I recently made a few posts that got some attention. First, I'd like to thank you for reading and sharing your support! It means a lot to me since I'm trying to get back into creative writing. Second, I want to preempt any questions by stating it here - and clearly - that I do not support the use of my work for training Artificial Intelligence. Generative Artificial Intelligence is killing our planet and has negative impacts on our environment, psychology, and more. Do not use my content for any such purposes, whether it's to train AI or to use it for an AI chat service. And, lastly, I don't do any kind of editing. I just publish and then make corrections later as I realize how badly I butchered the English language (it's cathartic after a day of editing stuff at work). If you notice any errors, please let me know. I'm always happy to correct my mess ups. And, finally, let's make things easier to find!
This is the reading list of everything I've posted to this blog. Content can also be found by visiting my AO3 account (link on my home page). Pairings can be found in parentheses following the title of each work. Explicit content that is not safe for work and is exclusively 18+ is marked with a pink asterisk. Content that includes graphic violence is marked with a red exclamation point. Please read the warnings provided at the beginning of those pieces (also in red) before deciding to proceed.
Happy reading!
SARAH J. MAAS-VERSE
↳ Azriel, Who Wants You to Beg for It * - (Azriel x reader).
CALL OF DUTY
↳ Captain John Price Has a Pretty, Young Thing. Part I. - (John Price x reader).
↳ Captain John Price Has a Pretty, Young Thing. Part II. - (John Price x reader).
↳ Captain John Price Has a Pretty, Young Thing. Part III. * - (John Price x reader).
↳ Captain John Price Has a Pretty, Young Thing. Part IV. ! - (John Price x reader).
↳ Captain John Price Has a Pretty, Young Thing. Part V. * - (John Price x reader).
↳ Captain John Price Has a Pretty, Young Thing. Part VI. - (John Price x reader).
↳ Captain John Price Has a Pretty, Young Thing. Part VII. - (John Price x reader).
↳ Captain John Price Has a Pretty, Young Thing. Part VIII. - (John Price x reader).
↳ Captain John Price Has a Pretty, Young Thing. Part IX. * - (John Price x reader).
↳ Captain John Price Has a Pretty, Young Thing. Part X. - (John Price x reader).
↳ John Price's Pretty, Young Thing Thoughts, Part I. - (John Price x reader).
MARVEL CINEMATIC UNIVERSE
↳ Everything, Everywhere, All at Once (You and I, Two Threads in This Tapestry of Life). Prologue. - (Steve Rogers x Original FMC)
Everything, Everywhere, All at Once (You and I, Two Threads in This Tapestry of Life).
Prologue.
From the author: Hello! Please refer to this link for any questions about my work and to find links to all of my work. This work is also available on AO3. If you have any questions that cannot be answered through this page, feel free to send me a message! Remember that I do not own these characters or the franchise. And, finally, thank you for reading.
NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK, UNITED STATES
Monday, January 18, 1937
Steve Rogers knows embarrassment.
The way it curdles the stomach, acidic as it burns the back of the throat, and tenderizes the spot over his sternum. The way it prickles an unpleasant red flush across his pale cheeks, fever bright in the silent moments of panic-blank stares.
It’s what he feels now as he carefully counts out the quarters on the pharmacy counter a third time.
He knows the cents won’t add up.
Four weeks of pneumonia had crippled his finances as much as it had his ability to breathe. There had been no time, or strength, to do his paper routes or help Mr. Davidson restock the afternoon vegetable stands at the back of the grocers between wet, shallow breaths. The wad of one-dollar bills he’d been saving in case of an emergency had been enough to cover the month’s rent. He’d handed over those four dollars and forty-eight cents with reluctant defeat. Once that was paid, he’d been left with a pocket full of coins.
The same coins that he was recounting a fourth time.
Some of it might have gone to food if Bucky hadn’t stopped by with more soup than he knew what to do with. That one pot had lasted him a solid week; he knew how to ration a meal for survival. When the soup ran out, and he could finally tie his shoes without getting dizzy, the soup kitchen at the church down the street had helped fill the aching void of hunger without spending the rest of his emergency fund. The one where all the women who organized evening meals knew him by name. Not because he visits often — though God knows he does — but because he was and always would be Sarah Roger’s boy.
Those meals had helped him save his pennies. But it wasn’t enough. He was at least halfway short on what he needed to get the latest round of his sulfonamide therapy.
The pharmacist watches him with a mix of pity and impatience, as if he is taking inventory of the ripped stitching on his worn-out, newspaper-lined leather shoes or his father’s hand-me-down, too-large coat hanging off his shoulders and trying to figure out how to let him down easy.
“How much to add two bottles of Coca-Cola?”
He’d heard the click of her heels when she had taken up the spot behind him in line. Even with his eyes wholly focused on change, he had still been aware of her, had been waiting for her to get angry or impatient.
She doesn’t do either, though. There’s another rustle of shoe dragging against the wood floorboards as she steps up beside him, all practical prettiness as she digs through her coin pouch. Her head bows briefly. He’s shorter than her, though. Not by much. But enough to give him a good look at her face as she searches. The straight line of her nose scrunches in a way that pushes a bit of roundness into the height of her cheekbones. There’s a ripple where the skin of her jaw pulls tight, and her cheek dimples as if the flesh inside her mouth catches between her teeth.
“With the two Colas, it brings the total up to….” The pencil scratches hastily on a paper pad, wood dragging as the lead nub shrinks, “Two dollars and 25 cents, with tax.”
As if completely unbothered by the answer, by the sheer expensiveness of buying medication, she slides a rolled-up five-dollar bill across the counter.
Both Steve and the pharmacist stare.
As the pharmacist fumbles for the five-dollar bill and the change box, counting under his breath, 'one and two and -,' Steve rakes his eyes over her. Dark hair pulled away from her face and pinned up neatly, one hand going to the string of pearls that lay just above the collar of her tailored dress and heavy wool overcoat. Not the kind of woman who spared him attention, let alone offered help.
