dreamingofaizawa

[dreamingofaizawa]

baby trap anthology | of your own longing

18+ SMUT | DEAD DOVE, DO NOT EAT —baby trapping, heavy noncon/dubcon elements, stalking, kidnapping, and other morally reprehensible behaviour

when your need grows teeth | John Price dangle on the leash | Simon Riley straw house, straw dog | Johnny MacTavish third hour of the night | Kyle Garrick

POLY141 Ghoap Reader

PINTEREST BOARD • AO3 LINK

[dreamingofaizawa]

It’s my birthday :DDD I got spoiled by my coworker today I love her a lot

[dreamingofaizawa]

Violent Tendencies - Scattered

Sheriff! John Price x AFAB! Fem! Reader

~Small Town AU~

***This piece contains DARK SEXUAL CONTENT. If the warnings make you uncomfortable, LEAVE. If you are under the age of 18, GET OUT***

Warnings: References to and mentions of noncon/rape, noncon recording, kidnapping. Detailed descriptions of trauma, dissociation?, healing

Word Count: 3.1k

Author's Note: I'm back from vacation!!!! And now I continue the storyline :D I did miss working on this ngl, my little passion project that was meant to be a one-shot. Anywho, please heed all warnings and know your own limits <3

Series Masterlist

Part One Here - Part Seventeen coming soon

Enjoy!

***

You hope he’s alright. Desperately, you hope John is okay once he watches the recording you’re sure they’ve found. There isn’t a lot else they’d need him to come in for, especially regarding that fucking house.

You hope he doesn’t start to look at you differently. 

Especially since you already look at yourself differently. 

It’s something you’ve never experienced before. You’ve beaten people to the brink of death. You’ve killed a man in cold blood. You’ve broken people’s bones and dislocated joints and killed. Through it all you’ve never looked in the mirror and seen someone else in your body.

Disgust is an emotion you’re becoming intimately familiar with, seeing your body slowly heal over the days but you can still feel him. The purples are fading into putrid greens and yellows, but you can almost see his hands all over you. Every time you see your reflection Graves is behind you in the mirror, rough twisted hands clawing at your body, vile grin and ice cold eyes trained on you from over your shoulder.

Nausea is a constant. You haven’t been able to keep much down, despite how simple you keep your meals. Despite being out of that hell hole for a week. 

You feel different. Another woman stands in the mirror, a woman scarred and ruined, seams along her joints pulled loose and stuffing leaking out at every popped stitch. It’s like your body has separated from your soul, watching the creature in the mirror as she heals without you. Two separate entities warring for dominance. Your soul desperately wants to lash out, wants to sprint down to the basement and tear the punching bag to shreds while imagining Graves hanging in its place. Your body? It fears those stairs, fears the depths of the below because all you can see when you go down is that chair, the camera, and him with that bloody knife. 

All you feel when you step through the doorway is panic. Your feet make the decision to bolt, your heart longing for the violence you’ve lived so long with, as if it’s trapped down in that bag you can’t reach.

You can’t sit in a chair straight-on anymore. Wooden ones especially. You’re just glad your home has none with armrests, since you’d been bound to one. It means you can sit sideways without the backrest piercing your spine and sending you into a spiral. John has been your rock through everything, comforting you when you broke down and held you when you were too tired to hold yourself. The morning after coming home, you’d panicked when he came up behind you to hold you. It only took him looking at you once to bring you back, but you still thrashed in his hold.

You’d both apologized profusely to each other, and you both clung until you passed out in bed. 

Part of you feared being in the same house as him. You’re different. You’ve been changed. And you hate to admit it, but Graves got in your head with his words. He’s integrated himself into your mind, some sick and twisted imitation of your husband. He’s used John’s name for you, used Tempest as a moniker that’s reserved for John to use, and it’s fucked with your head. When you close your eyes and think too hard about it, you can see the barest similarities between the two. Blue eyes, raging temper, eerily similar taste in women. But that’s where the similarities end, and when you look at John you can separate them instantly. 

Where John’s eyes are bright and electric, Graves’ were cold and dull. Where John’s temper is a raging storm, Graves’ is closer to a brisk wind. Nowhere near as dangerous or powerful as your husband, and nowhere near as passionate. They’re physically different too. Graves isn’t nearly as big as John, and it showed when you were able to knock him on his ass more than once. He’s lean where John is bulky, and his anger comes out in words more than action. 

No, they’re nothing alike. And you have to remind yourself of that fact when you’re left alone. Even your nightmares know they’re two different people, don’t confuse the two when you’re reliving that hell. Sometimes the guilt tries to eat you alive, and you have to say it again so you’re not consumed. Remind yourself that this is exactly what Graves probably wanted, to get in your head and drive a wedge between your marriage.

The bell rings, and when you answer the door Celeste throws herself over you and holds you tight, cradles your head and babbles about being worried and happy you’re back. She pulls back to look at you, and her eyes tell you everything you need to know.

“You look like you’ve been through hell and back.” Yeah.

