fireya-x - Tumblr blog

fireya-x · 24 days ago

Note

Hi, I love your writing! Could you do one of John Price, on a road trip?

Hi! This turned out to be way longer than I anticipated. But it has lots of fluff and some smut at the end! I hope you like it!♥️

somewhere only we know

【 AO3 Link (full tag list) || masterlist 】 ✦ John Price x Reader ✦ John Price takes you on a road trip through the English countryside - just the two of you, a few pieces of his past, and the unpredictable weather. ✦ 16k words ✦ tags/cw: fluff, road trip, picnic, eventual smut: cunnilingus, blow job, piv sex, creampie, love confessions, aftercare, multiple orgasms

The morning carried rare warmth, a breeze of early summer, a temperature on your skin that made you question whether you were still in England at all.

Being from California, this unexpected tenderness in the air felt like a welcome reprieve from the seemingly endless stretch of grey British skies - an overused cliché, perhaps, but undeniably true. Those stubborn clouds, often thick and unyielding, had lately made you ache with homesickness.

And for once, there was no urgency, no early-morning training sessions, no hurried meetings.

You leaned against the hood of John’s car, stretching your legs in front of you like a cat basking in the warmth of a sunbeam. You’d chosen your outfit fitting for the occasion, trading in your uniform and tactical gear for shorts, a faded band shirt whose letters had long begun to peel, and your favourite pair of boots scuffed from too many miles but perfectly comfortable.

It felt strange, almost too easy, being dressed like this and not feeling the sense of something happening within the next few minutes. No weapons strapped to your thigh - just skin exposed to the warm breeze, sun kissing your bare arms and legs.

A few feet away, John stood near the entrance of the base. He was turned toward Kate Laswell, who spoke quietly to him, her posture precise and authoritative as always.

They were silhouetted against the low sun, and even from here, you could catch snippets of their conversation - the familiar, clipped tone of Kate’s voice, John’s quiet mumbles. He was relaxed, at least by his standards; shoulders a little looser, head inclined slightly as he listened to whatever caution Kate was undoubtedly giving him.

“…just a precaution,” she said as she handed John a tiny device, her sunglasses hiding most of her expression. “I don’t like sending my best out there without at least some kind of communication.”

It looked like a car key at first glance - sleek, black, unremarkable. But the way John turned it over in his hand, thumb grazing the subtle ridge along its side, indicated that he understood exactly what it was. Something to keep a line of communication open, wherever you were.

He gave her a dry look. “You planning on checking in every night, then? Tuck me in, read me a story?”

Kate’s mouth twitched. “Only if you ask nicely.”

John sighed dramatically. “It’s a bloody vacation, Kate -”

“It’s you we’re talking about, John. Trouble follows.”

You watched the exchange, a quiet smile tugging at your mouth. She wasn’t wrong; trouble had a way of finding him, of finding both of you, no matter how far you travelled.

Laswell’s sharp gaze shifted to you. “You sure you’ll survive out there with him? Man barely knows how to relax.”

“I’ve got my ways,” you teased, watching as John gave you a pointed look over his shoulder - one part warning, one part slightly amused.

Kate sighed, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “Just… try to actually enjoy yourselves. Both of you.”

There was a weight beneath her words. One you didn’t need translated. She knew what this job did to people. She knew John couldn’t just switch off , not really. But she also knew he was more likely to try when it was you beside him.

John ran a hand through his hair, a motion that ruffled the shorter strands near his temple. “We’ll manage, Kate.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she murmured with mock annoyance, waving a hand dismissively as she turned on her heel. “Send me a postcard.”

John shook his head, huffing a quiet laugh before he turned slightly, glancing toward the barracks doorway where Ghost stood silently, perfectly still, his posture unmistakably watchful, observing the exchange without expression. For a heartbeat, their eyes met in quiet acknowledgement, and Ghost’s chin dipped slightly.

John returned the nod, and an entire conversation was exchanged in silence before Ghost turned, disappearing back inside without another word.

“Right,” John said, turning toward you. “We should get moving before anyone else has something stupid to say.”

“Too late,” came a familiar voice behind him, and then Soap materialized, grinning like a man with absolutely nothing to lose. “Just try not to ruin her holiday too much, aye, sir?”

“I make no promises,” John deadpanned, rolling his eyes.

Gaz stepped into view next, flashing you a warm, boyish smile. “Have a good one.”

“You’ve earned it,” Soap added, more sincerely this time.

You gave them both a small wave. There was something bittersweet in leaving them behind, even for a day.

Then John turned toward you fully and opened the passenger door with a quiet click. His hand rested casually along the top of the door frame, but his eyes were on you - blue, steady, unguarded in a way that made your breath catch for a second.

He didn’t have to say anything. You stood, brushing imaginary dust from the back of your shorts, and climbed in, the seat warm already from the sun.

He closed the door gently behind you, circled the hood, and slid into the driver’s seat. You watched as he moved - his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing strong forearms, and the button-down shirt was slightly wrinkled at the collar. And today, his shoulders settled a little lower. His jaw was unclenched.

No uniform. No weapon. No rank.

Just John.

The engine came to life beneath you, a reassuring hum. As the gates began to shrink in the rearview, a hush fell over the two of you - easy, companionable. A silence that didn’t press.

“You alright?” he asked eventually, voice low, thumb rubbing along the leather of the steering wheel.

You reached across the console, fingers brushing over his knuckles. “Yeah,” you said. “I’m good.”

The quiet settled between you like an old companion, not awkward or strained but soft-edged, familiar. The kind of silence that didn’t demand to be filled. Only the low hum of tires rolling along the road kept time with the occasional whisper of passing traffic.

Fields unfurled on either side-long, languid stretches of green stitched with hedgerows, dotted with sheep lazily grazing and clusters of wildflowers dancing gently in the breeze.

Your hand rested loosely on your thigh, occasionally brushing his knee as he drove, each touch grounding and familiar. John glanced your way from time to time, the corner of his mouth lifting in a faint, contented smile whenever he caught your gaze lingering.

It wasn’t often you got to see him like this. The version of John Price that existed outside briefing rooms, gunfire, and shadows. The man without the weight of command on his shoulders. Here, in this small pocket of peace, something in him had eased. The lines etched into his brow didn’t look quite so deep. His eyes, though still sharp, seemed slower, less haunted.

The landscape began to shift subtly, the flat farmland giving way to rolling hills that undulated gently beneath the summer light. Trees rose along the ridgelines, full and green, their leaves flashing silver when the breeze curled through them. It all felt like something out of a dream - untouched and timeless.

“Gonna tell me where we’re headed?” you asked eventually, turning to look at him.

His lips curved just enough to make a statement. “No.”

You let out a theatrical sigh, flopping your head dramatically against the seatback. “You know I hate surprises.”

He didn’t answer, but his smirk deepened.

Before you could press again, the road dipped and curved, revealing a village tucked like a secret into the folds of the hills. Your breath caught for a moment. The place looked as though it had been carved straight out of a postcard - red brick cottages with low, sloping roofs, windows framed with climbing ivy and overgrown blooms bursting from flower boxes. Stone chimneys sent up thin curls of smoke despite the gentle warmth of the day, the scent of wood fire mingling faintly with something sweet on the breeze.

The car slowed as John guided it down narrow cobbled lanes, careful of pedestrians strolling with baskets and little dogs on short leashes. You leaned into the window, taking in the storybook charm of the place, as if you could commit it to memory just by staring.

Eventually, he pulled into a small parking area at the village’s edge.

He shifted the gearstick into park, throwing you a look that was half fond, half amused. “Breakfast?”

You stretched like a cat, already reaching for your seatbelt. “Hell yeah.”

He led you through the winding street, past the quiet hum of local life. A girl on a bicycle, a man unpacking crates, a cat sleeping on a sunny windowsill. And then, just ahead - a small café, its pale stone façade decorated with baskets of violet and blue petunias hanging from iron hooks.

John reached for the door and pushed it open, the gentle chime of a bell announcing your arrival.

The interior was warm and honey-coloured, filled with the scents of fresh-baked pastries, butter, and black tea. Every table was different - some round, some square, none matching - but all gleamed with polish, set with mismatched china that somehow suited the place perfectly. Soft chatter drifted from a corner booth where two older women sipped tea, their voices low and companionable.

“Jonathan Price?”

A warm, familiar voice rose above the gentle din. You turned to see an older woman emerging from behind the counter, a flour-dusted tea towel draped over her shoulder, her apron smudged and well-worn. Her white hair was tied neatly back, and her glasses perched precariously on the tip of her nose, eyes bright behind the lenses.

Her face lit up with delight, and you saw something change in John - his shoulders dropping another inch, the line of his mouth easing.

“Margaret,” he said, smiling in a way you didn’t see often. Not the sharp twist of amusement he offered during briefings or the rare smirk in the field. This was gentler. Real. “Been a long time.”

Margaret tutted, stepping forward to cup his face in her flour-dusted hands like a mother scolding her son. “Too long, you stubborn mule. Look at you - wearing something that isn’t soaked in blood and mud. I barely recognized you.”

Then her gaze shifted to you, and her smile only widened. “Ah,” she breathed knowingly. “And this must be the girl he’d never shut up about.”

John made a low, vaguely embarrassed sound, rubbing the back of his neck. You looked up at him with something close to astonishment, and then at her, accepting the outstretched hand she offered you with a smile. “It’s lovely to meet you.”

“Likewise,” she said warmly. Then she leaned in and whispered just loudly enough, “Don’t let him get away with all that stoic soldier crap he loves so much. He’s got a heart under all that gravel.”

You laughed, and when you glanced at John again, his expression was pure, long-suffering affection.

Margaret clapped her hands once. “Right, then. Breakfast?”

“Yes, please,” you said. “Full English for both of us.”

“Good choice.” She gestured toward the tables. “Sit yourselves anywhere.”

As Margaret disappeared back behind the counter, John guided you to a small table near the window. You settled into the sturdy wooden chair, sunlight warming your skin through the glass as he took the seat opposite.

“You came here a lot, then?” you asked, your voice softer now, wrapped in the quiet intimacy of the place.

“Yeah,” he said, settling back in his chair. “Used to stop through when I was younger. Before 141. Before everything got…” He paused, mouth pulling thoughtfully. “More complicated.”

“It’s nice,” you murmured.

He nodded slowly, his eyes tracing over your face, something tender settling into his expression. “Thought you might like it.”

You reached across the table and took his hand, his thumb brushing across your knuckles. It wasn’t grand or dramatic, just simple, real.

“I love it,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

Breakfast arrived soon after, carried by Margaret with the practised grace of someone who had served hundreds of these meals and still cared enough to make each one feel like a gift.

The scent hit first - warm butter, thick bacon crisped at the edges, tomatoes grilled until their skins puckered and split, golden toast still steaming, and a side of eggs cooked perfectly soft.

The tea she poured was strong enough to stand a spoon in; the mismatched cups, painted with delicate roses, reminded you of another time, another place.

The food tasted like comfort, like a childhood memory passed down on a plate.

John ate slowly, savouring each bite as if it might be his last for a while, as if this moment deserved reverence. There was a quietness to the way he moved - composed, like even here, even now, he was still tracing invisible patterns of preparedness into every motion.

You watched him carefully, elbow resting on the edge of the table, cheek leaning against your hand. There was peace in the way he chewed, the way his jaw ticked slightly when something tasted especially good. But his eyes - those eyes never stopped moving. Every time the bell above the door chimed, every time someone new walked past the café window, he subtly recalibrated. Trained vigilance embedded into the very structure of him.

“You’re doing it again,” you murmured, tapping his boot with yours beneath the table.

He looked up, his brow drawing faintly in confusion. “Doing what?”

“Checking the exits. Watching the door.” You nudged him again with your foot, gentler this time.

He paused for a moment, then sighed quietly, offering a faintly sheepish smile. “Habit.”

“I know,” you said gently. “But you promised me you’d try to relax.”

He huffed, shaking his head as he reached for his tea. “I am. This is relaxed.”

You laughed, pointing your fork at him playfully. “Captain Price, I don’t think you even know what relaxed feels like.”

That made his smile twitch into something more genuine. The lines around his eyes eased, and his hand brushed his beard in mock contemplation. “Reckon I’ve forgotten.”

“You should spend more time out here,” you said, glancing around the sunlit room. “I bet this town hasn’t changed much since you were young.”

He looked thoughtful for a moment, then nodded slowly. “Barely at all. It’s comforting, actually.”

He leaned back in his chair, one arm draped casually across the backrest, eyes moving over the café as if seeing more than what was there - like he was looking through time itself. “I used to come here after training,” he said, a thread of nostalgia winding through his voice. “Had this ridiculous old bike - used to ride it out here at sunrise, just for the breakfast. The quiet. Margaret always gave me hell for riding without proper gear.”

You grinned, sipping your tea. “I bet you drove too fast.”

“Only when no one was watching,” he said, mischief glinting in his eyes like sunlight on glass.

You tilted your head, studying him with genuine curiosity. “I bet Margaret knew.”

“Oh, she knew,” he said with a laugh that warmed you to your core. “She always threatened to call my CO, but never did.”

You tried to picture him then - young and wild, wind in his hair, flying down back roads before the world had asked too much of him. There was a sweetness in the image, a version of him you hadn’t met but felt like you knew. “Sounds like you two have some history.”

He glanced over toward the counter, where Margaret moved easily among the teapots and plates, her presence a steady thread through time. “Margaret’s a good woman,” he said. “She’s seen more soldiers pass through here than she cares to count. Always looking after us in her own way.”

The weight in his voice wasn’t heavy - it was grateful. And suddenly, it clicked: this wasn’t just some breakfast stop. This place, this village - it was stitched into his bones.

“You should bring me out here more often,” you said quietly, nudging his boot beneath the table once more.

His gaze met yours, and something flickered in it - something soft, something that made your throat tighten with how much you loved him. “Think I’d like that.”

Margaret returned once more, clearing away your plates and topping off your tea with a knowing, gentle smile.

“Take care of yourselves out there,” she said, eyes settling meaningfully on John.

He nodded, quiet seriousness replacing his smile for just a moment. “We will.”

You stood, stretching briefly as John tucked cash beneath the edge of the teacup despite Margaret’s quiet protest. He nodded a gentle goodbye, then reached instinctively for your hand as you stepped out into the sunlight once more.

The morning had warmed further, sunlight bathing everything in a bright golden glow. The village bustled gently now, streets more alive as locals moved through their familiar routines, pausing to chat or wave.