It’s the eyes that get him, though. His head tips back as he eyes the tailoring of her dress, and he finds her watching him with a head cocked to the side, eyes steady and blinks so slow that her dark lashes against her pale cheek reminds him of the Domenico Fetti painting of a sleeping woman that his art teacher had always used as an example of the human form in the brief semester he’d attended art school before his mother had died.
She smiles then. Just a small upturn at the corner of her mouth on the right side before her attention shifts away from him, back to the pharmacist as he slides two dollars and seventy-five cents across the white Formica countertop. The crisp paper bag containing his medication and two glass bottles of Coca-Cola follows it.
In a motion so swift that he barely comprehends it, she slides the change and one of the bottles into the paper bag. No offerings. No demands. No words exchanged. No room for disagreement as her leather pumps click with every step, the bag abandoned within his reach. Just the crystalline tinkle of the shop bell as she steps out onto the street.
Steve Rogers doesn’t even have a chance (or know how) to thank her. What he does know is that single, simple act of kindness is everything.
Working on the upcoming Marvel Steve Rogers fanfiction and the upcoming ACOTAR fanfiction. But, as I'm writing, I'm wondering what people prefer reading. Recently, I've seen an uptick in people saying they hate first-person writing. How do you feel about it? And, if you want to expand, drop a comment about why you like that particular writing form.
What perspective structure do you like in your fanfics?
I love reading stories written in first-person!
I like first-person pov but only when we are getting multiple perspectives.
I will not read first-person.
I like second-person pov and usually read y/n fanfictions that center me.
Captain John Price Has a Pretty, Young Thing. Part X.
From the author: Hello! Please refer to this link for any questions about my work and to find links to all of my work. If you have any questions that cannot be answered through this page, feel free to send me a message! Remember that I do not own these characters or the franchise. And, finally, thank you for reading.
Side note: It's been approximately one year today since I published part one in this series. If you've read the series, thank you so much! I'm so happy that some weird midnight thoughts I couldn't shake became this. I had no idea John Price would become my introduction back into creative writing, but I'm certainly not mad about it.
Captain John Price's pretty, young thing is a planner. That much is obvious from the way she tries to think through every possible outcome.
"I'd really love to avoid serving jail time."
It isn't the first time she's said it since waking up. It won't be the last, undoubtedly. Somehow, she manages to worry and multitask.
"Yeah," he mutters, holding an unlit cigar. The pointed look as she pulls on a pair of jeans is enough to stop him from reaching for his lighter. "Me too."
He wasn't being sarcastic. No teasing tone or gruff humor. He really didn't want her in some high-security prison. The chances of her coming out alive....
Well. They weren't great.
Not that she couldn't handle herself. But he'd seen men built like tanks go down hard thanks to one small, well-placed blade. All it took was a momentary lapse of attention to bleed out in the yard. And mafia - or mob, or domestic terrorists, or whatever she wanted to call herself - would always be at risk. There was always someone who held a grudge.
"Maybe if you can provide additional -"
"Boundaries."
Fuck.
He'd known it was coming - the moment they would have to face the line drawn between their worlds. His military life. Her criminal empire.
He doesn't like it. Not one goddamn bit.
He wasn't stupid. He had always known there were things about her operations that she couldn't share with him if she wanted to stay out of prison. It was a divide that couldn't be breached. Not if they wanted to avoid tragedy. And the thought of ever being put in a position where he had to arrest her made his stomach turn violently.
"Right. Boundaries."
The word tastes bitter in his mouth because what the hell kind of relationship was this going to be if the two of them had boundaries like that? If there were things she couldn't tell him, things he couldn't know about her world? It sucked.
It wasn't like either of them had a choice, though. Not unless one of them walked away from the other entirely.
That wasn't happening.
Not yet, at least.
The lighter clicks. Heat flickers across his fingertips. Her eyes narrow. With a sigh, he stands. The window makes an awful creaking sound as he props it open with a wood block. Smoke curls between the two of them, thick and heavy, like an invisible wall forming where words can't fill the gap.
He stares at her through the haze.
Then, quietly, "I don't want to be your enemy."
That is all he can say. Because that's what this line in the sand risked turning him into, if things went south someday: her enemy.
"We don't have to be enemies," she agrees.
He watches her as she pulls on a loose button-up. The fabric flows, light as a feather, as she buttons it. Silk. Probably silk. The kind that would catch on his calluses if he were to try touching her.
Smoke drags on the inhale, choked down with the uncertainty of whether or not her words were an empty reassurance.
"Then what do we do?" he demands. "How the hell do we make this work when my job is to stop people like you? When I could get called in on a raid against your operation tomorrow?"
He didn't want to be an enemy either, but Christ, the odds weren't exactly in their favor.
"I guess you take the call."
The silence stretches, a thin sewing thread going taut between them, threatening to pull at the seams.
"I mean..." she continues, tucking the blouse into her jeans, "A lot of these problems would still be present even if you were to date a civilian, right? You wouldn't be able to tell them about your work. There would be that element of... you know."
She waves a hand as she slides her feet into a pair of flats, as if the exact word she wants escapes her.
"Secrets are the name of the game. And, in this case, the rules of engagement go both ways instead of one way. But if you get a call... you take it. And I guess we just try not to kill each other, if it ever comes down to that."
She makes it sound so easy, like a plan rooted in place and unshakeable. But it wasn't just about the secrecy with her. It was a full-on conflict of interest. She wasn't a sweet civilian with an office job. She was... this. And if his team ever made a move against her, it would be personal as hell.
Price rubs at his jaw, exhaling smoke through gritted teeth and metal screening before finally nodding once -- a slow acceptance of what this meant going forward.
"Try not to kill each other."
"Try not to kill each other," she echoes, stepping into his personal space to hook her fingers in the collar of his shirt, mouth ghosting across his, "After all... if you wanted normal, you would have found normal, John. Don't be surprised when you get exactly what you're looking for."
The ghost of her kiss lingers as she drifts away and he watches her with steady eyes.
He hadn't wanted normal. Not really. He'd wanted someone sharp enough to outthink him. Fierce enough to make his blood run hot. Dangerous as hell in all the best ways. Soft enough to take the edge off on a long day.
Captain John Price watched his pretty, young thing pull away with a smirk that said she knew exactly who and what she was.