“Feels like I have. Come in.” The door is shut behind her and you both settle at the dining table. If she notices the way you sit sideways on the chair, she doesn’t show it. “Thanks for coming, Celeste.”

“Of course, babe. Always.” Being in her presence eases you, just a little. It’s good to have a friend, good to be talking to someone you don’t feel guilty looking at.

“Celeste…” Your voice cracks a little, and she reaches a hand out for you to grab. Breathe. “I feel so guilty. I feel like John doesn’t deserve this, deserve to be stuck married to someone that’s broken and can’t function anymore.” It’s been weighing on your mind ever since you got back, and the only thing that outweighed the stabbing shame was the desperation to have him beside you. This is what he wanted. Don’t let Graves have the last laugh.

“Hey, hey, don’t do that, babes. You’re not broken, you’re healing. And he’s not stuck with you. You know how I know? Because he can barely breathe without you. I saw him the day you went missing. He was a mess without you. I’ve never seen someone so distraught.” You’re sure he was. But now, what does he think? You’ve been ruined. 

“But I’ve been…damaged. Graves he…he did things to me that I don’t know if I can recover from.” The admission makes your soul split in two. Her face falls, paling in the light of the kitchen.

“Wait, you mean he…” Her body trembles while her eyes flick down toward your legs, and you know she knows what you mean. You detach yourself for the next admission, not wanting to feel the fear again. 

“Almost. He used his hands before he got that far, and the threat was there when he started taking off his pants.” Nothing can really prepare you for the horror on her face at the realization. It breaks your heart to see it, like you’re looking at yourself through her eyes. You’re grateful there’s no pity. Just fear and sadness. Tears fall down her cheeks, and she lunges off the chair to throw her arms around your shoulders.

“Oh my god. Oh my god I’m sorry, oh my fucking god that’s awful.” You cry with her when it all settles in, mourn the misery, feel the dread slowly fading into a sharp melancholy. When she’s run dry and you’re both reduced to sniffles, she pulls away and holds you at arm’s length.

“Thank you for telling me. You didn’t have to, but I’m glad you did. Does anyone else know?” You take a breath, speaking through small hiccups.

“Currently John is at the station with his deputies. They’ve found the recording. I’m sure they’re watching it as we speak.” She gasps, her hand covering her mouth while more tears fall.

“What the fuck. He recorded it?” You nod. “Well why the fuck are they watching it?” She’s bewildered, anger alongside the sorrow.

“Because I want them to know. I just can’t relive it, telling them everything that happened. I feel guilty for that too. It’s not going to be easy for them to witness.” Her shoulders sag, her expression shifting back to worry. “John may never look at me the same after watching it.” When you look her in the eyes, you think you see her heart shatter.

“He’ll still love you the same, babes. I know he will.” You’re not so sure. 

“I just don’t know. I’m…different now, Celeste. I know I’m acting differently, I know I’m not the same as I was before.” Her eyebrows curl downwards, creasing her forehead with anger.

“Stop that. It’s not your fault that you’ve been hurt, and it’s not your fault that you’ve changed. Nobody expects you to just be okay, and it’s unfair that you expect yourself to recover so quickly. It’s been seven fucking days, and the fact that you’re even talking about this is a monumental step in the healing process. Don’t you dare discredit yourself because of your natural human emotions.” 

Nobody expects you to just be okay. It’s not your fault. It sends a wave of crisp air into your lungs. It’s not something you’d ever thought about, not that you really had the time to think about things like that at all. You’ve been busy trying not to break down every other hour. 

“Thank you, Celeste.” 

“You don’t need to thank me, babes. I’m always going to be here for you. Just talk to your husband, damnit. He needs to know what you’re feeling, and he’s no mind reader.” She’s right. You nod, and get up to make something to eat, but the front door swings open and slams shut with more force than you’re used to hearing. John’s voice rings out through the house, fear and rage and sadness curling around the single name he calls out.

“Tempest.” He stomps into the kitchen and you don’t even get the chance to blink, let alone ask him what’s got him so worked up, before his arms crush you against his chest and he weeps. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t get to you sooner, I’m sorry I let you be taken. I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m so sorry-”

“John!” He freezes when you pull back, barely able to put any kind of distance to get a look at him. He’s crying, tears soaking through his collar and sorrow painted over his face. His voice breaks when he wheezes out another apology.

“I’m sorry, my wife. I wasn’t there to save you.” Oh. Oh. He heard it, then, the way you begged his name out into the empty basement. 

“You did save me, John.” More tears fall as he holds you.

“But not fast enough. I wasn’t there for you when you were crying all alone, when you were so strong to keep him from seeing you hurting. I wasn’t there.” Celeste’s words find their way into your mind as you see her slip out the door with a sad smile and a wave.

“It’s not your fault. None of it is. If you could have gotten to me faster, you would have. I know you would have. You still came, you found me, you saved me.” His eyes are red-rimmed, the blue dull and gray while he stares into your soul. 

“Tempest…” You have to wrestle with his steel grip to get your hands on his face, but when you do you make sure he’s looking at you.