John turned to you, gently guiding you back toward the car. But before you reached it, you paused, spotting a small, cozy-looking bookshop tucked beneath an overhang, its window filled with colourful covers, stacks of old hardbacks, and worn paperbacks neatly piled in inviting disorder.

You stopped completely, a quiet breath escaping as your eyes widened. “Oh,” you whispered, hand tightening gently around John’s. “You’ve lost me.”

He chuckled, squeezing your hand as he followed your gaze to the bookshop. “Suppose we can spare a few minutes.”

You turned your head to glance at him, brow lifted. “You say that like you have a choice.”

“I don’t, do I?”

“Not even a little.” Your grin curved easily, and you were already pulling him toward the crooked door. “Besides, what’s a proper holiday without a good book?”

He sighed with mock suffering, but the way he let himself be led, the way his eyes never strayed far from your face, betrayed him.

He’d follow you anywhere, as long as you kept looking at him like that.

The inside of the bookshop was a little world of its own, cool and dim after the brightness of the street. A bell chimed quietly as you stepped through the narrow door, the air filled with the comforting scent of old paper and polished wood. Shelves stretched from floor to ceiling, laden with worn hardcovers and well-loved paperbacks; each spine cracked gently from repeated reading.

You let go of John’s hand reluctantly, stepping further into the space with quiet reverence. Your fingers brushed gently along book spines as you moved down the first aisle, each title whispering quiet invitations, promising stories you could lose yourself in for hours.

Behind you, John moved quietly, his boots creaking against the ancient wooden floorboards. He didn’t wander far. He never did. He stayed within sight, settling near the corner shelves lined with military history and biographies, books he’d probably read a dozen times already.

You glanced over at him occasionally as you browsed, smiling softly at how utterly at ease he looked in this quiet place. Away from base, from the weight of command, John stood differently - his posture less rigid, one hand comfortably tucked into his pocket, the other occasionally reaching out to pluck a familiar book from the shelf, flipping through the pages like revisiting old memories.

“Anything good?” you teased gently, stepping closer to him, your shoulder brushing lightly against his.

John held up a thick volume detailing some obscure historical battle, smirking lightly. “Depends on your definition of ‘good.’”

You leaned over further, catching a glimpse of dense text and dry maps, and made a face. “Looks riveting.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “Don’t know why I expected anything else from you.”

“At least I’ve got good taste,” you murmured, giving his hip a playful nudge with yours as you moved past him.

“You certainly do,” he responded dryly, eyes tracking your movement with quiet amusement.

You returned to the fiction section, a slim volume catching your eye - a weathered copy of old English poetry, its cover a faded shade of blue, the title barely visible from years of careful handling. Flipping through its pages gently, you felt something shift in your chest. This was exactly the sort of thing you’d hoped to find - quiet, intimate, beautifully worn by time.

When you returned to the front of the shop, John had already made his way there as well, holding a thick military biography beneath one arm. His eyes found yours the moment you stepped into view, and they softened when they landed on the slender blue book in your hand.

“Found something, did you?”

You nodded, holding up the poetry book with a shy smile. “Something for quiet nights by the fire.”

You placed the poetry book on the counter, reaching for your wallet. But John’s hand settled over yours, stopping you quietly. He paid before you could protest, sliding both books across the polished wood toward you.

“John - ” you started.

He cut you off gently, giving you a quiet, affectionate look. “Let me.”

Your heart tugged softly in your chest, warmth spreading slowly through you. “Thank you,” you whispered.

The bell chimed again as you stepped back onto the street, sunlight spilling warm across your shoulders. You tucked the book gently into your bag, catching John’s quiet smile from the corner of your eye. He nudged you lightly with his elbow, guiding you toward the car parked just up the lane.

As you climbed back into your seat, the warmth of the sun had already seeped through the windshield, filling the interior with the comforting scent of leather and the faint aroma of coffee that lingered from earlier. John settled behind the wheel, rolling his shoulders slightly before glancing your way with that familiar, quietly amused look.

You narrowed your eyes playfully. “You still haven’t told me where we’re headed, you know.”

He smirked slightly, starting the engine and pulling smoothly back onto the road. “And ruin the surprise? Not a chance.”

You sighed dramatically, stretching out your legs and feigning impatience. “You realize I do this for a living, right? Gathering intel, extracting secrets from stubborn people.”

John raised an eyebrow, glancing at you briefly before returning his gaze to the winding country road. “Good luck extracting it from me, love.”

“I have my ways,” you teased, settling comfortably into the seat and angling your body toward him. “I’ll guess.”

He chuckled, clearly humouring you. “Give it your best shot.”

You tapped your fingers against your knee in thought, eyes flicking to the curve of the road ahead. “Lake District?”

“Nope.”

“Hmm…” You tilted your head, drawing the word out. “Yorkshire Dales?”

He shook his head, lips twitching.

“Cornwall?”

“Not even close.”

“You’re enjoying this too much,” you complained playfully, nudging his thigh gently with your knee. “You’re a cruel man, John Price.”

You waited a minute. Two. Let the silence stretch just enough to lull him into thinking you’d let it go. Then -

“Alright - give me a region. North? South?”

He exhaled, jaw tightening slightly like he was holding back a laugh. “You’re relentless.”

You grinned. “You didn’t know that before now?”

“I knew,” he muttered, still refusing to look at you. “Didn’t know you could be this mouthy when you want something, though.”

You turned in your seat, brows raised, voice dipped low and sweet. “You didn’t mind my mouth last night.”

That did it.

His grip on the wheel tightened, knuckles flashing white for a heartbeat. His jaw ticked, a slow drag of tension down his neck. You could see it in his posture - the sudden stillness, the sharp line of his focus. And for a second, you felt the way the air shifted around him, thickening with that low, simmering edge of control he rarely let slip.

“Careful,” he murmured, voice roughened now, the grit in it rolling through you like a shiver.

You smiled to yourself, satisfied. But you were no closer to your answer.

“So?” you asked sweetly, resting your hand casually on your thigh, thumb tracing idle patterns into the fabric of your shorts. “You gonna tell me?”

“No.”

You let out an exaggerated sigh, leaning your head against the window and watching the fields slip past. “You’re unbelievable.”

There was a pause. You could feel him look at you out of the corner of his eye. And then -

“Why don’t you beg for it? Like last night ?”

Your head whipped around so fast your neck popped. “Jesus Christ, John.”

He raised a brow, expression unreadable but smug. “You started it.”

You reached over to swat his arm, but he caught your wrist midair, strong fingers wrapping around your forearm before you could make contact. He didn’t flinch. Just pulled your hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss to your knuckles - soft, deliberate, final.

The matter was closed.

You huffed and turned back to the window, heart pounding despite yourself, the heat from his lips still lingering on your skin. The road unspooled ahead, quiet now except for the hum of the engine and the sound of your own breath.

He didn’t say anything else. Just let the silence settle again, calm and unbothered.

At least he let you pick the radio station.

The road narrowed the further south you drove, winding between thick hedgerows and tall trees that reached across the lane like they were trying to hold hands. The car dipped into cool patches of shade and out again, sunlight filtering through branches in flashes that played across the dashboard and your legs like a slow, flickering rhythm.

You didn’t ask where you were anymore. You just watched him drive, his focus sure, one hand resting easy on the wheel, the other always drifting back to you.

Sometimes, his palm rested against your thigh; other times, his fingers curled just under the hem of your shorts, warm and idle, like he couldn’t help himself. Like he didn’t want to.

When the sign for Burford came into view, your spine straightened just a little. You recognized the name, if only from postcards and wistful stories.

As the car descended the hill into the heart of the village, the world tilted subtly, like falling into a dream. Warm stone houses lined the slope, their windows overflowing with tangled vines and blooms. The rooftops were uneven and lovely, weathered by centuries of sun and rain. People moved unhurriedly down the pavement, their canvas bags swinging gently at their sides.

It was unfairly beautiful. The kind of place that made you want to write letters again. The kind of place you wanted to get lost in.

John eased the car into a gravel lay-by near the center of the village, the tires crunching as he shifted into park. You stepped out into the warmth and were immediately wrapped in the scent of lavender, warm stone, and something faintly sweet - fresh bread or pastries, maybe, drifting in from a nearby bakery.

He came around the car to meet you, close enough that your arms brushed when you turned to take it all in.

“Still annoyed I didn’t tell you?” he asked, glancing at you sideways, that dry note threaded through something gentler beneath.

You slid your hand into his, the fit easy, known. “A little,” you admitted, then leaned in, brushing your shoulder against his chest. “But I’ll get over it.”

He pressed a kiss to your temple, not saying a word.

The sound of the village settled gently around you - birds calling from a nearby tree, the distant clink of teacups from a café patio, a soft breeze whispering through the hanging baskets.

You felt his thumb stroke over your hand again.

“We’ve got the whole day,” he said. “Where do you want to start?”

You gave his hand a gentle squeeze, then tugged him forward. “Somewhere charming. Somewhere that’ll make me want to spend too much money on things I don’t need.”

“So... every shop on the high street, then?” he muttered, following without resistance.

The main road through Burford sloped gently downhill, lined with crooked little shops that looked like they hadn’t changed in centuries-old wooden signs, arched doorways, and glass panes slightly warped with age. The stone glowed warm under the sunlight, the whole place humming with quiet life and slow footsteps on cobblestones.

You paused at the first shop window, eyes lighting up. “Look! Antiques.”

“God help me,” John murmured behind you, but there was no bite in it - just that warm, familiar exasperation that came from loving someone exactly as they were.

You ducked into the shop ahead of him, the bell on the door jingling gently. Inside, it smelled like dust and beeswax and old wood, with shelves stacked in organized chaos - ceramic teacups with faded rims, worn books, little brass trinkets and lopsided oil paintings. It was the sort of place where time felt slower, where everything had a story, even if no one knew it anymore.

You wandered through the narrow aisles, your fingers trailing along shelves until you found it.

A tiny porcelain bear. Hand-painted. One paw cracked and glued back on. You turned it in your hand, smiling at its slightly crooked little face.

John appeared at your side, raising a brow. “That what you’re walking away with?”

“It’s got personality,” you said, cradling it protectively.

He gave it a long look. “Looks like it’s seen some shit.”

“Exactly,” you mocked. “It reminded me of you.”

He rolled his eyes, but you caught the twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“What?” You held it out for him to see. “A bit too serious. Rough around the edges. Definitely growls when poked.”

A low, amused breath escaped him, but his brow furrowed slightly as he reached for his wallet. “Go on, then,” he sighed, “Add it to the collection.”

You stepped back immediately. “Nah-ah. I’m buying this one.”

He opened his mouth. His hand stilled. “You don’t have to -”

“I want to,” you said firmly, eyes meeting his.

The shopkeeper wrapped the little bear in brown paper, tying it with care and a loop of twine. You slipped it into your bag, the shape cradled against the spine of your poetry book, and when you stepped out into the sunlight again, your hand found John’s as if drawn there by gravity.

The rest of the shopping trip passed in the kind of dazed, sun-drunk contentment that made you forget to look at the time. You ducked in and out of crooked old storefronts selling hand-poured candles, paused to smell bars of lavender soap and read vintage postcards. He lifted you down from a low stone wall after you clambered up to get a better view of the swans on the river. You stole a sip of his lemonade. He brushed windblown hair from your cheek. And at some point, you stopped thinking about the road ahead and let yourself exist in the moment, in the village, in the warmth of his presence beside you.

“I’m starving,” you said eventually, your voice low with laughter, your bag now heavier with keepsakes you didn’t need but couldn’t resist.

“Let’s fix that,” he murmured and reached for your hand again like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And so you did.

Lunch was under dappled sunlight, seated at a weathered iron table set with chipped blue china and a small vase of wildflowers. The café patio overlooked the river, and everything felt soft - a quiet conversation from nearby tables, the occasional gust of warm wind tugging at the edges of your napkin, and the rich aroma of garlic and lemon drifting from the kitchen.

You passed plates back and forth without thinking and stole bites from each other’s forks like it had always been your table. He let you talk - about the village, about nothing, about your life before you moved across the sea. And you watched him grow quieter as the hours unfolded, not closed off but unwinding a little, his tension bleeding away with every lazy sip of tea.

His eyes didn’t squint so tightly in the sun now. His jaw eased between words. He touched your wrist with the back of his fingers without noticing.

He looked like someone you wanted to grow old with. Not because he was strong or clever, but because he looked - right then - like someone who could be still. Who wanted to be still, if only beside you.

When the bill came, you reached for it instinctively, but he was faster.

You gave him a look. He returned it, placid. “Don’t start.”

You rolled your eyes but let him win. This time.

John opened your door for you again because, of course, he did, and you slid into the passenger seat with a satisfied sigh. The heat of the day had soaked into the sun-baked leather, wrapping around you like a blanket still warm from someone else’s skin. You tossed your bag into the back, the little paper-wrapped bear inside rattling gently as it settled, and leaned your head back against the seat.

As he settled behind the wheel, you turned toward him, nudging his shoulder with the edge of your hand. “So... what’s next?”

He smirked, adjusting the mirror. “You’ll see.”

“You really are proud of yourself for all this secrecy, aren’t you?”

“A bit,” he admitted, then glanced at you. “But mostly, I like watching you try to figure it out.”

“You’re so annoying.”

“Don’t hear you complaining much usually,” he said, and there was that tone again - dry, amused, warm in a way that reached behind your ribs and curled there.

The road out of the village dipped gently into the hills. As they drove on, the charm of the town gave way to broader views - open fields rolling into clusters of trees, stone fences winding along the edges like ancient veins. It was quieter out here. Older, somehow. The kind of quiet that you couldn’t find in cities or even on base. It had weight.

“You’ve done this drive before,” you said, breaking the comfortable silence as he took a turn with smooth, unconscious ease.

He didn’t look at you, but something in the shape of his mouth softened. “Yeah.”

“With someone?”

“No.”

You waited.

“This stretch,” he said, quieter now, “was part of my old route home. Back when I was stationed inland. Young. Stupid. Used to take the long way just to clear my head.”

He glanced out the window, like he could still see it the way it was back then. “There’s a farm up past that rise,” he nodded toward a low hill ahead. “Used to stop there. They sold jam out of a shed. Honest-to-God best blackberry I’ve ever had.”

You turned your head to look at him fully, studying the profile of his face - the set of his jaw, the way the late light cut along his temple and cheek. This wasn’t the kind of story he told often. Which meant he wanted you to have it. Wanted to hand over little pieces of himself in this quiet, private way he had.

“You think it’s still there?”

He shook his head, eyes on the road. “Doubt it. Probably turned into a car park or a bloody Airbnb by now.”