I know some of you followed me specifically for my writing and things have been very quiet since October. So thank you for your patience! I appreciate the grace since I unexpectedly moved apartments, just got back from reporting in a war zone, and have been deep in grant-writing for work.
May is, perhaps, the busiest time of the year for me in general. Between vendoring at my local Renaissance fair for three weeks, fundraising for work, candidate coverage for the primary election, and both my birthday and my partners birthday, I will be sleeping for the entire last week of the month (as is the tradition). But, after the spring chaos has settled, you can expect the next chapter of 'Captain John Price Has a Pretty, Young Thing' sometime in early June! If you're a fan of ACOTAR or Marvel, I also have the first chapter of an Azriel/FMC and a Steve Rogers/FMC coming out. But those probably won't be out until the later part of June or early July.
The thing I like most about being a journalist for a radio station is that sometimes - like... four times a year - our program director makes the mistake of letting me do an hour-long music program for my own enrichment.
Tomorrow is that day. I am prepared to unsettle a lot of people with the most discordant music.
I think one of the funniest parts of reporting on my state's legislature is that every single social media platform, except Tumblr, is blocked.
Even funnier, every single journalist in my vicinity has checked Tumblr at some point in the last two hours.
When you spend a few hours plotting out a whole new fanfiction instead of finishing part ten of your ongoing COD series...
Any way...
Is anyone a fan of A Court of Silver Flames? If so, how do we feel about a slow burn romance and political drama fanfic centered around Azriel and a diplomat from the Continent working together to thwart Koschei?
Also featuring:
His/Her POVs.
She's a mixed species Fae, both a Procubis (a nomadic species that generates magic by feeding on sexual energy) and Nazarati (a species that specializes in elemental magic).
She's almost as old as those in the Inner Circle (a little younger).
Strong friendship between MC and the Valkyries; she and Nesta get along fantastically.
Slow burn romance where Azriel starts off pining for Elain and is in love with her by the end.
Forced proximity through shared end goals.
Two realistic people fall in love slowly over time.
Blunt, sarcastic character x secretly soft, grumpy character coded.
MC comes from a parliamentary government style rather than a monarchy.
References to real mythology regarding Koschei.
Builds on the multi-world concepts introduced in ACOSF/Crescent City.
Deep interrogation of in-world politics/cultural norms by characters, including class/species/gender dynamics.
Background Elain/Lucien.
Features numerous places both in Prythian and on the continent.
Captain John Price Has a Pretty, Young Thing. Part IX.
From the author: Hello! Please refer to this link for any questions about my work and to find links to all of my work. If you have any questions that cannot be answered through this page, feel free to send me a message! Remember that I do not own these characters or the franchise. And, finally, thank you for reading.
WARNING: NSFW. MDNI. 18+. My contributions to kinktober with... well. I don't know WHAT this is. But it's here. So. Contains shotgunning, discussions of STDs and birth control, unprotected oral sex (male receiving), masturbation, unprotected sex pinv, accidental cumshot.
Captain John Price is on her doorstep at 7:00 a.m. sharp, with a mint tea with an obscene amount of sugar (just his opinion), the way she usually makes it in hand.
He's greeted by his pretty, young thing, all sleep-rumpled and glaring.
"Why are you always awake?" She demands, dragging her hair over her shoulder, the hem of her short sleep dress inching scandalously upward with the motion.
"This is a perfectly reasonable time to be up."
The look she gives him is doubtful at best, condemning at worst. But she doesn't argue as she holds the door open wider for him.
His boot-laden footsteps are heavy as he meanders after her, setting her tea on the counter even as she pads into the half-dark bedroom. When she returns, she has socks in her hands, heavy wool in a dark blue that almost looks black in the low light. Taking a seat in one of the wooden chairs, she pulls on one sock and then the other.
"How long have you been up? You smell like you've smoked at least two cigars already."
Price bristles a bit at that.
"Does it bother you?"
She gives him a thoughtful look as she stands.
"I don't love the way cigars smell," she admits before she crowds into his space, body pressed to his and trapping him between her and the counter. Curious hands explore the inside pockets of his flannel-lined jacket until she finds what she's looking for. Turning the half-burnt cigar and lighter in her hands, she gives him a stern look. "It's a bad habit."
He bristles again. He'd brought her tea, ready for a nice chat, and she was chiding him for smoking -
There's a click as the wheel turns, the low flame lighting the end of the cigar to a smoldering glow.
"Pot calling the kettle black?" He muses as she leans to the side, long enough to yank the window above her sink open.
"Don't be silly. It is a bad habit," she snorts, "Bad for your health at least. But who am I to judge what's 'good' or 'bad' anyway?"
She takes a drag of his cigar. The first puff has her grimacing, doing her best to hide the way her throat constricts and her cough stutters out of her lungs. When the fit has subsided, she takes another small drag of the cigar. Then another. Another until she can take a pull without coughing.
"You're going to smoke the whole damn -"
Rolling her eyes, body pressed to his, she twines her fingers in his hair. With that leverage, she goes to her tiptoes to press her mouth to his. It's a small exhale, an invitation on her tongue. One he accepts from her gladly, the harshness of the nicotine-infused smoke filtered through her lips.
It makes his head dizzy.
Or, maybe, it's a mix of the smoke and the fact that he's very aware of how much he wants her.
She puts space between them, a wicked look in her eyes that has him throbbing. For a brief moment, he seriously considers laying her out on the kitchen table and devouring his pretty, young thing.
He doesn't.
Instead, he rubs his thumb over her lower lip, chasing tendrils of smoke. "We still need to talk."
"And we will," she agrees, "But right now... condom?"
"Not here." Those words have her pausing in surprise, cigar forgotten. He sighs before answering her silent question. "Counters are too short. We'll both be uncomfortable."
She snickers.
Without any better way to put the cigar out, she flicks on the tap and runs water over the end. It has him wincing slightly. She might as well throw the whole thing away. Instead she sets it to the side, and he privately promises himself to throw the soggy thing away outside when he leaves.
