too, John. It’s alright. We’re alright.”

[caffeineforbucky]

I am BEGGING you for more unhappily-married!Price and his nanny. I'M BEGGING

significantly less porn in this one. very un-fern-like, i know, but bear with me here.

(still 18+ tho, fem!reader, nanny!reader, infidelity obviously, price is a slut but it’s ok)

—•—

neither john or his wife were home yet.

it was just you and the two kids, who were in the living room, sprawled across the couch with the television blaring. you couldn’t hear them, but every now and then, after poking your head through the door, you found their eyes glued to the silly cartoon they were watching.

you were in the kitchen making the kids their dinner. and dinner for you, and both mr. and mrs. price as well. you didn’t have to cook for them. it wasn’t actually in your job contract. but you felt it was the least you could do to help them out once they’d both returned home from work.

and when you heard the jingle of a heavy set of keys, and the clacking of metal sliding into the locking mechanism of the front door, butterflies started fluttering around in your stomach.

“daddy!” is what you heard being shouted from the living room, followed by the surprisingly heavy pitter-patter of little feet dashing across the room.

you kept your eyes glued to the chopping board, focusing on the way you were cutting the vegetables below you, as you listened to john greet his children.

he was such an incredible dad. so loving, and so caring, and so gentle. the exact kind of man you would have wanted to raise children. the exact kind of man who was made to become a father. you subtly wished you could’ve seen what he was like when the kids were newborn.

as you cut the vegetables, you listened to the kids sprint back, and presumably dive back onto, the couch, giggling away to themselves. you then listened to hard-soled trek towards the kitchen. the butterflies creating havoc in your stomach made you forget about your frustration that john kept wearing his shoes inside.

you didn’t look up even when you sensed him in the doorway. you waited, with your heart in your throat, until he greeted you. and, of course, like the gentleman he was, he did.

“good evening,” john said, followed by your name.

you looked up at him, as if you had only just realised he was there, and smiled warmly at him. you paused the chopping of the vegetables and leaned lightly against the kitchen island.

“good evening, john. how was work?” you greeted, then asked, cocking your head lightly to the side.

you watched him, and god he looked good. he was in a suit today, for some reason or another, and his suit jacket was laying over his forearm, revealing him in a fitted white dress shirt. it clung to every curve of his muscle, the softness of his chest and tummy. his trousers framed his thighs perfectly, and his bulge—

you quickly averted your eyes, and hoped he didn’t notice. if he did, he didn’t say anything, or gave anything away. he simply returned your smile.

“it was good, thank you. how about you, hm? those ones behave themselves?” he followed up with a question, nodding backwards and towards the living room.

he also took a step into the kitchen, moving away from the doorway and presumably out of earshot, too.

“my day was great, actually. the kids and i went out to the park, and spent most of the day there, actually. now it’s just been tv time until i finish dinner,” you replied earnestly, looking back down at the semi-cut vegetables, and then back up at john.

there was already a warm and savoury smell in the air, courtesy of what was already simmering on the stove and roasting in the oven behind you. john noticed the smell, clearly, as he took a deep breath as he approached the kitchen island from where you were working, standing opposite you.

“smells amazing,” he complimented.

“and there’s enough for you!” you somewhat laughed. usually, the kids loved your cooking so much, that there wasn’t always a lot left.

john’s smile widened, and he placed his suit jacket to the side, leaning against the kitchen counter, gripping the sides with strong fingers—

fingers that, last night, had scissored your warm pussy open as you kneeled on his bed with your face in his pillows. fingers that had you creaming around them in record time, coating his hand and forearm. fingers that had spelled his name on your swollen clit as fucked you from behind—

“you’re too kind,” john said genuinely as you began to chop at the vegetables again. he watched you for a moment, with deep and dark eyes that made your fingers shake, before he continued. “is my wife home?”

you shook your head but didn’t say anything. you didn’t look up either. the topic of mrs. price always scared you.

she was only ever mrs. price to you. never her first name, never just her last name. with the mrs., or miss or ma’am. professional only.

there were several reasons why she frightened you, and not all of them stemmed from the fact that you were fucking her husband and calling him daddy in the bed they shared. sure, that was a part of it, but not the primary.

the way she spoke was cold and icy, frigid to both you and john on the best of occasions. she wasn’t a completely awful mother, either, but her parenting did not match that of her husbands in the slightest. she was always in a rush, her affection was brief, and if you bet money on it, you’d have full pockets to say that she didn’t even know her kids favourite food at the moment.

those reasons made you feel a whole less guilty about sleeping with her husband in her bed. about playing pretend wife while she was at work.

but it still gnawed at your soul, the fact you were actively involved with a married man, whose children you cared for, and whose wife would probably gut you if she found out.

so even though the fact she wasn’t home was supposed to put you at ease, it had your hackles up. scared, no. anxious, sure. your worst fear is having her walk in and see whatever it was john and you were doing at any particular time. no matter how innocent, it forced your head on a swivel.

john nodded slowly at your answer, as if thinking of something else in his head. he probably was, considering he pushed himself away from the kitchen island and rounded it, coming up beside you.

you didn’t look up, but you could feel his warmth against your side. you could smell him. it made your cunt pulse in time with the beat of your heart.

“she’s not home…” price uttered lowly, and then proceeded to drag a hand softly up the bare expanse of your arm. from wrist to shoulder, until his fingers were no longer skimming over skin, but over your cotton tee. “what time does she usually get home?”

his hand travelled back down towards your wrist, and you willed your body not to betray you and sprout goose-bumps across your skin.