“Bet I could find you something that’s just as good,” you said, reaching over to brush your fingers against his forearm.

He glanced at you, and for a moment, the look in his eyes made your breath catch - tender, unguarded, with that glint of something else behind it.

“You already did,” he murmured.

You didn’t say anything to that. Just let the words settle around you, warm and steady.

The next village came into view slowly - a scatter of houses and old stone walls nestled into the dip of a hill, a medieval church rising at its centre like a crown. You passed through without stopping, just long enough for John to point out the spot where his old motorbike had once broken down.

“Tried to fix it myself,” he said, clearly amused. “Made it worse. Some old bloke gave me tea and let me use his phone. Didn’t ask why I was half-soaked and cursing a Yamaha like it owed me money.”

You laughed, picturing it too easily. “Bet he figured it out.”

“Probably.”

The sun had shifted now, beginning its slow descent into the western sky. The light turned warmer, even more golden, the shadows longer. The world felt like it was holding its breath - suspended in that magic hour between afternoon and evening where time bent, stretched, softened.

“We’ll stop soon,” he said.

And you didn’t ask. Not this time.

Because you were starting to understand that none of this - none of it - was random. Every bend in the road, every village, every story he chose to share or not share, every glance he gave you when he thought you weren’t looking... it all meant something.

He wasn’t just driving you through the countryside.

He was showing you the map of who he used to be.

And maybe, just maybe, letting you draw your own name across it.

Bourton-on-the-Water was almost too idyllic to be real. Narrow stone bridges arched over a gently moving stream that wound through the centre of the village, its surface catching the daylight like glass. You wandered together along the edge of the river, passing beneath willows that trailed their fingers in the water, your hand tucked securely in his.

A small ice cream stand stood beneath a wide green awning. Without a word, John stepped into line and returned minutes later with a cone in each hand - yours swirled with vanilla, his a classic chocolate.

“You’re finally really leaning into this holiday thing,” you murmured as he handed it over.

He just gave a quiet, satisfied grunt and licked a stripe down his own like it was instinct.

You sat together on a low stone wall beneath a tree, watching the slow drift of people passing by - families with strollers, couples laughing in quiet corners.

The world felt far away here. Smaller. Slower. A child threw breadcrumbs to ducks, and John watched with a look you couldn’t quite name - something wistful, maybe, like he was remembering a version of himself that belonged in a place like this.

You just leaned into him until his arm came around your shoulders, slow and automatic, pulling you gently against his side. His fingers found the curve of your arm and rested there.

You stayed like that until the cones were nearly gone, and then you wandered again.

Bibury came next, as if the day still had more to give.

Arlington Row slouched peacefully beneath the warm light, its ancient stone cottages leaning into one another like old friends. Geraniums spilt from deep windowsills, and vines traced their way up the weathered walls, curling into cracks and corners as if they belonged there.

The gravel path crunched beneath your feet as you walked side by side, John’s thumb lazily hooked through a belt loop of your jeans as if tethering you to him.

“That one there’s been standing since the 14th century,” he murmured, nodding toward a cottage with warped glass windows and a door only just tall enough for him. “No central heat, but it probably still costs more than my flat.”

You snorted.

By the water’s edge, you crouched to feed the ducks with a few leftover crumbs from a café stop earlier. He hung back at first, arms crossed, a practised look of detachment on his face - but he still dropped to a crouch beside you when one waddled closer, the corner of his mouth twitching as it snatched the bread from your hand. When you glanced over, he was pretending not to smile.

You stopped at a low stone wall overlooking a wide green pasture. Sheep dotted the hillside in clusters, grazing lazily, framed by slanting light that gilded every blade of grass in gold.

You leaned your arms on the warm stone, and after a moment, he stepped beside you.

His voice, when it came, was softer than before.

“Came here once. Before I deployed.”

You turned your head, watching the side of his face. “By yourself?”

He nodded, gaze fixed on the field. “Didn’t know where else to go. Just needed something still. Something quiet.”

You reached out without hesitation and slid your hand into his, where it hung between you. “Did it help?”

His eyes stayed on the fields. “Yeah. It did.”

There was a long pause.

Then he looked at you - not with his usual heat or guarded affection, but with something deeper, like he saw something in you that could anchor him. Like he was letting you see all the parts that didn’t get to live on base.

“I’m glad I get to see this version of you,” you said. “The one who knows where to find quiet.”

He didn’t respond right away. Just squeezed your hand gently, his thumb moving over your knuckles once, then again.

Later, as the sky deepened to dusk, you found a small inn tucked off a side lane just outside of town. The sign out front swung gently in the breeze, and the windows glowed warm with firelight and amber lamps. The woman at the front desk welcomed you with a smile.

Dinner was slow and comforting - plates of roast chicken and rosemary potatoes, crusty bread with soft butter, wine poured by the fire. You sat tucked into a corner booth near a wide hearth, John’s knee pressed into yours beneath the table, your shoes resting side by side.

He let you finish most of his dessert.

You teased him for it, and he only shrugged. “Don’t like sweet much these days.’ Cept you.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart didn’t.

Upstairs, the room smelled faintly of old wood and soap. The windows were small but opened wide to let in the night breeze. You dried your face with a towel, then dug through your overnight bag for something to sleep in - only to pause, your hand brushing over fabric that wasn’t yours. You pulled out one of his shirts and slipped it on without a second thought. It was comfortable and worn and heavy with the scent of him.

The bath steamed gently in the corner of the bathroom, the sound of the water settling into the porcelain mingling with the low creak of floorboards beneath your bare feet. The inn room was small and warm, walls dimly lit by a single lamp and the flickering amber glow from the hallway sconce bleeding in under the door.

John stood near the basin, bare-chested now, belt undone and jeans riding low on his hips. He moved slowly, like he hadn’t quite convinced himself it was okay to be still. You watched as he rolled his shoulders back, the subtle tension still visible even in his quiet.

You stepped behind him, your fingers ghosting over the thick muscle of his shoulder blades, tracing down the familiar lines of scars and sun-warmed skin.

“Get in,” you said softly.

He glanced back at you, brow raised slightly. “You getting in with me?”

You shook your head. “Nope.”

That earned you a faint smirk, tired but amused. “Bit unfair.”

“I’m washing you,” you said, pressing a kiss between his shoulder blades. “Now sit down and let me spoil you for once.”

He didn’t argue.

The water shifted as he lowered himself in with a grunt, the heat drawing a low groan from his throat that made your stomach flutter. He stretched his legs, one arm resting along the edge of the tub, the other submerged, hand absently skimming the water’s surface. Steam curled around his face, softening the hard lines of his jaw and cheekbones.

You perched on a low stool beside the tub. You dipped the sponge into the water, wrung it out slowly, and started to drag it gently over his chest.

“I forgot what quiet feels like,” he said after a moment, voice low and rough.

You kept your movements slow, the sponge gliding over his collarbone. “You’ve earned it.”

“Don’t know what to do with it.”

You looked up at him, and the way his eyes dropped just slightly made something in your chest ache.

You cupped water in your hands and let it pour over his shoulders, watching it cascade down his skin. The years showed there - faint lines, old bruises that never healed right, the pale marks of blades and bullets and things that tried to take him out but never quite succeeded.

“I always used to come out this way,” he said after a while, voice drifting like the steam around you. “When things got too loud. I’d find a place like this - cheap room, woods nearby, no one to answer to. Walked until I forgot what day it was.”

You ran the sponge gently over his arms, tracing the grooves of old muscle, the raised edge of a scar near his elbow. “Alone?”

He nodded. “Always.”

You reached for the soap - plain, handmade, wrapped in brown paper with a little rosemary sprig tucked under the twine. You worked it into a soft lather and smoothed it over his chest, your fingertips working through the fur on his chest, drawing invisible paths across him.

He closed his eyes briefly, like the heat, the scent, and your touch had finally started to crack something open.

“I didn’t mind it then,” he murmured. “Didn’t have anyone to miss. Didn’t have to explain why I disappeared for days. No one to disappoint.”

Your hands slowed. The question slipped out quieter than you meant. “You really think that’s how it is with me?”

His eyes opened and met yours. There was something raw in them - unguarded.

“No,” he said after a long pause. “That’s the thing, isn’t it?”

“What is?”

“Now I couldn’t just disappear anymore,” he said. “Not like I used to. Not for days. Not even for hours.”

He looked down at your joined hands, the way your skin fit against his like it belonged there.

“Because now I’d miss you.”

Your throat ached with how simply he said it.

“I don’t know how to sit still,” he murmured, eyes still on your hand. “Not properly. Not without looking over my shoulder, not without waiting for the next call, the next mission, the next loss.”

You traced his forearm with your free hand, sliding the sponge slowly across the worn terrain of his body.

“But you make it easier,” he said. “Being here with you... you slow things down. You make the silence feel like something I can stand.”

You smiled faintly, thumb brushing over the back of his hand. “That’s the idea.”

His eyes flicked to you then - tired, searching, full of that flickering thing he didn’t let anyone else see.

“I’ve seen a lot of ugly things,” he said. “Done worse. Buried parts of myself I didn’t think I’d ever want to dig up again. But this -” He gestured with a small tilt of his chin, to the room, to the bath, to you kneeling beside him in a shirt that smelled like him - “this feels like something I never thought I’d have.”

You leaned in and pressed a kiss to his temple, slow and grounding. He turned slightly into it.

“You’ve got it now,” you whispered against his skin. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

He didn’t answer. Just closed his eyes and brought your hand to his lips, kissed your knuckles gently, then pressed your palm against his chest, right over the constant thrum of his heart.

You kept washing him after that - quietly, gently. Over his ribs, down his arms, along the slope of his back where the scars lived thickest. He let you. Said nothing else for a while. Just sat there and let himself be cared for.

For the first time in days - maybe weeks - his body truly relaxed.

And when he finally rose, towelling off his face and shoulders, he stopped in front of you without saying a word.

His gaze dropped to the way his shirt hung off your frame, damp, shoulder bare.

He stepped forward, close now, and reached for the collar, tugging it gently into place with a gentle touch, fingertips brushing your collarbone. His knuckles lingered against your skin.

You looked up at him, breathing slowly.

He leaned down, not in a rush, not to claim - just to meet you. His mouth brushed yours once, then again, lingering. It wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t hungry. It was the kind that threaded through your bones and softened everything it touched.

When he finally pulled back, his hands found your thighs, and he lifted you - slow and sure like you weighed nothing. You wrapped your arms around his neck, forehead resting against his, a quiet laugh escaping you, breath warm between kisses against his jaw.

And he carried you to bed.

The bed wasn’t large, but it didn’t need to be. You lay with your legs tangled in his, your hand on his chest, the beat of his heart loud beneath your palm.

“Do you ever miss it?” you asked carefully. “Before all this?”

“Sometimes.” His fingers traced slow, absent lines along your shoulder. “But then I remember what it was like not knowing what I wanted.”

“And now?”

He looked at you - and in the dim light, something passed over his face. Not a smile, not quite. Something deeper. Brief, soft, certain.

“Now I know.”

You stayed like that for a long time. No television. No interruptions. Just the hush of breath and the warmth of skin, the hum of quiet between words. Everything suspended in the old quilt’s weight, in the creak of the inn settling around you, in the way your bodies curved toward each other like they’d always belonged there.

Morning crept in slow , filtered through the old curtains in streaks of light that pooled across the wooden floor. You stirred to the sound of birdsong outside the open window - no alarms, no clatter of boots or distant engines. Just the rustle of trees and the low creak of floorboards as someone shifted in bed beside you.

John was already awake, propped on one elbow, watching you.

“You stare a lot,” you murmured, voice still thick with sleep.

“Only when I’ve got a good view,” he replied, brushing a thumb along your jaw.

You closed your eyes again for a moment, letting the softness of the morning wrap around you. There was no rush to move. Just the slow awareness of warm sheets, sore thighs, and the rise and fall of his chest beneath your palm.

Eventually, you both rose - leisurely, without speaking much. You washed your face, pulled on clean clothes, and wrapped the poetry book from the day before in a sweater to protect it. He was already half-dressed as you came out of the bathroom, and you watched the way the morning light caught in his beard and traced the planes of his chest beneath the thin fabric.

He looked... quietly stunning like that. Not just because he was beautiful but because he looked peaceful.

“You always this slow in the mornings?” he asked, adjusting the strap of his watch as you slipped on your shoes.

“Only when I’m happy.”

That earned you a smile.

You left the inn with warm cups of takeaway coffee and a paper bag passed to you by the innkeeper - flaky pastries filled with cream and thick jam, their tops dusted in sugar that stuck to your fingertips and your lips. You licked it away with a lazy kind of joy that made John glance at you once, shake his head, and steal a bite.

The drive south cut through a quieter patch of the countryside. Wide stretches of rolling land opened up on either side of the road, golden with wildflowers and tall grasses. As the car moved, you let your hand drift out the open window, fingers slicing through the warm air.

“Where are we headed now?” you asked, more out of habit than expectation.

He gave you a sidelong glance. “You really trying it again?”

You smiled and let it drop, resting your feet on the dash and nibbling on the edge of your pastry, happy to let the scenery unwind around you.

The signs changed again - Wiltshire this time - and soon, the land began to shift subtly beneath your wheels. Low, grassy mounds. Clusters of ancient stones scattered across fields. There was something ancient in the air here. Something older than anything either of you had carried into the car.

Avebury came into view slowly, almost without notice. The stones didn’t rise dramatically - they simply appeared, scattered across the grass like they’d always belonged there.

You stepped out of the car slowly, the breeze lifting your hair, the scent of earth and chalk thick in the air.

“Oh,” you breathed.

John came around the hood of the car and stood beside you, arms crossed, eyes narrowed slightly.

“It’s not as flashy as Stonehenge,” he said.

“It’s better,” you murmured, and you meant it.

You wandered the grass in easy steps, passing between towering stones that seemed to hum with their own gravity. Some tilted, others stood tall.

You kicked off your boots halfway through the walk and went barefoot, toes sinking into the grass, the soil still damp from dew.

John gave you a look somewhere between amused and deeply sceptical. “Didn’t realize we were reenacting some Druid ritual.”

You grinned over your shoulder. “Come on, live a little.”

He shook his head but followed anyway, boots crunching quietly as he walked behind you.

Near the centre of the circle, you paused, hand resting against one of the stones, fingers spread across its cool, weathered surface.

“Do you ever think about how long these have been here?” you said, softly now. “Like… what they’ve seen. What they’ve outlasted.”

John came to stand beside you, his shoulder brushing yours.