She's quick on her feet, coaxing him to the bedroom. He loosens the ties on his boots enough to kick them off and crawls into the still-warm sheets. He starts to shed the jacket too, before digging out an unopened package of condoms from one of the many internal pockets lining the inside. She takes it from him, studying the sealed cardboard.
"Were you planning for me? Or someone else?"
Price isn't sure if it's an accusation or not. Part of him wants to be insulted that she could think one fight would send him running to find a new bed partner. He doesn't let his temper rear its head though.
"You're the only goddamn woman who's been in my bed in a month. You really think I was planning on spending my night with someone else?" He wheezes out a laugh.
"Just wanted to be sure," she mumbles with a shrug before cautiously adding, "And this... it's going to stay that way?"
"Yeah. It's gonna stay that way. There isn't going to be anyone else but you, unless one of us decides to split."
It wasn't the most romantic declaration. John Price was a pragmatic man. He knew that he was devoted to his career. His men were his family. He spent more time away than home, and that could drive someone up the wall on a good day. If there came a day she turned him away, he would go without making a fuss about it. But as long as his pretty, young thing wanted him... well. She had him.
"As soon as I see a recent STD test, we can stop buying these then."
It's a casual statement as she rips open the cardboard box. His mind blanks. Then he's digging his phone out of his jacket pocket, hands shaking a bit as he unlocks it. When he shoves it in her face, it takes several attempts for her to read through it all the way.
"Huh."
"What's that mean?"
"You just keep this on you? Like... all the time?"
"I pulled it up after you mentioned it the first time. Just in case."
She nods, handing the phone back before she set aside the box of condoms. It was smart. It was thoughtful of him.
Scooting to the edge of the bed, she digs around in her bedside table before offering him her own test results. He glances at it long enough to confirm her earlier assurances. It leaves only one question.
"And you're on some kind of birth control?"
"Yes. The implant thing."
As if to illustrate her point, she lifts her arm and presses her thumb to the underside. A thin line shifts under the skin.
"Stop that," he grimaces.
Her grin is teasing, but she obeys. Chewing on the inside of her cheek, her voice drops to a murmur, "I want to taste you."
A quick jolt of lust has him forgetting about STDs and birth control. It has him stripping off his clothes - and the dress she'd slept in - with a focus more suitable to the battlefield than the bedroom. He almost groans when she's left in a little black thong, sliding to her knees in front of where he sits at the edge of the bed. The sound comes out strangled. It has her grinning up at him as she laps at him. The taste of clean salt and musk mixes with just a hint of bitterness; those cigars really were a bad habit.
The bitterness fades into the background. It's barely an afterthought as she takes as much of him as she can, fingers working between her own thighs.
He can't stand it for long, though. He tugs on a strand of her hair just hard enough to get her attention.
"I want you."
"How?"
"From behind. I want you to keep touching yourself."
It's both a want and a test. One she passes when they trade places, and she arches her spine, knees wide against the edge of the bed, wiggling at him, taunting. This woman who didn't take orders from anyone, who didn't give up control to anyone, was letting him take the lead.
There's a hiss of discomfort from her when he jerks the thong to the side, the fabric stretching thin across the flesh of her ass. A complaint is on her lips before he's whispering in her ear, "Well? Show me. I want to see how you touch yourself."
She does. He watches her. Fascinated. Entranced. As much as he wants to touch, to tease and taste, there's something beautiful about learning exactly how his pretty, young thing liked to be pleased. When the urge to touch overwhelms the desire to watch, he pats her hip.
"Lift."
She obeys, fingers still rubbing at herself and face buried in the unmade sheets. That slow initial stretch has her muffled moan going loud despite being buried in pillows and blankets.
"Fuck, John."
Fuck, indeed.
He'd always scoffed at the younger recruits who complained that sex felt better without condoms. It was usually followed closely by a stern lecture about having safe sex; while safe sex talks weren't technically a part of his job description, it was his responsibility to set a good example. And that meant reinforcing the idea that consent, condoms, and good communication were important.
But, for the first time, he understands it. She's deliciously, filthily wonderful, clenching around him as if silently demanding more.
"All wet and sensitive, aren't you? Don't worry. We'll get there," he soothes, peppering kisses down the back of her neck.
Another muffled, barely-there moan.
It's not enough for him to feel the reverberation of it. His fingers tangle in her hair, urging her face out of her mattress. It's more satisfying when another sound rips from her throat, fully audible this time. He won't let her hide. He wants everything from her.
His arm winds around her throat, pinning her back to him. She sets her teeth into the meat of his bicep in retaliation. She doesn't bite down. It doesn't even really hurt, just gives her a little bit of control in an otherwise vulnerable position. And he's happy to give her that. Especially because it's almost grounding, tethering them together even as each stroke has her shuddering under him.
She makes a desperate whimpering sound - a warning sound - before she's pulsing around him. The suddenness of his answering orgasm takes him by surprise. He barely has time to pull out before he's painting streaks of white across her ass and the backside of her thong.
"Shit," he mumbles, reaching for the drawer where she kept all her toys. Finding the box of baby wipes he'd remembered seeing a few weeks ago, he carefully cleans her and then himself. "Sorry. I didn't want to assume no condom meant I was free to do whatever. It snuck up on me."
She watches him toss the wipes in the trash, looking rumpled and content.
"It's alright. And you don't need to pull out. I've got a lot of faith in my birth control."
Even as he thinks that he should take a shower --- he knows he probably smells like sweat, sex, and cigars --- he's smiling wryly at her reassurance, crawling back into bed.
"We still have to talk."
"Later," she mumbles as she tucks herself into his side, "And this time? Don't wake me up until it's at least nine."
His smile widens, just a little, as his pretty, young thing drifts off to sleep.
Captain John Price Has a Pretty, Young Thing. Part VIII.
From the author: Hello! I am back from my two-week vacation! Thank you for your patience since I didn't get even half of my to-do list done (as usual). Please refer to this link for any questions about my work and to find links to all of my work. If you have any questions that cannot be answered through this page, feel free to send me a message! Remember that I do not own these characters or the franchise. And, finally, thank you for reading.