“You saved me, John.” You pour as much as you can into those four words, will him to listen because it’s true. He saved you. He saved you when you were on the brink of collapse, saved you when you were inches away from begging for death to claim you. “When I called for you, you were right there.” His eyes blow wide, tears still forming rivers down his face. His voice is shattered when he speaks.

“15 hours.” What?

“John?”

“15 hours and 37 minutes. He had you for 15 hours and 37 minutes.” Oh shit. 

“You counted?” A ragged sob breaks through his chest.

“Of course I counted. Fuck I thought I lost you. I thought he’d buried you and I was so scared that I’d never see you again.” Oh... “But then we found you and I hadn’t even thought about everything that could be worse than death.” Oh. Your own tears are running wild, blurring your vision no matter how hard you blink them away. You’ve been worried about him looking at you differently, and this whole time he’s been beating himself up over the thought that you’ve been through something worse than death.

“Tell me you love me.”

“I love you. I love you so much. I love you to the end of days, I love you until we’re fossils in the earth.” From the very first day you met, the two of you had torn your hearts from your chest and presented them to each other on a silver platter, filling the basin and spilling blood over the edge while you traded hands. For twelve years you’ve been safe, steady and solid in the love you share.

Nothing strains love more than fear. Fear of loss, fear of pain, fear that something fundamental has changed between you. Despite everything you feared, and everything he feared, your love has not felt the sharp pull that tears kevlar to shreds. Your love has withstood the test of time, of fear, of distance. It makes everything else fade into background noise.

“And I love you. Nothing else matters, John. I love you.” His tears slow, the last few falling and leaving his eyes crystal clear. His chest still trembles, but his hands steady against your back. Slowly, he nods. 

“Nothing else matters.” His hands are strong when they tug you close, and your skin lights on fire when his forehead touches yours. You can feel his breath on your face, he’s right there.

“Kiss your wife, John.” Flames engulf your whole body when your lips meet his. It’s gentle, hesitant, the way he barely leans into you, but you crave him. He groans low in his chest when you push into him, needing to feel him against you. Your husband, the man who would burn the whole damn world to save you from all your demons. He breathes life back into your shattered soul, fuels the pit of rage you’ve been desperately trying to light.

This is the first time you’ve kissed since you’d been taken. Since you'd come back. It’s a realization that has you clinging to him harder, has you holding him tighter. You can’t bear to separate, only wanting to breathe him in some more. More. Greed sinks her claws into you, and you wrap your arms around his neck just to keep him kissing you. Your husband. Your man. His fingers thread into your hair, dig into your scalp to keep you in place, the warmth of him beneath your body fuels your heart’s wild beat. 

It takes a monumental effort to pull away from each other, but still you refuse to fully separate. Your breaths mingle together, holding each other tight while you let your body mold into his. Something clicks in your brain as you sit there, staring into his sapphire gaze and feeling nothing but the love that’s spanned over a decade.

“He wanted to pull us apart.” He wanted to rip John from your hands, wanted to hurt you so profoundly, change you so fundamentally, that he’d fall out of love with you and you’d be driven apart. It was going to be his revenge, for ruining his life he’d ruin your marriage. An eye for an eye.

“Don’t think of that bastard when I’m holding you. He’s dead, and you’re mine, and nothing in heaven or hell can take you from me.” A chill crawls down your spine, then your whole body floods with fire. Devotion courses through you like nothing you’ve felt before, and all you can do is kiss him again. He doesn’t protest, just clings to you and holds you like he’ll lose you all over again if he does. He’s strong beneath you when he grabs at your thighs and lifts, stands and walks you both up the stairs and straight to your bed. He settles his weight on top of you, nestling right into your chest and you notice how he presses his ear to your sternum.

He seems to relax when he hears your heart thumping against your ribs. It’s a feeling you’re familiar with. You remember doing much of the same a little while after you’d buried Celeste’s stalker problem. All you do is hold him, wrap your arms around his shoulders and hook your legs around his hips to keep him glued to you. For the first time in a week, you feel whole again. You feel like your soul has fused with your body once again, you feel like you’re finally starting to heal. 

“John?” He hums into your chest, squeezes you tight and nestles deeper into you. He may be falling asleep. But there’s something you need to get off your chest. “I don’t know when I’ll be able to have sex again. It could be months.” It’s just one of the many things Graves has fucked with in your mind. Part of you is stuck on the notion that John would leave you without the intimacy, but saying it out loud makes it sound incredibly stupid. His head lifts and he just stares, blinking at you like you’d said the dumbest shit he’s ever heard in his life. Then he laughs. His chest and belly rumble with it, and it makes your face heat from embarrassment. “Hey! Don’t fucking laugh at me, damnit. I’m trying to be serious!” He’s in shambles now, rolling off of you so he can wipe his eyes. It takes a solid couple minutes for him to calm himself, and when he does he leans over to press a kiss to your pouting lips. 