“Not really,” he admitted. “But I think about how many people came out here looking for something.”

You glanced at him. “What are you looking for?”

His gaze stayed on the horizon. “Right now? A woman who puts her boots back on, so I don’t have to carry her to the car.”

You let out a breath - half laugh, half sigh - and the grin that pulled at your mouth betrayed how easy it was to love him in moments like this.

He kissed you there - slow and sudden, just a brush of his mouth against yours with the old stone at your back and the wind all around.

You didn’t say anything afterwards. Just looked at him. And then you raised your phone.

He protested, mildly. You ignored him.

The photo you took caught him leaning casually against one of the taller stones, arms folded, eyes narrowed in that particular way of his - equal parts gruff and patient. The sun caught just behind him, outlining his profile in a flare of light that softened everything.

You knew you’d look at it later and feel like you could still hear the wind moving through the grass. Still feel the cold stone beneath your hand.

Still feel the moment he looked at you like you were the only thing in the world he trusted to stay.

Marlborough stretched out like a storybook - its wide, high street flanked by elegant Georgian buildings and crooked, timber-framed shops, bunting fluttering lazily overhead, as if the town were perpetually in celebration.

You wandered through the market slowly, hand in hand, the scent of sun-warmed produce, crushed herbs, and freshly baked bread thick in the air. You’d surely find everything for a proper picnic.

It was livelier than the quiet villages you’d visited the day before. Stall owners called out greetings in broad accents; locals browsed with wicker baskets on their arms, and dogs dozed under tables. It was everything you’d imagined the countryside might be - but fuller, deeper somehow, because he was beside you, pointing things out like he’d been here in another life.

Maybe he had.

You paused at a bakery stall and picked out two crusty rolls still warm from the oven, passing one to John without a word. He took it with a hum of approval, bit off the end, and kept walking. He didn’t let go of your hand.

Then you saw it.

Tucked between jars of chutney and curd, beside hand-painted labels and gingham lids, it sat like a memory trapped in glass: blackberry jam. Just blackberry. Not spiced, not swirled, not infused by lavender or clove. Deep and dark and honest.

You picked it up carefully, cradling the jar as if it were something delicate, your fingers brushing over the handwritten label and the wax-sealed lid.

Without saying anything, you stepped closer to him and held it up.

John blinked. Then, he took it from you slowly, eyes fixed on the jar like it had slipped straight from his past into the palm of his hand.

“Is that one?” you asked, voice quiet - teasing on the surface but gently curious underneath.

He turned it over once, then again. “It’s damn close.”

You watched him - really watched him - and your heart caught. For a flicker of a moment, he wasn’t the Captain.

He was young.

He was young, standing in front of a jam stall with the sunlight warming his hair, and you could see it - the boy he must’ve been. Something tender flickered across his face. Small. Honest. A joy that wasn’t sharp or hidden, but simple and startling in its purity.

And you loved him for it. Not just for the man he was now - but for the boy who still lived quietly inside him. For the version of him that still got wide-eyed over jam in a market on a summer morning.

“You’re excited,” you said, stepping closer.

He snorted, low and embarrassed, already trying to tuck it away. “It’s just jam.”

“No,” you whispered. “It’s not.”

He moved on to the cheese stand, mumbling something, and while he wasn’t looking, you paid for the jam and tucked it into your bag.

You caught up to him, and he glanced over as you slipped your arm through his.

“Got everything?”

“Everything we need,” you said.

John turned the car toward the road, the trunk filled with food and wine and your shoes discarded beneath the dash.

You rested your feet on the edge of the seat and looked at him. “You know,” you said gently, “it’s a good thing I’m already in love with you. Because the way you looked at that jam? I might’ve fallen all over again.”

His ears pinked slightly at that - just enough to make you smile.

“You’re insufferable,” he muttered.

You leaned over, kissed his shoulder, and whispered, “You love it.”

The road narrowed to a ribbon of pale gravel that wound through low hedges and open meadows, the afternoon sun warming everything in a way that made it feel suspended in time. You’d left the last village behind a few turns ago, and now there was nothing but the soft rise and fall of the North Wessex Downs ahead - lush grass rolling under the breeze, dotted with wildflowers and the occasional stubborn sheep chewing lazily in the distance.

John slowed the car, scanning the landscape like he already knew what he was looking for. “Let’s walk from here,” he said. “Find a nice spot.”

He pulled off the road, parked under the shade, and popped the trunk.

He pulled off the road and killed the engine beneath the crooked shadow of a small tree. The breeze that met you when you stepped out was warm, carrying the smell of sun-warmed grass and dry stone. He popped the trunk, and you helped gather the blanket, the clinking bottles, the wrapped bread, cheese, and fruit.

You walked for a while. You didn’t keep track of the time - mostly because you were too busy teasing him for being slow, for grumbling about the wine bottle weighing down his arm, for pretending to scowl every time you skipped a little ahead barefoot. He let you go on, quiet behind you, only occasionally rolling his eyes when you looked back.

Then he saw it.

“Over there,” he said, nodding toward a gentle slope that curved into a broad, open hollow - half-shadowed by a lone oak tree that leaned slightly westward, branches sprawling like a crooked crown. Beneath it was a patch of even grass and wildflowers freckled between the blades like fallen confetti.

You walked down the slope together, boots in hand, laughter carried off by the breeze. The world stretched wide around you, endless and green.

And when you reached the tree, John lowered the basket with a small grunt, dusting his palms together. “That’ll do,” he murmured.

“That’ll more than do,” you said, breath catching slightly as you looked around.

You spread the wool blanket between you. The quiet was the kind that settled into you, not over you - no traffic, no phones, just the sound of wind in the tall grass and the rhythmic thrum of bees somewhere nearby.

John sat with a groan, legs stretched out, arms braced behind him. You handed him a glass of wine, then passed him a wedge of cheese.

You poured a glass, passed it to him, then handed him a sliver of sharp cheddar. “You ever had a picnic like this before?”

He thought for a second. “No.”

It made you smile in that quiet, reverent kind of way - because, of course, he hadn’t. Of course, his days off had always been numbered, his peace stolen in pieces, never enough time to do something so ordinary. And yet here he was now, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, the buttons open at his throat, sun catching in the fairer ends of his beard and softening all the hard edges you’d come to know. His legs were stretched out across the blanket, ankles crossed. His shoulders had lost their usual height. He wasn’t scanning for threats. He was watching you.

You ate slowly, not because you had to, but because everything about the moment made you want to. The crusty bread still had warmth in its centre, the cheese crumbled at the edges, and the jam - when you finally opened it - was thick and sweet, stained dark with fruit and childhood memories. The wine was cool, and the breeze carried the sound of birdsong from some hidden branch above the fields.

John leaned back onto one elbow and picked at a piece of fig you passed him, chewing lazily, almost dreamlike. His fingers brushed yours every now and then - no rush, no urgency. Just that wordless rhythm of sharing space, food, and breath. You let the silence bloom around you, not awkward but full, like something sacred.

“You know,” you murmured after a while, brushing crumbs from your fingers, “I think I wish I could’ve shared this part of your life with you.”

He turned slightly, brows furrowing. “What part?”

“The younger version of you. The one who came out here on a bike. Bought jam from a roadside shed. Spent hours walking through villages like this.” You picked at the edge of the blanket, suddenly shy. “I think I would’ve loved him, too.”

John didn’t speak at first. His eyes dropped to your hand, watching how your fingers moved, then lifted back to your face - measuring the weight of your words like they were fragile.

Then he reached out, gently curled his fingers around your wrist, and tugged until you looked at him.

“You’re here now,” he said simply. “That’s a million times better.”

You stared at him, and something in your chest cracked open. The way he said it - without hesitation, without needing you to reassure him - landed somewhere deep.

You leaned into him and kissed the corner of his mouth. He caught your chin after and kissed you again, slower this time, like he was trying to memorize the way your lips felt under the sun.

You pulled back just enough to ask, “Could you ever imagine living out here again?”

He blinked, then turned to look out over the grass, thoughtful. The breeze lifted the edge of the blanket and played with your hair. Bees buzzed lazily nearby, weaving through tall stems.

“Maybe,” he said after a while. “With the right person.”

You didn’t say anything to that. Just stared at him.

His hand found yours again. You let him hold it, your thumb grazing the rough line of his knuckles, a silent thank you tucked in the motion.

Then, you reached for your bag and pulled out the jam.

He stared. “You actually bought that?”

“How could I not?” you said, unscrewing the lid. The smell hit first - rich and dark, the kind that tugged at the back of your throat with something almost too nostalgic to name. You dug out a spoonful, sticky and deep violet, and held it out toward him. “Open up.”

He gave you a long-suffering look. You just smiled.

“Say please,” you whispered.

He didn’t. Instead, he took the spoon from your hand, rolled onto his side, and pulled you into his lap without warning. You yelped, laughing as he buried his face against your shoulder, teeth grazing the skin there before he pressed a kiss to the spot he’d nipped.

“God, you’re lucky I like you.”

“Yeah?” you said, breath hitching as your arms looped loosely around his neck. “How much?”

He didn’t answer. Just fed you the spoonful, then licked the sticky jam from the corner of your mouth with a slow, deliberate drag of his tongue that made you freeze.

“Enough,” he murmured against your skin.

And for a while after that, there was only laughter, sunlight, and the rustle of grass all around you. His fingers splayed warmly over your thigh where you sat tangled in his lap, and yours traced lazy lines along his jaw as the sun dipped lower in the sky.

You passed bits of fruit between your mouths, drank the rest of the wine with flushed cheeks and quiet smiles, and talked about nothing and everything in between slow kisses and stolen bites.

Then, from far off - a breeze shifted. A cool one.

You lifted your head instinctively. It started not with sound but with absence: the birdsong faded, the warmth thinned, the air changed direction, brushing across your skin in a way that made every hair rise.

You were still half-curled in his lap, fingers absently crumbling the remains of a piece of bread, when the first raindrop struck - fat, singular, cold against your thigh. You blinked down at the dark circle it left behind, spreading like ink on fabric.

“Did you feel that too?” John murmured, brow arched.

Another drop. Then another.

And then the sky cracked open. A sheet of rain fell without grace or buildup, sudden and merciless, soaking the back of your shirt before you’d even found your feet.

“Oh my God!” you shouted, bolting upright. The blanket was already slick, puddling beneath your knees. You scrambled for the cheese, the wine, the half-wrapped bread - laughing and cursing at once.

He wasn’t helping.

John Price, decorated soldier, was standing there like he’d never seen rain in his life, arms slightly out, head tilted to the sky, water cascading from his hair, down his neck, darkening the linen shirt clinging to his chest. He was laughing - a full, unrestrained, boyish sound that cracked you wide open.

“You jinxed it!” you cried, trying to shove the damp cheese into the tote bag as the bottle of wine nearly slipped from your grip.

He just grinned wider, hauling the corner of the blanket up with a flourish that sent crumbs flying.

“Customer service is absolutely going to hear about this. I’m leaving the worst review anyone’s ever seen.”

“Oh yeah?” he shouted, “Well, customer service would like to formally deny your complaint, ma’am !”

Thunder rolled lazily across the hills behind you - nothing dangerous, but deep enough to remind you of how alone you were out here. The kind of sound that made you feel small , like the world had woken up and was reminding you of its power.

Your hair was soaked, heavy against your cheeks. Water ran down your arms in rivulets. The blanket was a lost cause. You bundled what you could into the bag and clutched it to your chest like a prize salvaged from a shipwreck.

“Car’s too far,” John said, eyes scanning the drenched horizon, rain dripping from his lashes.

“No shit ,” you gasped, wiping water from your face.

He turned suddenly, pointing to a narrow lane through the trees, some lights barely visible through the curtain of falling water. “There. I think the village’s that way.”

You didn’t need convincing. You were already running.

The hill was slick beneath your boots, every step a gamble. Mud clung to your heels, tried to steal your footing, and you nearly went sideways once, squealing, the wine bottle clutched like a lifeline. Behind you, John’s laugh rang out again - louder now, completely unguarded.

And when you looked back - just for a second - you saw him like that.

He was soaked to the bone, hair plastered to his forehead, and his shirt stuck to every line of him like it was part of him. Arms pumping as he ran down the hill without care or caution, boots splashing through puddles like he had never known the weight of war or loss or time. And he was smiling.

Not smirking. Not the wry, half-cocked grin he wore when he was teasing. No - this was joy . Unfiltered. Like a boy let out of school and caught in a storm.

And your heart - God, it just ached . With the kind of helpless, wild love that roots itself in your ribs and never lets go. You felt breathless and drenched and absolutely overcome.

He paused at the bottom of the slope, turning slightly to wait for you, water pouring off him, his chest heaving, and he looked at you like you were the only thing he’d ever need to see again.

“Come on, love,” he called, holding out his hand. “Before we drown.”

You didn’t hesitate. You reached for him, your hand slipping into his as he caught you, steadying you, anchoring you in the downpour.

And then you ran .

Through the grass, through puddles that soaked your legs to the knee, through the cold that didn’t matter and the wet that couldn’t touch the heat between your chests. His laughter met yours like an echo, your bodies colliding once, twice, as you pelted toward the village lane. Like unburdened kids fleeing some beautiful disaster.

You weren’t thinking about how you looked, or how soaked you were, or how far you still had to go.

You rounded the bend, breath catching as the village came into view like something conjured from memory - half-seen in a dream. Nestled into the curve of the lane was the inn: low stone walls darkened by rain, ivy clinging to the edges, a crooked sign swinging wildly in the wind, its iron chains creaking overhead. Smoke curled from a chimney, curling into the bruised sky, and golden light spilt from its windows like warmth incarnate.

John tugged you through the little iron gate and up the worn steps, both of you slipping slightly on the slick stone. He wrenched open the heavy wooden door with a grunt, and the wind shoved in behind you - then was cut off with a slam that echoed through the walls as the door shut again, sealing you inside.

You froze just over the threshold. Breathless. Drenched. Dripping water onto the old timber floor like a pair of strays let in from the storm.

Inside, the world was different. Softer. Dim and quiet. The scent of firewood and spice hung thick in the air - clove, maybe, or something mulled. The low pop and crackle of a hearth fire filled the silence. Somewhere down the corridor, a dog barked once as if acknowledging you.

The innkeeper stood behind a polished oak counter, a man with wiry grey hair and a red waistcoat, blinking slowly at the sight of you both. There was no alarm in his expression - just that curious, amused patience that came from living a long time in one place, from having seen weather like this and people like you before.

