𝔚𝔬𝔩𝔣𝔰𝔟𝔞𝔫𝔢

𝔅𝔞𝔫𝔢𝔰 ♱ 𝔰𝔥𝔢/𝔥𝔢𝔯 𝔞𝔡𝔡𝔦𝔠𝔱𝔢𝔡 𝔱𝔬 𝔢𝔰𝔠𝔞𝔭𝔦𝔰𝔪 𝑜𝒸𝒸𝒶𝓈𝒾𝑜𝓃𝒶𝓁 𝓌𝓇𝒾𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒷𝓁𝑜𝑔

[bvanes]

⁺‧₊ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ 𝔑𝔞𝔳𝔦𝔤𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ₊‧⁺

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Hi! I’m banes, I occasionally write fics

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purple heart divder @cafekitsune

[staytrueblue]

Dear John // Price

“Ten years you have been together. You married the moment he joined the military. So nine years you’ve been the dutiful army wife by his side. Nine fucking years and you have seen him for maybe five.”

AO3

Part 1- Dear John

Part 2- Grime

Part 3- Throwaway

Part 4- Hunt

[drmonstersdungeon]

John Price in a slutty yacht shirt that he leaves open because he likes the way she cant keep her eyes off the beads of sweat that trickle down through his chest hair. And his big, hairy thighs are squeezed in a pair of hoochie daddy shorts, perfect for a little midday dry hump on his boat if he so fancies.

[wetpussyju1ce]

imagine being on your periods n feeling a lil crazy. Unable to fall asleep even tho your eyes BURN and you can't seem to regulate your body temperature. You're squirming, turning, twisting in the big bed u share w Price until he's had enough and sits up with a long sigh. You're about to burst into tears because wtf. Why is he sighing like that?? Does he HATE you??? YOU DIDN'T MEAN TO WAKE HIM UP???

John switches the small lamp on, sits against the headboard and lifts you into his lap, cradling you like a baby and before u even open your mouth to complain or question him, he starts rocking you, as if you're a real, fucking baby.

And worst of all, it works.

Two minutes in and you're asleep with your mouth wide open, face squished to his furry warm chest.

[tojisteddy]

https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZP8kxyJeu/

Cowboy John Price Cowboy John Price Cowboy John Price Cowboy John Price

a/n: well YES.

Cowboy!Price who’s been riding horses his whole life, owns his family ranch and continues on his family’s well known legacy. How you got into the thick of it?

Simple really, you were drunk off the ass and wanted to ride the bull. You kept babbling on and on how if you could ride that bull, you could ride a horse. And if you could a horse you could do anything.

Pure nonsense.

Your friends wouldn’t let you because you were drunk, they thought you’d throw up or something. John saw that cute little pout on your lips and offered to help you. You lit up like a magnolia on a nice summer day, made the man himself he flustered. He took off your boots helps you on the bull, and sits your right in front of him. His hand finding your hip to steady you. Helping you move back and forth along with the bull. Helping whispers in your ear,

“Easy now, take yer time honey. Juuuust like that pretty, you’re doin great.”

That was enough for you to sober up, heart leaping with every movement. You got off the bull in one piece, gave Price the most gorgeous smile he’d ever seen in his 36 years of life, with those pretty brown eyes he just couldn’t stop staring into.

Didn’t take you too long to end up in John’s bed, reverse cowgirl, hands on your hips while yours were on his knees, guiding you right on his dick.

Up and down, back and forth, letting his thick, pulsing red cock slowly rock into you. You got yourself into a nice rhythm, your head falling back on his shoulder letting out a breathy moan with every thrust. One hand stays on your waist, the other trailing upward, tweaking your nipple in his hand, then groping your breast which makes you cry out. He slowly moves your hips to go faster, his tip filling you with pre till he hits knows for a fact he’s hitting your womb. John licks up your neck to your earlobe, sucking and nibbling at it till your moaning, “f-fuck Price! Hnngh!”

“Thaaaat’s it baby girl, ridin’ me just- fuckin right. Got a real cowgirl on our hands, huh?”

a/n: lmfaooo why was the video 3 hours long??

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[theorist-fox]

The Heron

Or; Reiner's Redemption

CWs: torture, attempted SA, recovery, nightmares, depiction of violence, mentions of suicide, forced proximity, angst, fluff, smut, slow burn.

But this is a love story.

The Sun

The Seasons

The Pie

The Plan

The Choice

The Heron

Home

[toadstreetltd]

MILLSTONE | desert lily pt. 2

PRIEST!JOHN PRICE X READER 18+

cw: afab reader, noncon/rape, religion, graphic depictions of violence/death

IN THE BELLY OF THE RED AMERICAN WEST, FATHER JOHN PRICE COMES NOT TO SEND PEACE, BUT A SWORD.

(a short chapter to light a fire under my ass. will probably post this on ao3 in tandem with the next chapt. pt. 1 here)

Father John was invited for dinner that evening.

As all the Father’s men would be joining you, Mama had you set the table real nice for seven. She hollered for the labels to be brought up from the bar, insistent that the Father not be fed the rotgut distilled out back. Strychnine and coffee, temple-sweat and dirt.

“This ain’t no free lunch,” she also admonished when she saw you bringing out the oysters and pickled eggs. Dogs and men ate meat—needed to be filled. So it was salt pork and navy beans, and the rabbits Mister Riley had dumped off that afternoon already skinned, dressed, and butchered. He had dropped the warm and slimy game directly into your hands when you met him at the batwing doors. Made you walk back past all the patrons of the taproom dripping blood down your elbows.

The smell of raw meat had stuck under your nailbeds like deer ticks well into the evening.