“I don’t love you for the sex, Tempest. If we never had sex again I’d still love you the same. Be a damn shame, though.” You roll your eyes.

“Oh my fucking god. You’re insufferable, you know that?” He chuckles again, settles into your side and kisses at your cheek softly.

“You love me.” Yeah, you really do. You huff, roll your eyes again. But you tuck yourself into his chest and press a kiss to his jaw.

“That I do, John Price.” His palm cradles your cheek, tugging your gaze to meet his.

“My beautiful wife.” The softness in his eyes has you melting into him. There’s so much love in his expression you’re suddenly finding it hard to breathe while your heart swells.

“No more blaming ourselves, John. One man holds all responsibility for this. He’s dead now, and he can’t hurt us anymore.” You say it for the both of you. Saying it out loud helps solidify the notion in your brain, helps ebb the guilt from your chest. You hope it helps with his, too. All responsibility lies in a grave with one person.

[dreamingofaizawa]

Okay but John Price who isn't in the mafia, he's mafia adjacent- maybe he's a contract killer or something. His latest target is some fat, balding politician who is in cahoots with the criminal underworld. It would have been an easy job if it weren't for you, his daughter.

As soon as Price lays eyes on you, the plan changes. With your father out of the picture there will be nobody to keep you safe, and he knows that you won't trust him on principle. But that's alright, nothing he can't fix...

So instead of offing the politician, he exposes him. He gets him on trial and makes sure to comfort you through the proceedings. Sits with you in the audience each day, making sure you've eaten and got home safe.

And if there happens to be an attack that kills your father one day as he takes the stand, that's alright. Price will shepard you to safety. He'll offer to look after you until they can ensure nobody is wanting to kill you, as well. Never can be too safe.

Of course, you'd have no idea that he arranged it all from the beginning. You'd only know that he was a constant, protective presence through the nightmare you'd found yourself living in. And if you did somehow find out and try to escape?

Well, Price has Simon for that. The big ghost man would be more than delighted to frighten you back to John's waiting arms. Because "what a silly girl, trying to run like that. Shh birdie, you're safe now. I've got you, yeah? I'll always be here to keep you safe."

[dreamingofaizawa]

johnny's best friend

Cw: implied but nondescriptive sex scene, mild misunderstanding. Authors Note: I spent a very unreasonable amount of time on this. F!reader X John price

John didn’t mean for it to happen, at least not like this.

Every deployment there is at least one story where Soap mentions her, his lifelong best friend from back home, The quick witted, smart mouthed woman he keeps so close. Everyone by this point had gotten used to this character in every tale from his high school days or childhood memories. She always sounded so funny, clever, clearly able to keep MacTavish on his toes. But it was just that, stories until it wasn’t. 

_______________

John was sitting alone drinking his tea, trying to get a few moments of quiet in the morning before the usual chaos of the day unfolded. Johnny sat next to him, typically chatty like a bird, he was calmer in the early hours of the morning.

“Mornin’ Sergeant” John grunted, not cold, not friendly, just John. The team was good enough mates at this point to understand the difference between John’s usual gruffness and genuine irritation.

“Aye, morning sir.” Soap says leaning his back against the chair, letting his shoulders relax before the day truly began. A beat of silence before he spoke again.

“Lass is comin up this weekend to see mine and Simon’s new house” he informed, John was a smart man, that was an invitation. In truth John had little interest in meeting the sergeant’s little friends, he didn’t think he could handle yet another 20 something year old kid making internet references he didn’t understand.

“Yeah?” John asks, trying to sound at least somewhat interested before he turns down the coming invitation flatly in favor of sitting in his armchair and watching the Telly over the weekend.

“Yeah, we’re going to cook, drink, Kyle’s comin'.” Soap added, Johnny had this special way of making everyone do exactly what he wanted at any given moment with just the right words. His best mates and alcohol? Well you can’t really turn that down even if you kind of want to.

John let out a defeated sigh

“What time?” 

________________

The days that followed were no different than any other day on base, John thought about his job, important and vital. He thought about his hobbies fishing and whisky collecting. And he thought about his desire to get out of going to the Riley/MacTavish house this weekend, he could just not go but then he’d have to endure Soap’s guilt tripping and Simon’s cold glares for bumming out his boyfriend, god they were easier to deal with separately than together. 

Nevertheless, John showed up Friday evening. He walked into the white house, case of beer in hand. His entrance was followed by a string of “hey captain” from Gaz, a “price!” From Soap who’s no doubt already been drinking and a grunt from Ghost. 

“Yeah, yeah.” John waved off the group while heading to the kitchen to set down the case of alcohol when he saw her. He looked up as she entered from the hallway, dear god. 

“Cap, this is the lil shit herself.” Soap announced, she smiled, pretty smile. Fuck.

“Nice to meet you.” The captain smiled at the woman, young, beautiful. The kind of pretty that knocks the wind out of you and leaves you wondering if maybe one kid wouldn’t hurt.

“Yeah, you too.” She smiled again, sat next to Johnny and he was left wondering how the actual hell soap somehow managed to convince that beautiful creature to not only be but to stay friends with him for so many years. 