John stepped forward, still holding your hand, his thumb brushing once across your knuckles. His hair was plastered to his forehead, dark with rain, and drops slid down the back of his neck to soak into the collar of his shirt.

“We’ll take a room,” he said, voice low.

The man gave you both a once-over - wet to the skin, breath still catching - and nodded as if the answer had already been decided. “Top of the stairs. First door on the left.”

John handed over wet cash without letting go of your hand.

Neither of you spoke as you climbed the stairs. Your steps squelched on the old carpeting. The hush between you wasn’t awkward - it was full. Charged with everything that had just happened. The run. The rain. The laughter. The look he’d given you at the bottom of the hill.

You reached the room and stepped inside without speaking. It was small, simple, utterly perfect. A wide bed with a heavy quilt. A thick rug beneath your feet. A fire already lit in the stone hearth, flames curling up around thick logs, shadows dancing on the pale walls. A basin and mirror stood in one corner, a worn armchair in the other.

The door clicked shut behind you, the latch catching with a thud that echoed through the warmth of the room. It was quiet, save for the low crackle of the fire and the sound of water dripping from your sleeves, your hair, and your bag onto the old wooden floorboards.

The fireplace glowed low at the far end of the room, flames flickering up around thick logs, their light dancing across the stone hearth and casting shadows against the walls. You stepped toward it instinctively, as if pulled, feeling the heat begin to chase the chill from your wet skin.

Your shirt clung to you like a second skin - cold and heavy and utterly miserable now that you’d stopped moving.

Without thinking, without hesitating, you began to peel it off, dragging the damp fabric up over your head. It made a low, wet slap as it hit the floor. Then your shorts followed, and your socks, leaving a trail across the rug as you stood closer to the fire, chasing warmth into your bones.

You bent to tug off your last sock, your spine curving with the motion, water trickling in slow paths down your sides, your breath still shallow from the run.

Behind you came a sound.

A groan. Low and involuntary.

You froze, sock halfway off, and slowly turned your head.

John was standing near the door, still fully dressed - his shirt clinging to his chest, his jeans soaked and dark. His eyes were fixed on you, wide and dark and hungr y . One hand was braced on the wall, the other between his legs, pressing hard against the unmistakable outline of his cock, straining visibly against drenched denim.

He didn’t hide it. Didn’t flinch or drop his gaze or pretend it wasn’t happening. He just looked at you like he couldn’t breathe.

And you - God, you felt it. That stare, that weight, that need. It settled low in your belly, blooming into heat that rushed between your thighs, caught in your lungs, curled like smoke through your limbs. You turned to face him fully, bare now and bathed in firelight, your skin flushed and still kissed by the storm. You let him see it all.

And he did.

His eyes moved over you like he was memorizing you, like he couldn’t believe you were real. His nostrils flared. His throat worked around a sound he didn’t quite let out. His fingers flexed where they gripped his jeans.

And then he moved.

Toward you. Like a man possessed.

He stopped right in front of you, soaked through, boots trailing rain across the floor. He didn’t speak. Just stood there, towering and still, breath coming hard through his nose like it took everything not to fall to his knees right then and there

His hand came up - slow, reverent - and brushed damp strands of hair back from your cheek. His fingers grazed the line of your jaw, then slid down your throat, across your collarbone, trailing warmth in their wake.

“Sit,” he rasped, voice thick with need. “Over there.”

He nodded toward the armchair in front of the fire - an old thing, high-backed and broad, worn leather dulled by age and use. It looked like it belonged in some country manor, the kind of chair someone once read poetry in while the rain fell outside.

You stepped back slowly, lowering yourself onto the cushion. The leather was warm from the fire, soft beneath your bare skin, the heat licking at your sides, your thighs. You sank into it and looked up at him, breath caught somewhere between your chest and your throat.

He knelt in front of you without hesitation. His knees sank into the rug with a soft thump, and then his hands found your thighs. Large, calloused, sure. He spread them gently, reverently, as if opening a book written just for him.

And when he looked up at you again, everything in your chest stopped.

His eyes were dark and molten, but not just with want. There was worship in that gaze. A raw, stunned kind of reverence that made your throat tighten.

“You’re unreal,” he whispered. And there was awe in it. Like he meant it. Like he didn’t know how the fuck he’d ever done anything good enough to deserve you.

Then he bent forward - and devoured you.

His mouth found you like it had known the way all along. The first stroke of his tongue was slow, deliberate, so fucking tender it nearly undid you on the spot. He licked you from the base of your entrance to the peak of your clit with a groan so guttural, so wrecked, it vibrated right through your bones.

He didn’t stop. Didn’t even pause . He buried his face against you like a man dying of thirst, mouth hot and desperate, tongue circling your clit, lips sucking it into his mouth until your back arched against the leather.

“John,” you gasped, voice breaking, “fuck - fuck, please - ”

He growled in response, beard scraping gently against your skin as he buried deeper, flicking his tongue faster now, the rhythm devastating. His hands gripped your thighs, holding you open, anchoring you, his fingers digging just enough to ground you in every flick, every swirl, every kiss of his mouth.

“John - ”

A low, ragged sound tore from his chest as he pinned you in place with his strength alone.

“Stay still,” he murmured against you, voice rough and soaked with need. “Let me worship you properly.”

And fuck, did he.

One of his hands slid lower - two fingers, thick and slick with your arousal, teasing at your entrance. He kissed your clit as he pushed one inside, slowly, filling you in one deep, steady thrust.

You cried out, hips jerking.

“There she is,” he rasped, lifting his head just enough to watch the way your mouth parted, the way your chest heaved. His lips were glistening, his voice gravel and smoke. “That’s what I wanted to hear.”

His finger curled just right - and the sensation was immediate, a bolt of lightning behind your eyes, white-hot and blinding. Your thighs jerked, your whole body tightening like a bowstring drawn too far, too fast. Heat coiled low in your belly, thick and sharp, winding tighter with every shallow breath, every slow flick of his tongue.

He felt it - of course, he did. The way your muscles tensed, your breath hitched, your hips began to roll toward his mouth like they couldn’t help it.

“That’s it, love,” he murmured and then kissed your clit - an open-mouthed press of heat and tongue and reverence that made your vision blur. “Come for me.”

And then he sucked. Tongue flicking just right, lips sealing around you with maddening precision.

You shattered.

The orgasm ripped through you like a wave breaking over stone, crashing down and curling back to hit again. A sharp cry tore from your throat, your spine arching off the chair as your hands scrambled for purchase - on the arms, on him, on anything. He didn’t let go. Didn’t falter. Just groaned low in his chest like your pleasure fed something primal in him and kept devouring you. His tongue licked through every pulse of it, every slick, trembling aftershock.

And even then - even then - he didn’t stop.

You whimpered, already shaking, thighs twitching, still trying to breathe. But his hand slid lower again, and when he pressed a second finger inside - slow but insistent - you gasped, back jolting from the seat.

“John - ” your voice broke, half-plea, half-warning.

“You can give me another one, love,” he said, voice rough and worshipful, fingers stretching you open with careful skill. “One’s not enough. Not for you.”

His mouth followed, tongue circling your clit again, this time with a different rhythm - slower, deeper, building you up from the ruins of the first. Then faster. Then filthy - lips dragging, tongue flattening, sucking until your hips bucked and your fingers fisted in his hair.

Every sound he made - every groan, every sigh, every breath - told you he loved this. Loved you . Loved wrecking you with his mouth like he couldn’t get enough.

You tried to pull away, instinctive, a twitch of overstimulation -

But he growled, low and possessive, and tightened his grip on your hips, dragging you back into his mouth like he wasn’t done. Like he couldn’t bear the space between you.

And you came again.

It was messier, sharper. Your head fell back, mouth open in a cry you didn’t recognize as your own, your legs trembling against the leather and fire-warmed air. You felt the heat and the slick and him, and it all bled together into something wild - something unrelenting.

He didn’t stop. Just licked you through it like a man lost in worship, groaning like your body was the altar and he’d found his God.

When it finally passed - when you sagged back into the chair, boneless, glowing, legs parted in surrender - he pulled back. Barely.

He knelt between your thighs, lips red and swollen, beard wet, his chest heaving like he’d just gone twelve rounds. You were trembling, glowing in the firelight, every inch of you flushed and alive.

And then you laughed - soft and ragged, like it startled even you.

“I didn’t even get to eat any of the picnic,” you said, voice thick with breathlessness.

His brow arched, but you went on, pouting faintly.

“I was promised strawberries and cheese. Jam, too. And now the blanket’s probably halfway to Scotland.”

That earned the smallest flicker of a smile - crooked, dangerous, and so fond it made your chest ache.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, sliding his palms up the inside of your thighs with slow, heavy heat, “I’ve got something a hell of a lot more delicious for you.”

You blinked, lips parted. “That so?”

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he stood slowly, peeling his soaked shirt off with a quiet rustle. The firelight gilded every line of him - broad shoulders, thick chest, skin flushed from heat and exertion. He dragged a hand through his wet hair, then gripped the waistband of his jeans.

He cupped himself through the fabric once - slow, possessive - then tugged it down.

And fuck.

You sat up without meaning to, heat pulsing sharp and hungry low in your belly.

He was already hard - thick and flushed and heavy, the kind of thing you felt before you even touched it. His hand wrapped around the base, stroking once - slow and lazy, like he knew what he was doing to you.

“Open your mouth, love,” he said, voice low and rasped and dangerous.

You did - greedy and dazed, lips parting as he brought the tip to your tongue, his hand tightening in your hair the second you closed your lips around him.

“That’s it,” he groaned, hips rocking forward just enough to press deeper. “Knew you’d take it so fucking well.”

You sucked him deep, tongue swirling, mouth hot and wet and eager. He cursed, voice cracking under his breath, his fingers tightening in your hair as you worked him over - slow and sinful, letting your teeth graze ever so lightly, pulling back with a pop just to lick the head the way you knew drove him mad.

Your mouth sealed around him, tongue dragging along the underside of his cock in a rhythm that made his breath stutter above you. He swore, low and raw, his hand tightening in your hair as you took more of him, the heat of your mouth drawing another broken sound from his throat.

“Fuck -” he choked, hips jerking despite himself.

You moaned around him, throat flexing, the vibration making his knees nearly buckle. He pulled back slightly, but you followed, lips flushed, eyes dark, and took him deeper - all the way this time, until your nose brushed the hair at the base and his cock twitched against the back of your throat.

That was it.

He staggered back with a curse, eyes wild, jaw tight, like he’d just barely stopped himself from coming right then and there.

“Bloody Christ,” he rasped, staring down at you - wrecked and glistening and too fucking good.

He hauled you into his arms, no hesitation now, no teasing or pretence. Just need . You hit the rug with a gasp, your back arching as he followed - his body heavy and hot against yours, mouth crashing into yours with a groan that sounded more like a prayer than a curse.

He came down over you, every inch of him trembling with restraint. The weight of his body pinned you beneath him, the hot press of his cock against your thigh sending fire straight through your spine.

He looked down at you - like a man seconds from ruin.

And then he pushed inside.

Slow. Deep. Devastating.

You gasped, your spine arching into him like your body had been waiting for this exact moment your entire life. Your hands clawed blindly at his shoulders, trying to hold onto something solid, something real, while your name tumbled from his lips like a vow, wrecked and reverent.

He filled you completely, every thick inch dragging along nerves left raw from his mouth, from his worship, from the way he looked at you like you were salvation, his mouth finding yours in a kiss that said everything he didn’t know how to say with words.

His hips moved in long, deliberate strokes, dragging the thick length of him deep inside you, over and over, until you couldn’t remember where you ended and he began. Your nails dug into the broad plane of his back; your lips parted around helpless sounds as he rocked into you, slow and deep and utterly devoted.

The fire cracked beside you, casting molten light over the sweat gleaming on his skin, the sharp line of his jaw, and the shadows under his eyes.

He looked wrecked. Wild. Beautiful.

You barely had your breath back when the laughter slipped out.

A quiet giggle at first - then more, a flood of it, light and ridiculous and suddenly impossible to stop.

John grunted against your throat. “What?”

You pressed your face into his shoulder, trying and failing to contain yourself. “The poor innkeeper,” you wheezed. “We’re not exactly - subtle.”

He huffed against your shoulder, lips curving into a smug smile. “Good.”

You swatted at his shoulder. “John -”

He pulled back just enough to look at you - wet hair falling into his eyes, that smirk cutting sideways through the heat of the moment. “I’ll leave a generous tip.”

“You’re awful,” you whispered, still laughing, even as his hips rolled forward in another slow, devastating stroke.

“You love it,” he murmured, mouth brushing your jaw, voice low and wrecked. “All those sweet sounds you’re making - you want them to hear.”

“Do not put that in my head.” But it was already there. The image. The sound. The truth of it - that you were his, and he was yours, and you didn’t care who knew it.

He chuckled - deep, dark, and unbearably fond. Then he kissed you again, and all of it - your protest, your teasing, your breath - dissolved in the way he moaned softly into your mouth and pressed deeper inside you, holding there, buried to the hilt.

He kissed you again, and then his rhythm shifted, just slightly. Slower. More controlled. Every thrust was purposeful, dragging every inch of him over every spot inside you that made your toes curl and your eyes roll back. He moved like he was trying to carve his name into the softest parts of you. Maybe he was.

You whispered his name, breath trembling, and he leaned down to kiss you again - open-mouthed and desperate like he couldn’t get close enough.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, lips brushing your cheek. “Right here, love. Right here. ”

His breath hitched as he bottomed out again, hips grinding into yours, and you gasped, legs locked tight around his waist, nails pressing half-moon indents into his back.

“I love you,” he whispered against your throat, voice cracked and uneven, like the words cost him something - but he gave them anyway. “I fucking love you.”

Your breath hitched.

His hand found your cheek, thumb stroking reverently over your skin as his hips moved - slower now, deeper like he wanted to stay inside you forever, like he could if the world would let him.

“I love you,” he said again, more urgent this time, like he needed you to believe it, to hold it. “Every part of you. Every word. Every breath. You hear me?”

“Yes,” you choked, voice trembling. “God - John - ”

“I love you when you’re angry,” he rasped - and thrust deeper, harder, making you gasp.

“When you’re being a pain in my ass - ” Another sharp thrust, rougher, knocking the air from your lungs. “When you make me laugh - ” His voice cracked, and he buried himself in you again, brutal and perfect.

“When you walk into a room, and I forget how to fucking breathe -”

He drove into you with a force that bordered on savage - raw and wild and completely undone. Your head fell back, a cry escaping your lips as he pushed you further, deeper, dragging you with him into something feral and too full of love to be gentle anymore.