Captain John Price’s pretty, young thing is either a genius or she’s mad. She has papers spread across the unmade sheets of the bed he’d claimed in the safe house, considering receipts, maps, and cross-referencing between the two. She chews absently on a thin chocolate-chip cookie from the pack that Soap and Gaz had brought back from their trip to the shop before being sent to work in the living room with Ghost.
“It may be simpler if I do this on my own.”
“No more secrets,” he gruffs out, voice rough from the last cigar he had smoked through. He’d burned through it in under five minutes, the blazing nub nipping at his fingertips. It was the only sign that he was (maybe) a little stressed out by his pretty, young thing.
Especially because he can’t tell if her attempt at deflection is a sign that there are more secrets cleverly hidden between the truths.
John Price is not a man who likes surprises. And while he understands what - and, more importantly, the why - of what she had done, he’s not letting her shut him out. Not if they were both serious about making this work. “We do this together.”
Her head cocks, hair slipping off her shoulder. Like she’s studying a curious specimen, evaluating the stubborn set of his jaw.
“Okay.”
It’s a cautious olive branch. A peace offering. One that’s met with only the barest softening around his eyes before he leans forward on the couch, elbows steadied on his knees.
“Run me through it again.”
Her eyes narrow at the brisk command. But she doesn’t push back against it (though the words do rise, sharp and ready). Her fingers trail the highlighted borders of a territory. “I’ve eliminated a few potential suspects for who stole the other half of the weapons cache. If we can narrow it down to two or three people to study in-depth, I might be able to leverage that information to negotiate leniency for the half I stole -“
“And if that isn’t enough?”
“I’m kind of counting on that being enough, honestly,” He stares. She blinks. Swallowing down the rest of the cookie, she grudgingly adds, “I don’t suppose S.A.S. would consider it a return on investment for the labor involved in helping you track down the other half, would they?”
He’s lighting another cigar, sucking in a long drag as if lighting his lungs on fire were more effective than screaming out his frustration with her.
“No. No,” he coughs out a bit, “I don’t think they would.”
“I’m not even a real threat.”
Her complaint isn’t quite a pout. It’s a small downturn of her lips, a slow blink of slightly widened eyes, as if she could convince him that she wasn’t an actual danger to his sanity, his mission, and his career.
“I don’t think they would even let people they deem ‘not-real-threats’ keep military-grade weaponry,” he counters.
“Fine.”
The left side of the mattress sinks under her weight. Picking at the fraying edge of the blanket, she considers the situation. The truth sat uncomfortably heavy between them; he hadn’t told the rest of his team her secret.
“I’ll have to give them back, won’t I?”
Cigar smoke catches the small sliver of light trickling in through the half-drawn curtains. It coils and disintegrates in the air, fleeting despite how quickly it was replaced by the next exhale.
“Yes. I think you will.”
“Will it be enough to avoid a prison sentence?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’d really like to avoid prison.”
The words are mild, but there’s a hint of uncertainty, of panic, lacing them. If he hadn’t known her, he might have missed them. But he does know her. Too well.
“I know.”
“I need time to think. I do best when I have time to think it out.”
And plan for the worst-case scenario. It’s unspoken, but he can hear the way the panic bleeds into that errant thought. It makes him want to wrap her up, to protect her from this. But she’s an adult. She’d known the potential consequences long before he’d been in the picture. It was up to her to get herself out of it.
“Time…” he flicks the ash off the end of his cigar, watching how it sparks bright briefly before going grey against his cargo pants, “I can buy you time. But only so much.”
Relief flickers through her at the offer.
“I can work with that,” she says softly, hastily stacking some of the papers to the side.
“But you have to keep me in the loop,” he warns, as he stamps out the cigar. She’s nodding vigorously, more than happy to agree to those terms. Yet, something nags in the back of his mind. That boy she’d murdered; what she’d told him had been convoluted, even if it had been technically true. How she had lied for weeks, shrugging it off as a ‘lie of omission.’ He was only a bit wary after seeing how she had a nasty habit of playing word games. “Use your words.”
She knows what he’s thinking. She knows what he’s getting at.
“Jesus fucking - fine,” she frowns, “I promise that I will keep you up to date with my plans as I think through potential ways to return the stolen weapons to S.A.S. without catching a prison sentence. Are you happy?”
He is. She might play word games. But he’s never seen her break a direct promise.
She must see the satisfaction in his face because she gives him a huff that seems to accuse him of smugness. But she simply finishes gathering her papers.
“I need to get going. I have dinner plans.”
Irritation prickles through him. “With who?”
She glances up, mouth curving upward briefly, “Jealous?”
He just stares, waiting and patient.
His pretty, little thing doesn’t answer right away. She straightens the stack of papers before she shifts it to his bedside table. Neat. Controlled. When there’s no more fidgeting to do, she skirts the bed, moving to stand toe-to-toe with him. He has to dip his head so they’re more face-to-face.
“I meant what I said,” she says sternly, “You have me. And you don’t need to worry about my loyalty. You have it, too.”
He thinks about that for a moment before countering, “You also said that making this work would require some uncomfortable honesty.”
“True. And how uncomfortable are we willing to get here?”
“What do you mean?”
“If we’re doing this, then I’m all in. I want to be a good partner to you. But I also understand that anything I say can incriminate myself. Anything I say could be used as a weapon against you. I told you earlier that I’m not asking you to lie for me. I don’t want to do that. So where does that leave us?”
He sees her point. It’s a hard line to negotiate, trying to decide where her work ends and she begins. In all honesty, it’s the same for him. Where does the Captain end and John Price begin? It’s not a simple matter.
She sees something in his blue eyes because she’s nodding in understanding, “Exactly.”
“Then we table it for tonight,” he concedes, “Think on it. I’ll be by tomorrow morning, and we’ll talk more about it.”
It’s a compromise. An acceptable one, judging by the slow smile. She goes to her tiptoes long enough to press her mouth to the corner of his.
“Tomorrow morning,” she agrees as she pulls away, “We’ll figure it out together.”
He trails her as she lets herself out of the room, the door squeaking as she pulls it open. Through the hall, the open living room where the rest of the 141’s eyes follow her questioningly, right to the front door. He shuts it behind her. But his thoughts go with her as the engine of her decade-old four-door car rumbles to life, the sound growing faint as the distance between him and his pretty, young thing grows.