Truly it wasn’t but half an hour before John had his answer to that burning question. 

“Lass, get daddy another beer.” 

“Ewww Johnathan! Go fuck yerself!” 

Giggling erupted from both of them, she’s him but if he were gorgeous and interesting. John sat with Gaz on the couch, drinking, while Simon cooked in the kitchen and Johnny annoyed the woman he seemed to share a brain link with. 

“Too bad she doesn’t work with us, people don’t tell you to shut up enough.” As soon as the words left his mouth he could see her amused stare. John didn't consider himself a man of wants; he lived alone, unmarried, without family, all by choice. But that didn't mean he never indulged on occasion. And Mary, mother of god if she looks at him like that again his thoughts are going to go sideways fast.

“You know I like you.” The little thing wags her finger towards him, teasing mostly to playfully irritate Johnny.

Throughout the night John watched her, the way she walked, the way she spoke, the way she smiled and laughed. John has a lot of self control, he’s spent years denying himself things he wants because he’s simply just too busy, gone too often, too old. But after the drinks had been flowing, he found himself crossing the living room and sitting next to her on one of the couches.

“Johnny talks about you a lot,” he said trying to make conversation, he does not get nervous easily working the job he does and living the life He’s led,  he has pretty much gotten rid of nerves altogether but the bird is fucking pretty.

“Yeah, talks about you too.” She hums, she’s not sober, none of them were, but out of the group the two of them had probably drank the least.

“How long you stayin for?” Making pleasant small talk has never been his strong suit, but all things considered. He figured he was doing Okay.

“A week or so.” Her sweet voice rang out. As they talked, the conversation got less formal, less awkward, John learned what she did for work, heard snippets from her and Johnny's childhood he'd already heard twice over from Soap. And listened as she spoke about music and art. But it was her recent breakup that really caught his attention.

“Hmm sounds like he didn’t deserve you.” John commented, a passing thought that just slipped past his lips. She looked at him, she smiled.

“Are you flirting with me, John?” he was, he wasn’t sure how Johnny would feel about that if he was well…sober but she didn’t seem like she was complaining.

“I am.”  He spoke calmly, truthfully. He looked at her through his alcohol fueled haze.

“Oh good I was worried I was imagining it” she giggled, he wondered just how mad he thought soap would be if he took the woman who was practically his sister upstairs.

As the conversation continued, he found himself actually unable to shake that thought, found himself considering it. He had ultimately decided that that was not the best idea, to fuck your sergeants, best friend in the guest bedroom of his new house. That was until she announced she was going to turn in, he was going to tell her a polite good night, he really was but then she looked at him the way she did, the pressed lips and eyes gesturing to the staircase, that “aren’t you going to come?” Kind of look. 

The next thing he knew he had her pressed up against the wall, his lips exploring wherever he could get them, doing his best to fiddle with the lock on the door given how poor his hand eye coordination was at the moment. 

He remembers the way her skin felt, the way she smelled, the noises she made. John was not a man who allowed himself much, but she was not a woman that you just get off to, not one who deserved to simply be pleased, she was the kind of woman that you worship like your life depends on it so he did. Soon the worry of what his brother in arms would feel about the situation faded. The only thought occupying his brain was the woman mewling and writhing beneath him.

_____________

When he woke in the morning John looked at the woman slowly blinking awake. To describe the night they shared as anything but fantastic would be a gross understatement, the kind of sex you have that turns into a relationship.

“Hi” 

“Hi” 

Soft, quiet, the calm before the storm that was Johnathan Ryan MacTavish. The walk of shame if you could call it that was simply just two people walking to the kitchen after spending a drunken night at a friend's. 

Of course, the unfortunate part was they couldn’t get away with that, not with Johnny present.

“Price, I didn’t realize you spent the night…I was so…” he looked from the girl to John, back to that pretty thing. Soap has always been a bit of a drama queen.

“YOU HAVE GOT TO BE FUCKIN KIDDING ME!”  

John didn’t necessarily feel guilty per se, he’s a grown man, she’s a grown woman and none of them have ever exactly been known for their strong moral compasses. 

“Oh relax, Johnny!” 

The little bird barked at him, it would’ve been very amusing had it not been for the younger man’s face turning a particularly concerning shade of red.

“Relax! That’s muh fucking boss, Bonnie!” Once you get soap started he doesn’t stop. Ghost looked apologetic immediately, such a calm man to be dating such an immature reactionary kid.

Neither she nor John could get a word in before he began again. It felt like when he was a boy and his father used to yell for any small thing, a grown man of 38 years old being yelled at by his own subordinate.

“He’s at least a decade older than you! Are you insane!” This went on for a while, Johnny asking a question, no one answering simply because he would just start three seconds later with another one. 

“Johnny.” He tried, using his captain voice (or dad voice if we’re telling the truth) but Soap wasn’t stopping. If it were any other person, any other situation, John would not just sit there and take that, but it’s soap.