“sometime after seven,” you answered quietly, still chopping. slowly.

“oh yeah?” john shifted closer to you, until his chest was pressing up against your upper arm. his hand remained on your hand, finger tracing over your knuckles. “and what’s the time now?”

his question forced you to look over at the clock. he took advantage of the new position and quickly leaned in, pressing his lips to the side of your neck, humming to himself.

“half-five,” you whispered, closing your eyes and— for safety reasons, of course, not because you were distracted— placed the knife down.

john dragged his nose along the column of your neck, inhaling. his other hand swooped around your body to rest on your opposite him, pulling your lower body against him.

at your pulse point, he paused and opened his mouth, sucking a kiss to the skin and groaning quietly to himself. you gripped the kitchen counter as john’s beard scratched at the soft skin of your neck as his teeth grazed you, tongue hot and wet against the thrumming of your blood.

“john…” you whispered.

he was subtly grinding against you now. the bulge in his black trousers pushed somewhere near the plushness of your hip, moving forward and back. slightly, slowly. barely noticeable. he did so as he kept his mouth suctioned to your neck, his eyes closed.

the hand on your hip fidgeted with the waistband of your joggers, rubbing at the ridged fabric that covered the drawstring. he managed, after a moment, to slip his fingers under your shirt and grip at the bare skin of your waist.

john’s mouth finally trailed upwards, and he pressed warm kisses along your neck. when he reached the curve of your jaw, he placed another kiss, before nosing at your earlobe, pulling your body impossibly tighter against him.

“i’d stuff your pretty pussy right here if you let me,” he whispered darkly, and you felt your clit pulse. he pressed a kiss to the outer part of your cheek, parallel to your ear. “fuck a load in t’you and have you dripping all over my kitchen floor.”

“john,” you hissed, finally letting go of the counter and squeezing a hand between your bodies. your fingers came to rest on his warm, broad chest. “we can’t… not here.”

you could hear the tv going, loud and rackety. you could hear the kids giggling every so often too. but no pitter-patter of their feet barrelling towards the kitchen. thankfully.

john grumbled against your cheek, and you tried your best not to let the sound make you drop to your knees and paw at the bulge that was currently nudging your hip. at least he had stopped humping you now.

“need you so fucking bad, sweetheart,” he told you in a hoarse whisper. “been thinking about you all day. such a pretty thing, y’know. such a pretty girl. can’t get you out of my head.”

you wanted to berate him. growl at him for speaking in such a way. but truthfully, his words were setting your soul on fire and, most importantly, setting your nerves alight. your pussy, hot and warm within the confines of your underwear, pulsed. you withstood the need to clamp your thighs together.

“john, please,” you continued to whisper, and he took his time placing kisses along your cheek, pressing your hip into his front. “the kids are right next door, and—”

he hummed deeply before he spoke. “s’alright, pretty girl. m’just gonna have to go upstairs and fuck my fist in the shower, hm?”

“john—”

“or maybe fuck the wife and pretend it’s this greedy cunt—” john’s hand suddenly slipped down the front of your joggers, cupping your heat over your underwear as he pressed his nose to your cheek. you bit your lip to hold in a whimper, your entire body wracking with an involuntary shiver. john continued, “—that i’m fucking my load into. how about that, pretty girl? hm? …no, i wouldn’t do that to you— wouldn’t waste my cum in a pussy that isn’t yours—”

you took a deep breath, and then stepped away from him. he immediately withdrew his hand from your joggers and watched you with dark eyes.

“john, stop, not with the kids home,” you said, not so much a whisper anymore. “besides, your… wife will be home soon. let me finish dinner—”

the sound of the front door opening had your heart dropping into your stomach. john took a great step backwards as the sound of high-heels clacked along the floor, and some kind of disinterested greeting from the kids made its way into earshot.

you quickly picked up the knife and resumed the chopping of the vegetables, whilst john adjusted the bulge in his suit trousers. mrs. price walked in not long after, her eyes looking you up and down.

“oh, you’re cooking.”

you didn’t say anything, just offered her an awkward smile. she then turned to look at john with barely a change in her unsatisfied expression.

“john,” she greeted. “you’re home early.”

he greeted his wife too, then followed up with, “so are you.”

you looked between them. you could cut the tension with a knife. and it wasn’t the good kind of tension, either. a whole lot of animosity, and you weren’t really sure where it came from. either way, you were luckily finished cutting your vegetables, and moved on to the opposite side of the kitchen to finish up dinner.

mrs. price exited the kitchen not long after. you listened to her leave, your back to the room, as you leaned over the stovetop and the bubbling concoction in a large saucepan. it smelled heavenly, to be fair.

you appreciated the silence of the kitchen, until the presence of a person behind you nearly made you yelp. you knew who it was though, and the large hands slowly, gently circling around your waist also gave it away.

“i’m sorry, baby. i didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable,” john whispered, resting his chin on your shoulder.

you shook your head. “you didn’t. just… we can’t do that when the kids are here.”

john nodded, understanding. “of course, i completely understand.”

he placed a kiss to your neck, pressing his bulge into the soft curve of your arse.

you rolled your eyes. “john.”

“okay, last time, i promise.”

[caffeineforbucky]

My followers starving from my lack of writing and are waiting for me to drop

[caffeineforbucky]

oo i'm writing again. oo will i update in 1 day or 1 year?? who knows but it will happen.