Okay. I wasn't as productive as I thought I was going to be the last few weeks (laughs in procrastination). I have two weeks off work after I get married next weekend. So Captain John Price's chaotic mafia wife will be back. I'm in the middle of writing the next chapter but keep getting distracted by writing a sequel series (sort of??) about their future marriage. So. That will probably start dropping randomly as the obsession ebbs and flows.
In the meantime, have some fun world-building concepts.
John Price's Pretty, Young Thing Thoughts, Part I -
Even though I will never assign her a real name, she is known as 'Circe' among her associates. As you could tell by Part 2, she's a big reader. That includes mythology. Drawing on that, she only has women working for her. She will work with men, when necessary. But they don't work for her. It's mostly out of an abundance of caution, since many of the women who work for her have experienced domestic or sexual violence. That being said, she has one of the largest all-women militias in the world.
She prefers the term 'contractor' because she thinks referring to her self as a 'mob boss' is both deeply arrogant and also undermines the intention of the work she does. If you really want to get technical, she's actually a political terrorist working to overthrow her country's fascist dictator. But the term 'political terrorism' gets too much of a bad rap so she calls her gang a group of 'like-minded contractors.'
She doesn't like killing people. It is still absolutely the first method she resorts to when things go sideways in her work.
She owns a graveyard. That really tells you everything you need to know about how many people she's killed. She justified the purchase as a 'business expense.' She bought the failing cemetery from a family who couldn't afford the property taxes anymore. She foots the bill. They don't ask question. They have dinner twice a year to discuss upkeep and property changes. The couple's adult kids love to gossip about her.
She comes from a totally normal background. Like. Two normal parents working civilian jobs. Went to public school. Was neither bullied nor popular in high school, but was the 'weird kid.' Has normal siblings who work average nine to five jobs (in my head, she has an older sister and an older brother. Her older brother is a member of law enforcement in their home country. The sister is a lawyer. But I haven't settled on this being THE background yet, so take this with a grain of salt).
Her second-in-command (mentioned in part six, I think), Mila, acts as the face for their work most of the time. It works for a lot of reasons. In part because she actually really hates the process of 'performing' diplomacy. But also, simply put, Mila looks like your average mob boss (™). Yeah. You know what I mean. Mila is modelesque. Gorgeous. Buys designer clothes and drives fancy cars. By comparison, she's average. Average height. Average weight. Average looks. When she's in the same room as Mila, she gets more done because people aren't looking at her. And she likes it that way. She can pay attention to the details that matter. So, yeah. She lets people think Mila is her. And she plays second-in-command happily while she eavesdrops on conversations she otherwise wouldn't be privy to.
The 'daddy kink' remains a running joke. But, in actuality, there's only a seven year (and 11 months) age difference between them. Which most people would say is a reasonable age gap for an adult relationship. The problem lies in the fact that most people think she's younger than she actually is. He's always getting accused of robbing the cradle. He's celebrating his 40th birthday and someone says something about his 'questionably and scandalously much younger girlfriend' to him and he's taking a LOOONG swig of his whiskey before barking out "She's thirty-fucking-two." It's not her fault. :( That's just her face.
While we're at it, the bigger nuisance for Price is that she leans into that shit. People try to talk to her about her much, much, older boyfriend and she blinks, deadpanning, "Oh! Thank you for the reminder. I have to go pick up more tums for his heartburn." She never corrects anyone's assumption of her age. She thinks its hilarious. He's glaring at her from across the room.
Of course, we've all seen the conversation about his alleged 'daddy kink.' We know what it's really rooted in. But, because the joke is so prevalent, she starts sarcastically calling him 'Daddy' during sex which leads to her accidentally pavloving him. Does being called 'Daddy' do something for him sexually? No. Does he get a hard on whenever she calls him Daddy? Yes. But only because he now associates it with her sucking his soul out of his dick.
They do get married. She takes his name. Not because of tradition, blah, blah, blah. But because the Price name comes with an impeccable reputation that she abuses the hell out of. Sure, she's a political terrorist back in her country. But she's just 'Mrs. Price' while living in Great Britain. No one there recognizes the notoriety of her name unless they are involved with some kind of high-ranking government agency. If she gets pulled over for doing ten over the speed limit, you bet your ass she's pulling the 'Oh gosh! I'm so sorry. I didn't realize how fast I was going. I'm just on my way to meet my husband, Captain Price -' before the officer is waving her off with a warning. And, yeah, Price knows what she's doing. But he can grudgingly accept that it saves them a lot of money in fines so he lets it slide.
On the other hand, Price hates visiting her home country with her. Everyone working security knows her maiden name, which all of her home country papers are still listed under (so that there's no 'cross-contamination' between her two identities). They can't prove any of the crimes they accuse her of but they sure want to. She's always flagged for searches at the airport. Her paperwork always takes twice as long to process. Every bag she brings goes through security twice. Traveling with her in her home country is a goddamn nightmares and it has him white-knuckling the steering wheel of the rented car as he curses her for making every trip there take two times longer than necessary because of all the times she's gets flagged in various security systems.
They keep completely separate finances after getting married. It's just pragmatic. After all, if she gets arrested and her finances are frozen, she doesn't want him to suffer for it. Shared property, shared finances. She only uses 'clean' money for those kinds purchases, money made off of good investments that have no ties to her business. She has two different bank cards. One for clean money, which she is more than happy to hand off to Price for any household purchases (because we both know she makes way more money than him, despite the fact that he makes really good money). And one she will never let him put hands on.
This woman makes millions every year. And she only keeps a fraction of it. The rest gets used for holiday bonuses, businesses expenses, and a variety of good will causes that get a hefty donation every holiday season. After they get married, she adds a few of his preferred causes to the donation list. She does not tell him.
She keeps her apartment building after they get married. Why wouldn't she? She loves that building. But they do maintain a house a (healthy) distance from base. It's nothing fancy. A brick two-story with a half-assed garden out back (Price is mumbling, 'If the basil is dead, you've no one to blame but yourself') and a good porch for him to smoke on because there's no way in hell she's letting him smoke his cigars in the house.