“Oh Haud yer weesht!” 

You know Johnny is upset when he starts yelling in Scottish slang no one but him even understands. 

“Okay, okay…let’s calm.”

Simon held his hands in the air, a silent look to his boyfriend, a cue that it was time to stop talking. Johnny to his credit did stop talking. 

“John, why don’t you go home.” it wasn’t a demand but rather a silent plea to let Simon deal with his partner, he knew that John would only take that for so long and the last thing they needed when everyone was hungover and running on high emotions was for a fist fight to happen.

“Yeah, yeah alright” 

_________________

The texting began that afternoon, John while not old is not a spring chicken and texting anything but “ok” and a thumbs up emoji embarrassingly takes a small bit of effort from him.

“Hey sorry I got you in trouble with the boss.” An attempt at a joke, though he understood to a point why Johnny was upset.

She is not a woman afraid to be straight up or genuine, this much has been obvious for even the small amount of time he’s known her but even still the immediate and multiple replies still made him feel like a high school age boy with the attention of a pretty girl.

“He’s fine.” 

“Don't worry about it, you did nothing wrong.” 

“I had fun :)” 

She’s technically correct, he did nothing wrong, he didn’t ask how the tension was on her end, felt it best to let her tell him if It was something to write home about. 

“Yeah me too, love.” 

The week drudged on, the weekend came and went and yet rather than spending it like usual, smoking while watching the Telly he instead found himself texting the little birdie. The work week however was not as peaceful, not quite as fun either. 

Johnny was obviously not over it in simply a matter of days, in order to function like a team they have to function like they are a goddamn team. This gets incredibly difficult when your sergeant hardly says more than two words to you the entire week that aren’t “yes, sir” and “no sir.” 

John honestly doesn’t understand how Ghost willingly puts up with him at home. 

“MacTavish.” John spoke Thursday afternoon, prepared to give an order to a man who is, yes, a friend, but also whom he is in charge of, the silence he could handle the attitude? Not so much.

“Yes sir?” Johnny’s words were phrased as a question, but the unmistakable irritation written on his expression was not only pissing John off but making working conditions feel unnecessarily hostile.

The orders were given, the interaction over. By the end of the day. The team all having had plenty to do that day were rightfully tired, John texting his bird, Johnny giving him a glare from across the room. Annoying but not unbearable, it makes sense really why “no fraternizing” rules exist though none of them have ever really listened to orders but it does in fact make sense.

______________

Friday morning John barely walked into the door of his office before Simon was there, mediation no doubt.

“What is it?” A tired sigh left the older man looking over to the masked giant shutting the door to his office.

“Talked to Johnny.” John knew it probably wasn’t work related when Simon shut the door but a guy can hope for some level of professionalism.

“Mmhm” he sat at his desk flipping through the paperwork that all but consumed his life at any given moment.

“I just think you need to talk to him.” He doesn’t say much more, he’s not the talker of the group by any stretch of the word.

John sighs as Ghost leaves. Bloody ridiculous.

Then for the first time that morning, he checked his phone. Birdie.

“Have a good day.” He wasn’t in love with the girl, he’d barely known her a week but dammit having a woman check on him for no other reason than a desire to speak to him. That does things to a guy.

Tea, he needed some caffeine, maybe a cigar. John Made his way through the base with his typical quickness. And of fucking course there was soap. As soon as he walked into the doorway.

“Cap” 

“Soap”

The quiet stare off, each waiting for the other to speak. 

“My office, ten minutes” wasn't up for debate, nor a question of whether he wanted to or not. Johnny would be in his office in ten minutes. And with that, he made his tea.

________________

As Johnny sat in his office the quiet tension between them filled the room. 

“Well?” John asked, a very real demand to let it out, Johnny had been allowed to effectively pout for the last week, John knew him well enough to know he wouldn’t make a scene at work.

“She’s basically my sister.” He muttered 

“I’m aware.” 

“You didn’t ask.”

“She’s grown, I don’t have to ask anyone but most definitely not you.”

They stare for a moment, the issue was neither one of them was entirely wrong. They both knew it but put two bulls in a room together and China is certainly going to be broken.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen…at least not like this.” 

“You were out of line messing with someone so close to me like she doesn’t matter.” Now that comment from soap wasn’t going to stand, John may have had his fair share of little bar flings, soap being used to this fact but they are like brothers, a team. John would never intentionally hurt a woman Johnny loves so much.

“I’m not messing with her, I’d like to take her out but I don’t want to keep getting lip from you about it.” 

Silence, Johnny' s face went from one of quiet rage to one of silent understanding.

“You don’t do that.”

“Not usually, No.” 

________________

Soap’s blessing, as reluctant as it was, gave the two space to explore what they chose without fear of a Scottish crash out. At first John and his little lady saw each other sparingly, she went home after a few weeks and it was simply late night phone calls and “I miss you” texts. But the woman being who she was with the determination she had, moved to England, to “be closer to Johnny.” A blatant lie to cover up the fact that she moved a very considerable distance for a man. 