His hand slid between you, found your clit, and circled it in a slow, devastating rhythm.

“That’s it,” he panted. “Come with me. One more. I need it, love - can you do that for me?”

You nodded - barely - already there, already teetering on the edge.

He buried his face in your neck, groaning raggedly, “Wanna feel you when I let go. Wanna feel you take every fucking drop.”

And then it broke - inside you, through you.

And then it happened - fast and all-consuming. Your body tensed, shuddered, clenched around him as your orgasm slammed through you with raw, blinding intensity. Your hands fisted in his hair, your legs locked tight around him, and your cry broke in the back of your throat as everything inside you lit up - tightening, fluttering, pulling him deeper.

That flutter - God - it wrecked him.

“Jesus Christ - ” he gasped, the words torn from somewhere low and broken, his body seizing against yours. “ Fuck, I - ”

He thrust once, hard, hips slamming flush, and then he came - deep and violent, with a groan that sounded like it cost him something to give. His cock jerked inside you, spilling hot and thick as your body milked him for every drop, your walls fluttering around him in waves that kept dragging him under, again and again.

He clung to you, arms locked tight around your back, head buried in your shoulder like he could hide from how much it undid him - his groans turning into ragged gasps, his entire frame shuddering with the force of it. His hips twitched helplessly, still grinding against you as the last pulses wracked through him, oversensitive and utterly overwhelmed.

“Fuck - fuck, love, I -” His voice cracked, breath catching in his throat as he pressed impossibly closer, like if he didn’t hold you tighter, he might come apart entirely.

He stayed like that - buried to the hilt, panting against your throat, every muscle in his body drawn taut, trembling from the aftershocks. You could feel his heartbeat racing against yours, feel the heat of him, the weight of him - real and yours , in the most devastating, beautiful way.

He didn’t pull out.

Didn’t move.

Just stayed there, his weight pressed into you, his arms wrapped around your body like he needed the contact to stay grounded. You could feel his heartbeat against your ribs, fast and deep, still catching up.

Neither of you spoke for a long time.

Eventually, he shifted just slightly - just enough to ease his weight so you could breathe a little easier, though he didn’t go far. Instead, he dipped his head and pressed a kiss to the place below your ear, where your skin was still damp with sweat and rain and heat.

He was still inside you, deep and warm and pulsing in the afterglow, his body blanketing yours, heavy with the kind of weight that felt right . Grounding. Real.

Your hands found his face - cupping his jaw, thumbs brushing over the coarse stubble there - and his forehead rested to yours. You breathed in tandem. Lips ghosting. A rhythm you’d fallen into without realizing.

When you finally spoke, it was barely a whisper. “Did you mean it?”

His lashes lifted slowly. “What?”

You searched his face. “Back at the picnic. When you said maybe you could imagine living out here again. With the right person.”

“Yeah.”

Your voice softened. “I’d like to be that person.”

A long silence stretched between you. His thumb brushed your cheek, slow and grounding.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, his thumb swept along your cheek, slow and thoughtful. His voice was quiet when it came - hesitant, like saying it too loud might make it disappear. “You talkin’ marriage?”

You didn’t speak. Didn’t nod. Didn’t smile. You just looked at him.

Held his gaze with that steady, open softness that always disarmed him more than a bullet ever could.

His brow furrowed slightly, voice dipping into something rougher, almost incredulous. “Jesus,” he breathed. “You are .”

You just looked at him, eyes open and unwavering, and in that moment, you were everything he’d never dared to believe he could have - everything solid and warm and good in a world that had taught him to expect loss more than love.

And when you finally spoke again, it was gentle and impossibly tender. “I love you, John.”

His hand slid behind your neck, and he kissed you - hard, full, like his mouth was the last place left to put everything he’d ever been too afraid to say aloud. Like this - you - was the only truth that had ever mattered.

When he finally pulled back, his lips brushed against yours, breath warm and unsteady.

“I know,” he whispered.

He didn’t say anything else, just kissed you again - slower this time, like he wasn’t going anywhere. And for now - for this moment - that was promise enough.

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fireya-x · 1 month ago

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I apologize I’ve been so absent lately, life has been a little crazy.

But I promise the next fic is almost done! And so many WIPs waiting to be continued.

I started writing a continuation of keep me breathing cause I missed my OC Ava and Price together - if anyone is interested in that 😌

Thank you for your asks/requests - I swear I’m not ignoring them, I’m actively collecting ideas! 🫶🏻

Have a wonderful week everyone ♥️

#hi it’s been a while #little update

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fireya-x · 1 month ago

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The Prophet (Price/FemOC)

I got a little too thirsty when that picture of Barry as a gladiator came out. Anyway, here's this garbage.

The Prophet - californicationist - Call of Duty (Video Games) [Archive of Our Own]

#thank you cali #amazing as always #call of duty fanfic #captain john price #call of duty #john price #ancient romans

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fireya-x · 2 months ago

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The Fifth Element [Masterlist]

COD/Fallout TF141/F!Reader Polyamory Chapterlist

You always knew Vault-Tec was planning this. Their war began in a terrible flash right in front of your eyes. As the bombs exploded in the city around you, you had no choice but to crawl into a cryotank and hope for the best. You'd wait for the reinforcements. For someone. Anyone. But, no one came. Centuries passed by in an awful, infinite blackness, and you were suspended somewhere between life and death. Until one day… you woke up.

Chapter 01: Hydrogen

Chapter 02: Helium

Chapter 03: Lithium

Chapter 04: Beryllium

Chapter 05: Boron

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fireya-x · 2 months ago

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Ursa Major - Chapter 21 - californicationist - Call of Duty (Video Games) [Archive of Our Own]

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fireya-x · 2 months ago

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bed time <3

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fireya-x · 2 months ago

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had to empty my brain and hopefully this is an acceptable place to do so :,) but grinding on price’s shoe and/or leg while wearing a collar 😮‍💨 him guiding you on all fours by a leash around the house, making you work for it- making sure you can crawl and beg like a good pup (i need to be electrocuted or smth)

Hi! I think I did a slightly changed and very tame version of this, haha. I hope you still enjoy. ♥️

where you belong

【 AO3 Link (full tag list) || masterlist 】 ✦ John Price x Reader ✦ John Price knew you'd always obey — no matter how hard he pushed — and that’s what undid him. ✦ 3,6k words ✦ tags/cw: dom!john price, power play, rough oral sex, blow job, face-fucking, collar, degradation, obedience, come marking

The sun hung low in the sky, casting long, punishing light that struck your skin like a lash. Dirt, stirred and thickened by the boots of a dozen men tearing across it all day, clung to your limbs like a second skin. Worked deep into the lines of your elbows, the scraped skin of your palms, the swell of your knees, until the grit felt like it had soaked into your bones. Your lungs burned with every breath, throat tightening around the scorched air as though your body was trying to shield itself from the next inhale.

You dragged one in anyway, thick with dust and the sharp, metallic tang of blood where your teeth had split the inside of your cheek. Every muscle trembled on the brink of collapse, nerves frayed from overuse, arms shaking so badly you had to force your fists to close.

And still, John Price didn’t stop.

“Again.”

His voice cracked like a whip, cold and sharp, slicing through the heat with no mercy. Detached. Utterly unimpressed by the state of you. Like your exhaustion was just another inconvenience to him.

You gritted your teeth and forced yourself up with a full-body tremor. Your arms screamed in protest. Your back ached with every breath. Still, you dropped into another set of push-ups, fists pressing into the coarse earth. The gravel bit your knuckles raw. Your shirt stuck to your back with sweat, and your throat felt so dry that it seemed like it might crack open. Price paced a few feet off, arms folded over his chest, shadow thrown long across the dirt.

You collapsed into the dirt after the final rep, arms folding beneath you, too spent to hold your weight for even a second longer. Gravel dug into your forearms, your breath coming in short, uneven bursts.

“You’re moving like a civvie,” Price snapped, his voice cutting through the haze with surgical sharpness. “Get it right.”

“Sir —” you managed, though you weren’t sure what argument you had left.

“Did I ask for commentary?” he bit out, that calm, grating edge sharpening like a blade drawn across glass. “Again.”

And somehow, you did it. You pushed yourself back up, joints locking and unlocking like a machine on the verge of failure. Burpees. Push-ups. Back on your feet. Down again. Faster. Sloppier. You couldn’t remember how many. Couldn’t see past the sweat stinging your eyes. The burn in your lungs blurred into the white-hot surge of fury crawling up your throat.

It had been like this for weeks.

Price had singled you out from the beginning: drills twice as long, no praise, no breaks. Every mistake punished harder. Every success ignored. He never raised his voice. Never lost control. He just watched, like he was studying the best way to grind you down.

You hated him for it.

Hated the way his eyes never lingered long enough to be inappropriate but still left your skin crawling, heat prickling at the back of your neck like he’d touched you without ever laying a hand. Hated the satisfaction in his silence whenever you stumbled, and the way he always, always pushed you harder after. Like failure turned him on.

But worse than the hate was how your stomach twisted every single time he said your name.

How it landed low in your gut. Hot. Uncomfortable.

Like he owned it.

The door slammed behind you, louder than you intended.

He looked up from his desk slowly, gaze lifting with the same calm he wore out on the field. No surprise. No irritation. There was a stillness that said he had been expecting this. Like this had always been the inevitable end to whatever the hell had been simmering between you.

“What the fuck is your problem?” you snapped, throat still raw from the drills.

He didn’t blink. Didn’t even shift in his chair. “Watch your tone.”

“No.”

You stepped forward, anger curling hot and sharp in your chest, your breath still uneven from exertion.

“You’ve been grinding me into the dirt for weeks — twice the reps, half the rest. You don’t train anyone else like that. I’ve been faster, stronger, and still…” Your voice cracked, frustration spilling over the edge. “Still, you treat me like I’m nothing.”

His brow didn’t move. Not even a twitch.

But the way he looked at you, steady, quiet, utterly unreadable, sank its teeth into your chest like a predator watching its prey. There was nothing soft in it — just a slow, deliberate taking of your measure, like he was deciding not whether to break you, but how.

It made your pulse skip. Made your skin go tight and hot.

“Just stop the power tripping, Captain.” You continued. “You’ve been eye-fucking me since day one. Don’t pretend this is about discipline.”

His jaw clenched. Teeth grinding together. The change in him was subtle, but you felt it. Restraint beginning to fray. Something about to snap.

Then he stood.

Slow. Measured. Like a man finally choosing to stop holding back.

He rose to his full height, and somehow the room felt smaller for it. He looked at you with that same calm, that same unreadable quiet, but something behind his eyes had cracked open.

His gaze moved down your body. From your face, over your chest, down to your boots. Then it came back up and settled on your mouth.

And then he spoke.

“Get on your fucking knees.”

The words hit you like a bullet — sharp, precise, already embedded before you had time to flinch.

Everything around you stilled.

There was no fury behind it. No cruelty. Just a command stripped bare of anything unnecessary, from a man who had waited too long to say it. And who knew, without a shred of doubt, that you’d do exactly what he told you to.

Your breath faltered. Heat surged up your throat and bloomed across your chest.

And before your mind had time to resist, your body answered for you.

You dropped.

Knees struck the concrete with a dull, solid thud. It was cold, biting through the fabric of your fatigues, straight into bone. The ache shot up your legs, a quiet throb pulsing beneath your skin.

He watched you like a man confirming a theory. Something grimly satisfied on his face.

He turned without a word, boots shifting over the concrete as he moved behind the desk. He was unhurried, composed, as though the sight of you kneeling before him wasn’t surprising in the least.

As though he had always known you’d end up exactly like this.

You heard the drawer open, the faint scrape of metal against metal, followed by the subtle weight of something being lifted free.

When he returned, he held it loosely in one hand: black leather, thick and well-worn, the edges softened by use. The metal buckle caught the overhead light with a dull glint, reflecting something colder beneath the surface.

A collar. And he tossed it at your knees.

“Put it on.”

The collar landed against your thighs with a muted thud, the leather coiling slightly on impact. It was warm from his grip, still holding its shape. Your breath caught as your eyes dropped to it.

You stared at it, then at him. But your hands moved anyway, as if responding to something other than reason.

Your fingers trembled slightly as you looped the leather around your throat and drew the strap tight. The collar settled into place with a weight that felt far heavier than it was, snug against your skin, warm from his hand and already clinging like it belonged there. The metal kissed the nape of your neck with a jolt of cold that made you shiver.

He sat on the edge of the desk, arms crossed, his expression unreadable — except for the unmistakable flicker of heat behind his eyes.

“Crawl.”

You blinked. “What?”

His voice dropped. “You heard me. You want to act like a mutt with no discipline, I’ll treat you like one. Crawl.”

Your body stalled.

Frozen in place, every nerve lit up and clashing with instinct. Your mind reeled. He was your commanding officer. This was a line that shouldn’t just be uncrossed; it shouldn’t have existed to begin with. There were rules, and this shattered every single one of them. You’d seen men lose their rank, their careers, their lives for less.

But something else surged up inside you, fast and burning. Something darker. Something that didn’t care about rank or consequences. That part of you, the one that had wanted to slap him and fuck him in equal measure for weeks, burned every rule to ash.

You lowered your palms to the floor.

And crawled.

The tile met your skin, cool and rough beneath your hands, and the collar shifted with the motion, pressing tighter against your throat like it knew what was coming. Your knees crept forward, the ache already spreading through the bone, but it wasn’t pain that slowed you.

It was awareness.

Of every sound. Every heartbeat. Every inch.

Each movement felt like a confession. A surrender written in motion. The scuff of your boots echoed in the quiet. Your breath was shaky. Your hands flattened against the ground, and the floor was solid, unyielding, leaving nowhere to hide as you pushed forward.

Every inch you moved closer, the weight of his stare burned into your back like a brand.

Your thighs brushed together as heat bloomed between them, shame curling in your stomach, sick and electric. Each scrape of your knees across the tile was a small betrayal of pride, but you didn’t stop. Couldn’t. Because somewhere beneath the humiliation was something sharp and magnetic — something that pulled you to him like gravity.

You stopped between his legs, breath shallow, pulse thundering under your skin like a war drum. The tile beneath your palms was warm now, or maybe it was you. Everything felt too hot.

But none of it mattered now.

Not with the way he looked at you.

Not with the heat in his eyes, slow and simmering, like he’d waited too long to have you exactly like this.

Like this was always where you were meant to be.

“Sit pretty,” he muttered.