In fact, they have six house rules. They are the following:
1) They leave business at the door: neither of them talk about work at home. They don't share incriminating business. It doesn't matter if the other person isn't home. Business still gets left at the door. This rule only gets broken a handful of times.
2) He's not allowed to smoke in the house. She hates the smell and she doesn't like the risk of second-hand smoke. He argues approximately once. He does not win that argument.
3) She's not allowed to speed in his truck. If she wants to do ten over the speed limit, she has to do it in her own car because god help her if anything happens to his truck. Mostly, she's more than happy to follow this rule. It's a fair rule.
4) If there's a real emergency, they call each other no matter where they are and what they are doing. Which you would think didn't need to be an openly agreed upon and established rule. But there's one time where John is away on mission and she gets seriously injured at work. That's how John finds out (much to his immense annoyance) that Mila is her primary emergency contact and he is her secondary contact. Cue the angry "I deserve to know when and if my wife is in the hospital." A dry retort follows. "What are you going to do about it from Oman, John?" They bicker for hours about the pros and cons before she reluctantly agrees.
5) If they start a show together, they finish a show together. This one is hard for both of them. It's the cause for the most arguments and a constant source of suspicion in their relationship. They aren't worried about the other cheating. But they are worried about if the other person secretly finished the new season of 'The Couple Next Door.'
Captain John Price Has a Pretty, Young Thing. Part VII.
From the author: please refer to this link for any questions about my work and to find links to all of my work. If you have any questions that cannot be answered through this page, feel free to send me a message! Remember that I do not own these characters or the franchise. And, finally, thank you for reading.
She isn't his pretty, young thing.
She isn't his pretty, young thing.
She isn't his pretty, young thing.
The words are a mantra of the worst kind as he mentally fortifies himself to work with her. They are both a reminder and a reassurance that, no matter what happens, this doesn't have to be the end of the world. He's been through worse things than rejection.
She doesn't even give him a chance to put theory into practice.
Every single check-in with the 141 is done by her second-in-command, a brooding, modelesque woman who initially has Soap pulling out the charm before she shuts him down. Hard. He sulks. She just looks at them over the rim of her Gucci sunglasses like she couldn't be more bored. Like they are beneath her. Her clothes are all obnoxiously designer, labels painted across every inch of fabric like a warning sign: 'rich girl with a bad attitude.' She, unlike her boss, looks the part of the mafia.
It's hard to imagine Toto - the alias she'd introduced herself with - in the same room as her boss. Captain John Price's pretty, young thing is plenty of things. Surface level isn't one of them.
Then again, he hadn't thought she would be a coward either. But Toto was here. She wasn't. And that was damning.
Meanwhile, his-but-not-his pretty, young thing is trying so hard not to think about him.
She has a pile of paperwork so thick it no longer fits in the folder she was using to corral it. There are contracts to review and shipments to check in on. Domestic terrorist gangs don't run themselves.
Infuriatingly enough, every thought in between her to-do list tasks is about him. She replays bits and pieces of their conversation in her head. The echo of 'what the hell are you so afraid of?' leaves a sour taste in her mouth, no matter how often she tries to tell herself that she'd done the smart thing.
Worse, she hadn't been able to give him an answer.
Realistically, she was afraid of a lot of things. Venomous snakes. Being murdered (she was aware of the irony). The ocean. Herself. The idea of being known so deeply only for someone to decide she wasn't worth the effort.
There were a dozen hypotheticals to suggest that he would eventually decide she wasn't worth his time. She didn't need to write out the pros and cons in a list. Besides the obvious problems --- and there were a few, she would admit --- there were things about their relationship she couldn't trust. What if this was just a game? Perhaps his place in her bed was just a way to lower her defenses so that when their time working together ended, he could take her into custody more easily? Or, maybe, he really did want more. For now. Until she made some misstep that reminded him she was a barely leashed, feral thing with access to thousands of stolen dollars and military-grade weaponry.
She still wanted him.
That was the conclusion she came to after one week of avoiding him. Mere days later, she decides that there is no way to proceed without more information.
She's all too ready to kick down the door of his safe house as she throws her car into park in the driveway, glaring at the unassuming squat stucco building.
It's his turn to defy her expectations.
He'd been puffing a cigar as he sat in the overstuffed chair by the window, watching the street as he waited for Gaz and Soap to come back from their brief hop down to the shop for snacks, when she pulls up. Smoke curls between his fingertips as he watches her stalk up the sidewalk. Each step is heavy with irritation, hair braided back tight as if she were looking for things to control. He is at the door before she can even raise a hand.
Price refuses to be happy about it. Refuses to be smug either; the suspicion that she'd been lying is more certain now that she was standing on his doorstep. Refuses to tip his hand in any way. So, he puffs on the cigar, hoping, praying, he looks nonchalant as he leans against the door frame.
"Can I help you?"
"Shut the fuck up."
It's the angriest words to ever come out of her mouth (barring that last night they'd spent together). She shoves her way past him, her sneakers squeaking on the floor and her nose crinkling at the smell of cigar. He simply follows. Watches. Assesses what to do with this fidgety caged animal in a woman's body.
"You're looking right pissed -"
"Did you sleep with me because of your mission?"
Her words cut him off. He stills at the interjection, his expression going carefully blank as he looks down at her. The slight tensing of his jaw is the only indication as to how annoyed he really is by that question.
"No," the word is as simple as his expression. Short and blunt, with no room for doubt in it. He'd been with her because he'd wanted to. Not because he'd been ordered to. Those moments hiding away with her had been a choice purely his own, driven by nothing more than greed, desire, and a lack of self-control. "Is that what you really fucking think?"
"No."
It's grudging. Like it would have been easier if the answer had been 'yes.' If nothing else, it would have been a good justification for ghosting him.
He doesn't move. Doesn't hardly breathe. Any wrong move and she might flee instead of working through whatever is happening here.
"Then why the hell are you asking? You trying to find a reason to end this?"