Johnny was still fussy about the two at first but he grew used to it, going over to the hen's house and there was John, answering the door, calling his best friend to complain about work and there his boss was; coughing like someone’s father in her bathroom.

He may have not loved it but John treated her well, clearly made her happy. The bird likes to recount the tale of the day they got engaged as if it were a horror movie told from Johnny's perspective “and without warning Johnny was blindsided by the evil old man stealing away his bestie! The horror!” The reason for the joke was the pure look of panic on Johnny's face when John asked her to marry him. 

The seasons changed, the years passed, and the second deployment passed with her heavily pregnant. 

Johnny while he tried pulling the “I can’t believe you left your wife to fend for herself.” 

Was immediately met with 

“Your best friend's husband is deployed and you’re not even there to help her through it, a terrible friend really.” 

The hostility turned to jokes, new stories about John’s wife started popping into conversations, the same crazy little thing she had always been.

_____________

The group sat peacefully in the Price family living room, watching footy and each taking turns holding the new baby, Gaz making considerable effort to hold the little girl more than everyone else, food had been ate, the Telly had been yelled at, now the quiet conversation of five of the best friends filled the room. Well, it was peaceful until Johnny.

“Do you guys remember when you defiled my brand new guest bedroom?” 

“Shut up, Johnny.”

CoD Masterlist

[dreamingofaizawa]

PLEASE WHAT

I just had the most John Price-coded interaction ever

Im a cart girl at a golf course and I just pulled up to a group smoking cigars, and as we’re chatting (I’m trying to get tips, okay?) one guy(mid 40’s muscular) saw me looking at his cigar and asked if I smoked, I said no and he asked if I wanted to try, I agreed so he held it for me as I took a puff and chucked as I coughed, then told me I was “too sweet for smoke anyways” and bought a round of drinks.

His friends just kinda looked at him shocked

Anyway John price x cart girl!reader when?

Soon, maybe.

[dreamingofaizawa]

Guess who’s baaaaaaaaack!

[dreamingofaizawa]

On my trip in just two days!!! I’ll be around but I’ve got two full weeks of vacation coming up so updates for any fics are being put on hold. Don’t worry I’ll be back, and my asks are always open. See y’all on the other side!!

[dreamingofaizawa]

I’ve cried after a stressful day at work today. Need to be cradled while I sob and then fucked till I cry some more

Need to be held in big burly arms and be told that I’m a good girl and that he’s so proud of me for not crying after a stressful day at work ;-;

[dreamingofaizawa]

Local Writer Shocked As She Realises Planned 'Short Fanfic' Is Turning Into Multi Chapters Plot Oriented Slow Burn Fanfic

[dreamingofaizawa]

One week until I’m on vacation and I’m very very very excited! Haven’t had a proper break in like…ten years?? And NOW!!! Two whole weeks of nothing but sun and summer and sundresses and new food! Oh I’m so excited for the dresses too, I never get to wear them cause I don’t go out unless I’m working ;-;

[dreamingofaizawa]

You can and should write fanfiction that isn't perfect. You can and should write whatever fanfiction you want. You can and should write fanfiction that brings you joy even if it's silly or goofy or weird.

Except for me. My fanfic has to be perfect and read like a novel and ruin at least one person's sleep schedule.

[dreamingofaizawa]

i know what this situation needs…explicit fanfiction

[dreamingofaizawa]

i am nooooot locked the fuck in. im locked the fuck out. call the locksmith

[dreamingofaizawa]

Need to be held in big burly arms and be told that I’m a good girl and that he’s so proud of me for not crying after a stressful day at work ;-;

[dreamingofaizawa]

Successfully got through a shift where I dropped literally everything, spilled a large drink over the mats and floors, had two massive parties that stayed past closing even though I gave them five minute warnings that we’d be closing the cafe, the lobby had to be swept twice, and we got out late.

ALL WITHOUT CRYING ONCE

Someone be proud of me please

[dreamingofaizawa]

soft target — john price

a/n: here is part one

the school’s quiet now.

the sun’s low, painting everything gold, and you’re locking your classroom door with tired hands and a cardigan pulled tight around your shoulders. the same sundress underneath, just a little more wrinkled now. your flats scuff softly on the pavement as you head toward the bus stop, bag slipping from your shoulder.

and then—

“bit late for the bus, isn’t it, love?”

you freeze.

he’s leaned against a dark car at the curb, sleeves still rolled, cap tilted back slightly. cigar in one hand, half-burned and glowing faint. he looks like he’s been there for a while. watching.

waiting.

you clear your throat. “i’m fine. it’s only a few minutes.”

he hums. takes a drag.

“not safe out here. bus stop’s full of pissheads after five.”

you blink. “i take it every day.”

he exhales smoke slowly, like the words amuse him.

“not dressed like that, you don’t.”

your fingers tighten on your cardigan.

“what’s that mean?”

he flicks the ash off the tip of the cigar, then gives you that slow, maddening once-over.