You shifted upright on your knees, shoulders square, the collar tugging lightly against the back of your neck as you straightened. Your hands stayed low on your thighs, breath shallow, gaze fixed somewhere between his boots and the bulge straining behind his zipper.

Then he reached for it.

The quiet rasp of the zipper cut through the silence, and somehow it felt obscene, louder than it should’ve been.

His cock was already hard, thick and heavy in his hand, flushed at the tip, a bead of precum catching the light. Veins traced the underside like a roadmap to somewhere you were already on your way to.

Your thighs pressed together, instinctive and immediate, as heat coiled deep in your belly. Shame and want twisted tight inside you, indistinguishable from each other now — twin currents feeding off the same humiliating need.

He leaned forward slightly, hand curling beneath your chin. “I knew you’d get here eventually,” he murmured, thumb dragging over your lower lip. “Obedient little thing. Always following orders. Every drill, every bloody command. I knew it was only a matter of time before you were on your knees.”

You shuddered, skin prickling under the weight of his words.

“You pretend to hate me,” he went on, the head of his cock brushing against your lips, smearing a streak of warmth across your skin, “but you listen. Every time. And I fucking love it.”

He tapped the tip against your mouth. “Tongue out.”

You obeyed without hesitation, mouth parting as your tongue slipped out to meet him, heat pulsing low in your stomach at how natural the command felt.

“Open.”

And again, your body moved before your mind could catch up. Because, of course, it did. He’d trained you into this. Conditioned you to respond. Every drill, every clipped order, every time he’d pushed you past your limit — it had all led here. You were always going to break like this.

Because deep down, you wanted to.

He eased into your mouth slowly at first, savoring the stretch of your lips around him, the way your jaw trembled with the effort to take him. He paused just inside, his breath sharp when your tongue curled instinctively against the underside of his cock.

Then he pushed deeper.

A low groan slipped from his throat the moment your mouth tightened around him, the sound rough and strained like he’d been holding it back for weeks.

“God, look at you,” he muttered, voice thick with satisfaction. “Bet every time I said your name on the field, your thighs got wet. I saw it. I fucking saw it.”

He drove in harder, and your throat closed around him. You gagged, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes as he fed himself deeper.

“You always looked at me like you wanted to be ruined,” he growled. “Like you didn’t want discipline — you wanted to be owned.”

Your fingers dug into your thighs, blunt nails biting through the fabric, grounding you as his cock hit the back of your throat again and again. The burn, the stretch, the utter lack of control — it consumed everything.

“Bet you touched yourself after drills,” he hissed, hand gripping the collar now, twisting it in his fist like a handle. “Bet you fucking moaned for me with your fingers in that little cunt, trying to pretend it didn’t mean anything.”

You whimpered around him, mouth slick, throat raw, the sound lost in the rhythm of his thrusts.

He chuckled. Low, filthy, dark.

“But it did, didn’t it?” he rasped, voice right above you now, hot breath ghosting your temple. “That’s why you’re still here. That’s why you’re taking me so fucking well.”

Then he pulled the collar tight, just enough to claim control of your breath, and began to move.

His hips snapped forward, setting a rhythm that was brutal in its precision. His cock filled your mouth over and over, thick and relentless, every thrust dragging you closer to the edge of something you didn’t even have a name for.

“You’re perfect like this,” he groaned, fucking deeper. “Fucking perfect.”

His pace grew rougher. More deliberate.

Each thrust forced your head back, the collar biting into the tender skin of your neck as he used it to pull you closer, over and over. The leather was stiff, unforgiving, the buckle digging into your throat like it had teeth. You could feel your pulse pounding beneath it, wild and frantic, the pressure dizzying, the restraint impossibly arousing.

“That feel good?” he muttered.

You moaned around him, throat stretched to the edge of what it could take.

He growled at the sound, his hips snapping forward harder.

“You like that I’m holding you here, don’t you?” His voice dropped into a whisper, barely more than a breath. “Like knowing I can do whatever I want to you, and you’ll take it. Because this —” he gave the collar a brutal tug that made your breath catch, “this is mine now.”

You gasped as he pulled back just enough to let air in, but not enough to loosen his hold. The collar stayed tight, saliva slick against your throat, the weight of it anchoring you in place while his cock slid against your lips — hot, swollen, hungry.

“You crawl for me. You wear this for me. You open that filthy little mouth and take me like you’ve been begging for it since day one.”

He slapped his cock across your tongue, once, twice — sharp little smacks that made your eyes flutter. Then he shoved back in, rougher than before, deeper, faster.

Your jaw throbbed. Your throat burned.

But you didn’t stop him.

You couldn’t.

Because you wanted this.

You’d wanted it since the first time he made you run past your limit, since the first time he’d said your name like a curse and a promise in the same breath.

Every day, you’d fallen into line.

Every bark. Every order. Every brutal drill he’d dragged you through had pointed to this — had been this, in disguise.

And your body, more honest than your thoughts, had recognized the truth long before your mind dared to name it.

This wasn’t breaking.

This was surrender — offering and salvation, all in one.

His rhythm stuttered.

You felt the way his breath hitched above you, the way his thighs tensed, the way his cock jerked in your mouth as he forced it deeper, chasing that final edge. His grip on the collar tightened, his other hand curling into your hair with white-knuckled force.

Then, suddenly, he yanked you back.

Not enough to hurt, but enough to make you gasp, your lungs seizing with the rush of air as your mouth slipped off him, slick and spit-slicked.

“Face up. Eyes on me.”

You obeyed instantly.

The collar tightened again as he hauled you back by it — his fist wound tight around the strap, leather pressing into your windpipe just enough to make your pulse spike.

Then he came.

Hot, thick ropes spilled across your lips, your cheek, your mouth. You gasped, blinking through it, mouth still open, tongue still out like a good fucking soldier. One last spurt hit the edge of the collar, slid down your throat.

He held your face there, panting, his hand still wrapped tight around the collar. Watching the mess drip down your lips, your chin, the swell of your throat. A streak of it clung to the leather, bright against the black. The smell of him clung to your skin, heavy and unshakeable.

You stumbled as he pulled you up by the collar, the leather biting deep into your throat, grinding across skin already rubbed raw. Your body obeyed, rising to your feet unsteadily — your breath ragged, heart pounding, lips sticky with the mess he’d left on your face.

But his eyes didn’t just linger on the sight of you.

They devoured it.

And then, like a puzzle snapping into place, you understood.

This hadn’t been punishment.

He hadn’t wanted to break you because he hated you.

He wanted to own you because he couldn’t stand how badly he wanted you.

You were the only one who fought back. The only one who could match him stare for stare, grind your teeth through every brutal command without complaint — and still fucking obey. You gave him exactly what he wanted, what no one else could.

That’s why he kept you out longer, pushed you harder, ignored the others. Because every time you followed through, every time you obeyed without submitting, it made him feral for you.

You saw it now. Clear as day.

He needed you to fall in line because no one else made it mean anything.

You could see it in his hands—fingers clenched tight around the collar, trembling with barely-contained restraint. You could feel it radiating off him in waves: the heat, the tension riding his jaw, the muscle ticking in his cheek like he was seconds from losing the control he wore like armor.

He hadn’t pushed you harder than anyone else to punish you.

He’d done it because he needed to see it — that edge. That breaking point. The exact moment when your defiance gave way to obedience. And every time you reached it, every time your body dropped into position with no complaint, it brought him right to his fucking limit.

He’d wanted to fuck you right there in the dirt. Not once. Not twice. Every damn time you obeyed without breaking. Every time you hit your knees on command, his fists curled at his sides from the overwhelming urge to reach down, grip your hair, and shove your face into the ground.

Make you understand what you were doing to him.

How easy it would be to ruin you.

To drag down your waistband, push inside, and fuck you until there was nothing left between you but sweat and breath and the truth you both refused to say.

But he didn’t.

Because control, the discipline he lived by, was the only thing keeping him from tearing into you like an animal, from showing every man on that field that you already belonged to him.

His fist curled in the strap and yanked — slow, rough, dragging you from your knees until you were upright, breath shallow, chest heaving against his.

Your face hovered inches from his chest. The sweat on your skin cooled in the air between you. You didn’t dare look up. Not until his other hand slid to the buckle.

He didn’t remove it right away. Just let his fingers rest there.

Then he leaned in.

Close. So close his lips brushed the shell of your ear, the heat of his breath skating across your cheek, down your neck, making every nerve in your body stand at attention.

“You wear that collar every time you step foot in this office,” he murmured.

The words burned.

“Are we clear, Sergeant?”

Your mouth parted. Voice wrecked and quiet.

“Yes, sir.”

A pause. Just long enough to feel him breathe you in.

Then the collar came loose.

He slid it off as if he were unhooking a leash. His fingers dragged along your neck, brushing the sensitive spots the leather had marked. Not tender. Not cruel. Just a reminder of what he’d taken and what he now owned.

He stepped back, calm as ever. Already tucked himself back in as if nothing had happened.

Dismissed you with nothing but a nod.

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fireya-x · 3 months ago

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craziest photo ever. like what

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fireya-x · 3 months ago

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hii i’m the anon who brought up florist!reader and butcher!price and oh my goodness you absolutely blew that idea out of the water. that was one of the most beautiful pieces i have ever read!! no dialogue but i was still able to immerse myself into the characters and the story, which is sooo impressive! thank you for writing it 💗 absolute masterpiece

I just now read this and omg 😭 thank you so much. I’m so happy you like it!! I had so much fun with that idea.

I’d never in a million years have come up with it myself so thank you for requesting it ♥️

I’m always open for more! my WIP list is long but there can never be enough🤭

#answering asks

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fireya-x · 3 months ago

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Cali, I've been thinking about Ursa Major, as one does, and realized that, because I don't play the game I don't really know what John looks like. I've seen clips from the game and fan art and even pictures of the actor from other shows.

But I'm so curious. Do you have an image of John in your mind when you write for him in this story? A literal visual.

I usually picture him very close to his video game pixel style but... if I'm being honest honest? He's just bigger, in my head at least. I have a very particular taste in masculine figures (regardless of gender). I like them big big. Too big. Like, can't fit on an airplane big. Like, makes the elevator alarm go off big. Duck their head through a doorway big. Russian powerlifter big.

Price is huge in my mind. Not just muscular. Chunky. I need fat on him. A big belly preferably. But I know that as a soldier he wouldn't look like how I'd want him to look so in most of my fics he's not as fat as I need him to be on a personal level. And he's gotta be hairy. Not like oooh a little bit of fur. No. Hairy. Hairy belly. Hairy back. Thick pubes. Fully covered. Too hairy for most people to find palatable.

In Ursa Major, I've written him to have more of a full beard, sort of like Barry Sloane in Six? But I may have just glossed over that.

I'll put some references below the cut so tumblr doesn't flag me. But honestly, they're not tall enough, fat enough, nor hairy enough for my personal tastes. But they are probably the most accurate to how I have written him. Hope this helps!

Also, if you're brave enough to dig through my likes, you'll see more of my taste. We listen and we don't judge okay? My likes are between me and the devil.

#captain john price

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fireya-x · 3 months ago

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heavy, dirty soul

【 AO3 Link (full tag list) || masterlist 】 ✦ John Price x Reader ✦ After a long mission, John is exhausted, bruised and distant. You take care of him. ✦ 3.7k words ✦ tags/cw: hurt, comfort, emotional intimacy, intimacy without sex, nsfw but no smut, nudity, injuries, showering together

He looks like hell.

Grimy, worn out, and the kind of tired that settles in a man’s bones and makes him older than he is. His shoulders hunch beneath the weight of his tac vest, stained from whatever hellhole he clawed his way back from. Dirt crusts the hem of his sleeves, and a dark smudge clings stubbornly to his jaw, half-hidden beneath the unkempt mess of his beard. His eyes – those deep, sharp blues – barely flicker when you step through the door.

You set the takeout down and say nothing.

The scent fills the office quickly: warm rice, spiced meat, a trace of soy and citrus curling up from the sauce. Something hearty. Something grounding. The kind of meal you knew he’d need after a mission like that. You’ve seen it before – how he gets afterward. How he forgets to eat, to breathe, to let go of the op and come back to himself.

The room is dimly lit, blinds half-shut to keep the afternoon sun from glaring off the tablet screens scattered across his desk. Papers are messily stacked, half of them likely reports left untouched. The takeout’s aroma gradually overtakes the faint smell of cigar smoke.

He sits across from you, staring at the food like it’s the first real thing he’s seen all day.

But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t reach for it. Doesn’t even shift in his seat.

You pull the container open for him, the heat unfolding slowly. Your fingers brush against the flimsy plastic cutlery as you fish out the fork, which bends slightly in your grip as you spear a piece of chicken, dripping with sauce.

His gaze follows the motion, but his body stays slack and unmoving.

So you lean forward, holding the fork right to his face.

“Seriously?”

His voice is low and dry, scraped raw from disuse – or maybe too much yelling. There’s a rasp to it, the kind you’re used to hearing when he comes home after long briefings or training days that stretch well past what anyone else would consider reasonable.

His brow twitches, eyes flicking up to meet yours with something close to disbelief, though it’s dulled at the edges.

“Eat, John.”

It’s not a request.

He stares at you for another second, then exhales hard through his nose. A faint smile tugs briefly at the corner of his mouth, but it dies quickly as he leans in and takes the bite.

You hold the fork steady as his lips close around it. He chews slowly, jaw tense, like he doesn’t trust that the first real food he’s tasted in days will stay down. He swallows. Licks the corner of his mouth, where some of the sauce clings.

“Good?” You ask, softer this time.

He nods but doesn’t look up. Instead, he pulls the takeout container closer and starts eating like a starving animal, like his body just remembered it needed food to survive.

Something in the way he moves tells you he hasn’t eaten properly in days. Like feeding himself was too far down the list.

You move around the desk without a word, crouching beside him, hands already going to the buckles of his vest. He doesn’t stop you, just tilts his head slightly to give you better access.

You slide it off his shoulders, careful not to tug too hard where you know he’s probably sore. It slips free with a bit of resistance, then drops to the floor with a heavy thump.

Underneath, his shirt clings to him like a second skin: sweat-darkened, stretched too wide at the collar, the fabric worn thin in places. There’s a patch of blood on the sleeve – old, maybe his, maybe not. You don’t ask. You never do.

Your hands move to his shoulders, thumbs pressing gently into the muscle there, working over the tight knots hidden beneath the surface. His body responds slowly, with a slight shift and a barely-there sigh, but his eyes close, and he leans into your touch with the kind of trust that always takes you by surprise – that quiet, unspoken surrender.

And somehow, that’s what nearly breaks your heart.