"I'm trying to understand," she bites out, arms crossing over her chest, "You shouldn't be such a goddamn problem after a few months. Because this shouldn't work. On paper, it doesn't seem like it ever could."
Unlike her, he does have a mental 'pros' and 'cons' list. He's considered all the angles, and it still doesn't make any sense to him. What Price does know is that he wants to know every in and out of her brain.
"You're right. On paper, not a goddamn thing about this makes sense."
That, at least, seems to soothe some of her restlessness. Her arms cross more tightly, as if that might hold her together in the face of uncertainty.
"You scare the shit out of me."
"What?"
It's not that he didn't understand. Hell, he'd even come to the conclusion that was the case. But his brain needs a moment to process the way she is laying it out for him.
Exasperation. Vulnerability. Irritation. It's a disconcerting mix as she glares at him, drawing the syllables out.
"You. Scare. The. Shit. Out. Of. Me. You asked me what the hell I was scared of the other night. You. I'm scared of you. I'm scared that we're going to get in too deep and it won't be enough. That I'm actually just too fucked up. I'm scared to fail at whatever this is."
"You can't fail at a relatio -" he falters, puffing out a breath when her glare intensifies, daring him to finish that thought. With a quick movement, he stamps out his cigar in the ashtray he had left nearby. The smoldering remnant burns his fingertips a bit as he drops it. It's worth it, though, when he takes a step closer, and she doesn't retreat. He runs his hands up her bare arms and sleeved shoulders. "I'm not going anywhere."
Swallowing hard, she whispers, "I stole half of the weapons you're looking for."
He blinks down at her. Baffled. Aghast. Disbelieving.
"What????"
Admittedly, that was not the confession he'd been expecting. He'd been counting on a proclamation of love and adoration. Not this.
He stares down at her, hands frozen on her shoulder, mind racing as he tries to wrap his head around what she had just said. When his thoughts reorder themselves, he gives a small, gruff noise in the back of his throat.
"You're shitting me."
"I really wish I was."
"How the hell did you - no. No. Never mind. Not how. Why?"
"Because crime only gets you so far in procuring money to coup dictators. You need weapons. Training. Support to establish leadership and stave off post-coup instability," she states matter-of-factly, "We were short on weapons, and it was almost easier to steal them than attempt to negotiate trade deals, which would have severely limited our intake quantity."
Hands dropping from her shoulders, he scrubs a hand over his face as he tries to process everything she's just admitted.
"Did you think I wouldn't find out?"
"Well. I intentionally left the door open for someone else to steal the rest. I kind of thought I'd be able to pin the whole thing on them in the end. As for the work we've been doing with S.A.S., I never outright lied. My network was included in the initial reports for potential thieves. I've noted consistently since we began working together that all possibilities should be considered."
"You lied."
"... by omission, I suppose."
She shrugs. He almost laughs then, but the sound sticks tight in his throat. He shouldn't find the audacity of that statement so hilarious. He shouldn't. This was bad. And yet...
"That was your plan? And if it didn't work?"
"It did work. We've been working together for weeks, and you didn't suspect anything," she counters, frowning, "I would like to note that I'm putting all my cards on the table in good faith, for the record."
Mother Mary, Joseph, and Jesus fucking Christ. This woman.
"Good - " he sputters at the idea. She'd been lying 'by omission' to him for weeks. Whatever ideas she had about 'good faith' were laughable at the moment. If she were anyone else --- if he were anyone else --- this would have been the end of whatever tenuous arrangement they had. It is only because it is her that he hasn't pulled out whatever restraints he has on him and arrested her. "This is not going to endear S.A.S to your cause."
"I know."
"Are you asking me to lie for you?"
"No."
"Then why tell me this?"
It's quiet as she studies him for a moment. From the floppy hat on his head to the toes of his combat boots.
"Because theory isn't practice," she admits, gesturing between them, "If this is going to work... that would mean making some changes. Including some uncomfortable honesty. I don't think I can try to make myself smaller for your comfort."
"And you want that?"
The question pokes at the words she had thrown in his face not so long ago.
"I was wrong," the soft words drip with apology, as if she too could remember that sharp sting of hurt she'd willingly inflicted on him, "I'm sorry I said those things just to hurt you. I do want this. Even though it scares me."
It's a simple statement. He'd been half expecting her to double down on her previous claim. Instead, she was proving that she wasn't a coward at all.
His ash-stained fingers grip her chin and tilt her head upward so that he could see her expression properly. There's no deception in her gaze. Rubbing his thumb across her jawline, he softens.
"Took you long enough."
It didn't fix everything. They would need to figure out the details. It would require a hell of a lot of work from both of them. But he believed her. Even though he didn't have a good reason to, he just did.
"Don't think that this means everything is fixed," she warns, ever realistic about what such revelations would mean for their relationship. Being the one to capitulate did not make up for the things she had done in their short time together.
"You're a goddamn headache," he snorts in answer, "No. It isn't fixed. But we'll figure it out. Together."
There would be time for apologies, negotiations, and all that shit later. The only thing that matters now is deciding to move past it. He could do that. It really was that simple for John Price.
Hand cupping the back of her neck, he pulls her into him and presses a kiss to her forehead. It was a quiet assurance that he'd meant it earlier; he wasn't going anywhere. At least, not without his pretty, young thing.
I have finally decided to do something with my AO3 account. Moving forward my work will be posted both here on Tumblr and to my AO3 account (linked on my home page). This is just so that it is more accessible all around!
And, as always, thank you for reading! You all have been awesome and incredibly supportive of me as I get back into creative writing. Here's to the future chapters we can share together! 🥂
Side note: my AO3 content is only visible if you are logged in. This is to prevent AI databases from using my content to train its algorithm. Thank you for your understanding!
I have finally decided to do something with my AO3 account. Moving forward my work will be posted both here on Tumblr and to my AO3 account (linked on my home page). This is just so that it is more accessible all around!
And, as always, thank you for reading! You all have been awesome and incredibly supportive of me as I get back into creative writing. Here's to the future chapters we can share together! 🥂
Side note: my AO3 content is only visible if you are logged in. This is to prevent AI databases from using my content to train its algorithm. Thank you for your understanding!