“floaty little thing like you? sweet voice, soft shoes, not a clue how many blokes’d follow you just to see where you get off.”

you shift on your feet.

“i manage just fine.”

“‘course you do, sweetheart,” he drawls, tone all condescension and heat. “still doesn’t mean you should be out here on your own.”

he nods at the car behind him.

“come on. i’ll drive you.”

you shake your head. “i don’t need—”

“wasn’t askin’.”

the words are quiet. firm. but not unkind. not really.

more like... decided.

you hesitate. bite your lip. you shouldn’t. god, you know you shouldn’t.

but then he opens the door for you, like he already knows you’ll say yes.

“it’s not charity, love,” he adds, almost mockingly. “just not lettin’ a pretty thing like you end up on the evening news.”

your heart hammers.

you get in.

the leather’s cool. smells faintly like him. like cigar smoke and expensive soap.

he walks around the front, slow and unbothered, flicks the cigar into the street with a practiced hand, then slides in beside you and starts the engine.

no music. no small talk at first. just the low purr of the car and the weight of his gaze at red lights.

until finally, he says it.

“didn’t peg you for the bus type.”

you glance at him. “i’m a teacher. not exactly glamorous.”

he scoffs. “could’ve fooled me.”

you blink.

“look like you belong in one of those soft little perfume ads,” he mutters. “all lips and lashes. s’no wonder your class won’t shut up.”

you don’t answer.

his fingers tap the wheel lazily. “bet they’ve all got crushes. boys like that—doesn’t take much. just a smile and a dress.”

“i don’t flirt with my students.”

he smirks.

“never said you did. just said you don’t have to.”

you look out the window. cheeks hot.

“you always talk to teachers like this?” you murmur.

he doesn’t hesitate.

“only the pretty ones.”

the drive is quiet again. only this time there’s music.

not loud—just a low hum from the speakers, something gritty and slow and old. a man’s voice, raspy, drawling about whiskey and war. you don’t recognise it, but you don’t ask either. you figure he already knows that.

he doesn’t look at you while it plays. just taps the wheel in time, lip twitching like he’s in on a joke you’re too young to get.

“not your kind of music, is it?” he says finally, eyes still on the road.

“no,” you admit softly.

he chuckles.

“didn’t think so. you’re more of a... sugar-pop sort, yeah? all pink headphones and love songs?”

you bristle, but only a little. “i listen to plenty of things.”

“mm,” he says, unconvinced. “you ever even heard of tom waits?”

“well… no.”

“figured,” he smirks.

by the time he pulls up outside your apartment, the sun’s almost gone. your building looks worse in this light—weathered and crooked, like it’s sighing from holding itself up.

he looks at it, then at your shoes.

“you live here?”

“...yeah.”

he lets out a breath through his nose. not rude—just surprised.

“jesus, sweetheart. i knew teachers weren’t paid well, but jesus lovie.”

you slide your bag onto your shoulder, already reaching for the handle.

“thanks for the ride.”

but he’s already out of the car.

before you can step out, he’s opening your door for you again—holding out a hand like you’re stepping onto a yacht and not cracked pavement.

you blink up at him.

“i can walk.”

“not in those dainty little things,” he mutters. “look at the state of this lot.”

and then—god—he lifts you.

just like that. arms around your thighs and back, bridal-style, all warm and solid and smug.

“john!” you squeak, clutching his shoulders.

“don’t fuss,” he says, carrying you like you weigh nothing. “not lettin’ you ruin those shoes on my watch.”

you want to argue. you really do.

but then you’re at your door and he doesn’t put you down. not right away.

“keys?” he asks, eyes flicking toward your purse.

you fumble, unlock it with shaking hands.

and instead of handing you over the threshold, like a normal person—

he steps inside.

like he’s invited.

like this is his now.

you’re still in his arms when he glances around.

“cozy,” he says again, same tone as in your classroom.

his voice is quieter here. thicker.

you try to wiggle down. he finally lets you go, setting you gently on the floor like a toy being placed back on the shelf.

you smooth your dress. try to fix your face.

“you didn’t have to come in.”

“wasn’t gonna leave you out there in the dark,” he shrugs, looking at your tiny kitchenette, the stack of books near the couch. “besides, didn’t get my proper tour earlier.”

you give him a look. “this isn’t a tour.”

“sure it is,” he says, moving to lean against your counter like he’s done it a hundred times. “i’ve seen your classroom. now i’m seein’ where you keep your soft little cardigans.”

you cross your arms.

“you’re very confident.”

he grins.

“and you’re very polite for someone lettin’ a stranger into her flat.”

you hesitate. “you’re not a stranger.”

“aren’t i?”

he steps a little closer. your back almost hits the wall.

you don’t answer.

he smiles, slow.

“you should eat somethin’, sweetheart,” he murmurs.

you blink.

“you don’t have to—”

“i know i don’t,” he cuts in gently, brushing a bit of lint from your sleeve like he’s done it before. “but i want to.”

“why?”

“dunno,” he shrugs. “maybe i like takin’ care of soft little things.”