Not the blood. Not the bruises. Just that – how rarely he lets go, and how much it means when he does.

“That tough?” You ask, even though you already know the answer.

And the silence answers for him.

So do the little things – how his head dips forward slightly under your hands, his fingers curl into fists, and he breathes a little deeper with every slow pass of your palms over his shoulders.

This is routine. Nothing new.

You’ve done this countless times. Brought him food when you heard they were back on base, sat beside him in silence until the weight of it all began to slip off his shoulders, piece by piece. You don’t mind. Not for a second. Because he lets you see him like this. Because he trusts you with the aftermath.

And that means more than anything ever could.

Then his hand comes up slowly and covers yours where it rests on his shoulder. His thumb begins to rub slow, lazy circles into the back of your hand, and the movement is so gentle, so unlike the man you imagine he has to be out there. There’s no pressure, no urgency. Just a quiet ‘thank you’ – a wordless gesture of gratitude.

“You’re filthy,” you murmur, your fingers trailing down the nape of his neck, massaging in slow, steady circles. The skin is warm, a little damp. His hair is ruffled from his hat, sticking up in odd places, flattened in others. You smooth it without thinking.

“Don’t remind me,” he murmurs back, and there’s no bite in it. Just exhaustion.

Your hands skim lower between his shoulder blades, thumbs pressing in, and you feel him unravel slowly, like a spring wound too tight, finally loosening.

You pause, resting at the hem of his shirt, toying with the edge. “John,” you say softly. “I’m serious. You need to get out of this. All of it. It’s disgusting.”

He hums low in his throat. “You volunteering?”

You don’t answer. Instead, you strip the shirt over his head and drop it to the floor, revealing the full expanse of his back.

You suck in a breath.

His skin is a patchwork of bruises, old and new. Faint yellow blooms along his ribs, a fresh violet welt at his side, a jagged scrape near his shoulder. There’s dried blood near the collarbone, a rough streak of grime trailing down his spine, and the smell of smoke still clings to his hair. You’ve seen him like this before – battered, filthy, freshly returned from god-knows-where – but somehow, each time still cuts a little deeper like a bruise under your own skin that never quite fades.

“I hate seeing you like this.”

He exhales hard, and it almost sounds like a low and shaky laugh. “S’not as bad as it looks.”

“You always say that,” you murmur, your palm brushing lightly over the discolored skin, dusting off some dirt. “You need to get this shit off you.”

“I’ll shower later.”

“No,” you say, firm but not harsh. “You need to shower now . There’s blood on you. You reek. You’re not just gonna sit in it.”

He stares at the takeout box, jaw tight, like he’s weighing whether to push back or let you win this one. You ease closer, fingertips brushing his forearm, voice dropping with it.

“I’ll come with you.”

That makes him glance up. Something loosens, not in surrender, but in trust. That’s what this has always been with him. Not letting go because he’s weak, but letting you in because you’re the only person he lets see past the grit.

He nods, barely more than a breath of movement. But it’s enough.

You don’t say another word as you reach for his hand, and he takes it without hesitation. The trip down the hall is silent, his steps just slightly heavier than yours.

Inside the single-use washroom, he stops just inside the door while you lock it behind you. His shoulders slump in that particular way he only lets happen when no one else is watching, like the last thread holding him upright has finally snapped.

You step toward him, hands going to his belt. You make quick work of it – there’s no seduction here, not meant to be – just the firm, practiced touch of someone who’s done this before, who knows he’s hurting and wants to get him out of his own skin before it closes in on around him.

You open the belt, unfasten the button, and guide the zipper down. The fabric is stiff with dirt and sweat, heavy as it slides from his hips. You crouch to help him step out of the cargo pants and briefs, easing them over his bruised legs, and you try not to wince when you catch the red-scraped line along his thigh.

He says nothing. Just lets you do it.

You undress after, folding your clothes on the bench. His eyes are already on you when you straighten, not with hunger, but with that same wide-eyed exhaustion. Like you’re the only still point left in a spinning world.

You reach for his hand again and step beneath the warm stream of water.

The water flows down between your bodies, hot enough to sting, to chase the ache from your joints. It splashes off his shoulders in thick rivulets, soaking the floor at your feet and catching in the creases of old scars and bruised muscle.

You move slowly, your hands gentle as they glide over his skin.

You start at his collarbone, lathering some soap until it turns slick between your fingers, then work your way down, tracing over muscle, bone, scar. You now know each line of him – the ridge of his sternum, the subtle rise and fall of his ribs, the old scar that curves beneath his pec.

He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t need to. His eyes are closed, lips parted, breath steady but slow, so deliberate, like he’s trying not to miss a single second of it. Like if he keeps still enough, this moment might last longer.

You ease your hands to his waist and turn his body gently until his back is to you.

And there it is.

The map.

You know it by heart now. The constellation of healed-over bullet wounds, the pale ghosts of shrapnel near his lower ribs, the raised, silvery slash across his left scapula – the one you first traced with trembling fingers months ago, when he finally let you see it in the daylight.

But there are new stars on the map tonight.

A black-purple bruise like a boot print blooms over his lower back, raw around the edges. Two smaller, thumb-sized bruises sit along his left flank – grip marks, maybe. His right shoulder bears a scrape that looks half-healed, dirt still stubborn in the raw skin.

You press your palm lightly to his spine, just between the old scars, grounding him.

He doesn’t flinch.

Your fingers skim over every mark, cataloguing them silently. You don’t ask what happened. You already know. You’ve learned the language of his body, the different hues of pain, the quiet story written in scars and skin.

You dip the soap in your hands again, rich lather clinging to your fingertips, and move down the line of his back. He’s quiet, letting you tend to him like he’s something sacred. Like he knows he can’t hide anything from you here.

You drag the suds across the worst of the bruises, careful not to press too hard. Your hands work lower, over the curve of his hips, the muscle of his thighs. You handle him like someone would a broken thing. Not because he’s fragile, but because he’s been through too much to be treated with anything less than absolute care.

“Turn around for me.”

He does, slowly. Steam curls around the line of his shoulders as he faces you. His eyes open – heavy-lidded and damp – tracking every motion you make, gaze quiet and unreadable.

You take him in like this: bare, open, bruised and battered, and beautiful in the most brutal way. His chest rises and falls with slow, steady breaths. The water sheets off his skin, trailing down the ridges of his ribs, catching in the hollow beneath his throat, darkening the thatch of hair on his chest.

You lift the soap again and step closer.

Your hands move over his chest, gliding through coarse hair and the slick heat of his skin. You know this terrain just as well as his back – that faint scar under his right pec from a close-range shot, the shallow dent near his collarbone where bone once broke clean through.

You drag the lather lower, across his abdomen, the ridged muscle beneath softening under your touch.

He just watches you. Jaw slack. Eyes impossibly soft, like he’s still trying to understand how this moment is real.

You lather the soap again and reach between his legs.

Your touch is slow. Careful. Not teasing. Not meant to arouse. This is different – gentler than anything else, more intimate than sex. You wash him the same way you’ve washed every other part of him – thorough, tender, respectful. Like this is just another part of him you want to take care of. Another place where the world left its mark, and you’re here to make it clean again.

His cock rests heavy against your hand, softened by exhaustion and heat, twitching only faintly when your fingers glide down the shaft to his balls. You cup him delicately, run the soap through every crease, every fold.

His breath catches once – barely a sound – but it’s not from pleasure.

It’s from the way you hold him like he’s something worth cherishing.

When you rinse him, your fingers guide the water with the same reverence, making certain nothing is left behind.

No blood, no sweat, no grime.

Nothing of the outside world.

Only the clean, worn-down man standing in front of you.

You glance up at him, and the look he gives you guts something inside you.

He’s looking at you like you’re the only person who’s ever touched him like this.

Who has seen him like this.

And loved what you saw.

You reach for the sprayer again, adjust the angle, and wash yourself. He doesn’t look away. His eyes follow every motion, how you drag the soap across your chest, over your hips, down your thighs. You scrub briskly, working through the fatigue now also settling deep in your limbs, but his gaze never strays.

He watches like he’s memorizing you all over again.

With nothing but awe.

Like the steam has made everything holy. Like he’s standing in a church, and you’re the only thing on the altar.

You rinse clean, slick and glistening under the dim light.

When you step out, you grab the towel and wrap it around yourself, water still trailing down your legs. Another towel is pressed into his hands. He takes it without a word.

The silence between you now is different. It’s heavier. Thicker.

Full of everything you haven’t said. Full of everything that doesn’t need to be said.

He dries off slowly, watching you the whole time. His hands move a little clumsily, like he’s not entirely sure how to be in his own body anymore – like he’s still trying to catch up to the tenderness he’s just been given.

When he’s done, you cross the small space between you and place your hands on either side of his face. Your thumbs sweep gently beneath his eyes, brushing away the dampness there. It’s not really tears.

But something fragile. Something honest.

You press your forehead to his. For a moment, neither of you move. The world narrows to this: damp skin, quiet breathing, the pulse beneath your fingertips.

Then you kiss him.

A slow, careful press of your lips to his.

He doesn’t pull you closer, doesn’t deepen it. He just lets it happen – like he understands exactly what it is. Like he knows it isn’t meant to spark anything but stillness. A stillness he can’t give himself, but craves all the same.

Without a word, he hands you one of his sweatshirts, and you pull it over your head. It swallows you, the sleeves brushing your fingertips, the scent of him baked into the fabric – clean laundry, cigars, and something warm beneath it all that’s just… him.

It’s comforting. Familiar.

Something that makes you feel closer to him, even when exhaustion has pulled him somewhere distant and quiet inside himself.

You followed him back to his office under the pretense that he forgot something – the tension already rebuilding in his shoulders. Each step is heavy, like he’s pulling against some invisible chain, drawn back into the familiar orbit of responsibility he can’t seem to escape, no matter how many bruises or wounds he carries.

You almost don’t believe what you’re seeing.

Like a machine, he walks back to his desk, as if the shower never happened. As if your hands hadn’t just touched every broken inch of him, hadn’t washed the blood and dirt from his skin with reverence. Like none of it reached him. It was as if the threshold to his office reset him, and all it took was one look at the desk for the weight of the world to settle back on his shoulders.

He sinks into his chair with a sigh, the leather creaking softly beneath his weight, and immediately reaches for the paperwork scattered haphazardly across the desk.

“John,” you say quietly, gently, but not without an edge of warning.

He glances up, meeting your eyes briefly before he sighs, already anticipating your next words. “Don’t start,” he mutters, turning his gaze back toward the paper. “This won’t take long.”

“Right,” you scoff. “We both know you’re lying. You’ll be here all night. Again.”

He huffs, trying for irritation, but it barely carries any weight. “You’re relentless.”

“Only because you’re stubborn,” you counter. You tilt your head, watching him carefully, aware of every lingering bruise beneath his clothes. Your voice softens, concern seeping through. “Come on, please? Lie down. Get some rest, or I swear to God, I’ll drag you to bed myself.”

That finally makes him look at you properly, a flicker of amusement surfacing behind the exhaustion in his eyes.

“Bet your team would pay good money to see me try,” you add, a grin forming despite your seriousness.

He snorts, shakes his head, a smile tugging briefly at the corners of his mouth. But his shoulders remain stiff, and his voice drops again. “Can’t yet. There’s still work –”

“Bloody hell, John, that can wait,” you interrupt. “You’re barely awake as it is.”

His jaw tightens briefly, that familiar flicker of pride flashing in his eyes before giving way to weary resignation.

“I’ll stay if you want,” you offer, meaning it. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Absolutely not.”

You sigh, rolling your eyes and reaching for his hand across the desk. “John –”

“You never sleep well here,” he says, voice rougher now, protective frustration bleeding through. “Those bunks are shite, and you always wake up sore. It’s not happening.”

You laugh softly, stepping closer. “I don’t care.”

“I do,” he says without hesitation. The fierceness in his voice makes your chest tighten.

“John,” you murmur again, just his name – but it’s enough. A soft plea, steady and warm, tugging him toward you even as he tries to hold his ground. “I’m staying with you tonight. And if you don’t move right now, I will drag your stubborn ass down the corridor.”

He opens his mouth to argue again, but the look in your eyes seems to drain the fight from him, replacing stubbornness with reluctant acceptance. He sighs deeply, head bowing slightly, and finally allows you to tug him gently from his chair.

You lace your fingers tighter with his, feeling the calloused warmth of his palm pressed against yours, and lead him out of his office into the empty corridor outside.

It’s late enough that nearly everyone has left for the night, and the low buzz of lights overhead is the only sound accompanying you both as you slowly walk toward his quarters. Beside you, each step John takes feels heavier, slower – like the exhaustion is finally catching up to him, dragging at his limbs, weighing him down with every breath he takes.

When you finally reach his quarters, you push the door open and guide him inside, flipping on the single lamp beside the bed. The soft yellow glow spills gently over the sharp edges of his tired face, brightening the deep shadows beneath his eyes.

You lead him silently to the bed, nudging him down until he sits at the edge of the mattress, staring blankly at the floor like he’s not quite sure how he got there.

“Lie down,” you demand, your voice soft as your hand presses gently on his shoulder. He lets you guide him, shoulders easing back until they finally meet the pillow. The mattress dips beneath him, but his body remains rigid, like he’s waiting for something. A call. Another demand, another battle. An alarm that never stops ringing in the back of his mind.

You climb into the bed and shift toward him slowly. You barely fit onto the mattress beside him, so you let your arm slide carefully around his waist. Your chest is pressed against his side, and your head finds that familiar spot tucked perfectly against the curve of his neck.

His muscles remain locked tight, like part of him doesn’t believe he’s allowed this. You.

You sigh softly, pressing closer, and lift your chin to kiss the line of his jaw. A familiar gesture, one you’ve done countless times when words weren’t enough to reach him.

It’s a promise: I’m here. You’re safe. You’re with me.

And the moment your lips touch his skin, something in him finally breaks.

He exhales – long, deep, a breath dragged from somewhere buried. The sound carries the weight of the entire day, or maybe, of too many days. His arms come around you slowly, then fully, wrapping you in a firm, unspoken need.

“Thank you,” he whispers, the words carrying more than simple gratitude – they’re heavy with trust, with love, with quiet awe at the simple gift of your presence.

You smile softly against his chest, pressing closer still, your fingers drawing slow, soothing circles along his side.

And only then, with you wrapped safely in his arms, your heartbeat anchoring him, does he finally, quietly, drift into sleep.

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fireya-x · 3 months ago

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slutty price

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fireya-x · 4 months ago

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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.

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