Mama was in such a blushing fuss, blustery as a dust-devil right until the men arrived. Everything had to be perfect, presentable. Oil lamps hunted the shadows that slept between the floorboards, wicks sucking up whale oil like a man come in from the desert. Yours and Mama’s apartment above the taproom wasn’t a spacious thing—it was low-ceilinged and thin-walled—but it would fit seven, surely. However, to your surprise and relief, it wasn’t the whole pack that turned up at the door. Father John apologized for Mister Riley’s and Mister MacTavish’s absence—citing a game camp-out as an excuse—but that was just fine with you. Something in the two men’s eyes set your hackles raising.

Mister Garrick was much more agreeable. Mannerly and courteous, like he’d jumped out of a storybook. Mama met them at the top of the stairs that led to your apartment, and the two men passed the threshold with a rummy bottle of wine and a crop of picked wildflowers in hand. They were Desert Lilies, Flame Mariposas. Mister Garrick held them in his hand like a bushel of fire, burning bright red in the dimness. They set his handsome, angled face aglow.

Mama waved the men forward and lowered her eyelashes just so. “Come in, come in! Oh! These are just beautiful, Father. Thank you.” Then: “Girl, come get these into somethin’.”

So, you left to retrieve a vase for the bouquet.

You’d seen the flowers before; the old priest kept a wilting garden of them behind the church, and, oh, how you coveted them. But the priest had been miserly, reticent to give up a single bud. He’d kept a ledger of the blooms on his desk in the rectory, and you knew this because once, you had picked one. The color was just too beautiful, too tempting, to let it rot all alone behind the church. And that old priest had hauled you in by your ear and jammed a gnarled finger to the ink on the ledger page. One flower missin’, girl. Our Lord don’t like thieves.

How he knew it was you, you did not know. But there they were, then, a whole bouquet of them limp and still damp in your hand. In your home, on your table. Set into a tall, yellowed vase, looking like a burning wheel.

When you returned, all were already seated at the small table; Father John at the head, Mama to his right, and an empty seat to his left. You expected Mister Garrick to take his place beside the Father, but no—he was next to Mama, making her sweat right through her rouge. So, you poured the whiskey and the wine and took your seat.

You found you couldn’t look the Father in the face, sitting so close to him in the darkness of the room. Something told you to keep your eyes down, some discernment in your belly certain it would be a misstep. As Mama layered compliments on Father John, laquering his service that morning like she was spreading varnish, you never let your gaze wander above his strong shoulders.

But it wandered just about everywhere else:

The dark cropping of hair that started at his wrist bones and disappeared past the cuffs of his black shirt; the rhythmic rise and fall of his great chest; the way his mass settled into the rickety chair like molasses in a basket; the peculiar tip of his pointer finger on his right hand, peculiar only for the fact that it was not there. And his voice—the tempered, rumbling baritone so at odds with the thunder he wielded during Mass that morning. It resonated off the walls as if they were fifteen feet tall. If you had tapped a crystal glass as he spoke, you were sure it would have shattered.

Mister Garrick offered to say grace before the eating began, and around the table, all grasped hands.

Again, Father John offered you his palm. You took it and shut your eyes tight. As Mister Garrick poured the familiar words from his polished tongue, you tried to focus on them instead of the warm clamminess of the Father's skin against yours.

But then his thumb started moving.

Bumping along your knuckles over and over. The calloused pad ran over the ridges before dipping against the sensitive seam between your pinky and ring finger—thumbnail catching the delicate flesh there as the digits were spread apart. You swallowed, thick and dry, and suddenly your hand was being lifted through the air, muscles in your shoulder stretching as you tried to keep in your seat.

Then, then, a puff of hot breath fanning over your skin. Moist lung-air, the distant scratch of whiskers. You couldn’t hear the prayer over the rushing of blood in your ears; you only knew it ended when Mister Garrick’s grip slipped from your own across the table.

You pulled your hand back into your lap, and when you opened your eyes, Father John was looking dead at you.

As the guests dug into their food, Mama spoke, tone high and simpering. “We are just so grateful to have you here, Father. ‘Bout time someone took this town over their knee.”

“No sheriff around?” the Father asked.

Only when his scraped knuckle tapped on the wood next to your plate did you realize he was addressing you. You caught his grey eyes for a moment as you replied, manners battling instinct. You told him no, then went back to pushing navy beans around your plate.

“Not since old Bass was shot!” Mama interjected. “Over a year ago now, poor man. His son, though, he’s comin’. On his way from San Francisco. Should be here by next month.” Fork tines scraped against cheap porcelain. She repeated the name of the city with the cadence of a carnival caller, sing-song and wondrous. “San Francisco! You ever been, Father?”

Father John huffed, and the chair beneath him creaked as he shifted. “Have you?”

“Goodness, no. I would love to, but the road’s no place for a woman alone. And I have the taproom to look after—my late husband asked me to on his deathbed, you see.” Mama tucked a hand behind her nape and swirled the wine in her glass. Extended her pinky out to bore between your brow. “And I have my daughter, of course.”

Mister Garrick finished chewing and swallowed the rabbit in his mouth before replying. You watched the lump travel down his slender throat. “It must be hard, ma’am, raising a young woman all by yourself.”

“I try my best, but after her Daddy passed … I won’t lie, we’ve had our difficulties. This one needs a strong hand. That old priest was soft on her. Needs to be set straight, I say; she’s old enough. Should’ve been married years ago, but she …” Mama brought her hand up to the crown of her head and fluttered it away, twisting it in the damp air like a bluebird. “Wanders.”

She murmured every sentence as if she were in a confessional, as if she spoke low enough, you wouldn’t hear, and it wouldn’t be cruel. The men didn’t know that Mama’s words had to be taken with a palmful of salt; that she could spin a yarn as tall as the sky. You swallowed down your frustration alongside a sip of water.

Mama continued: “I’m hopin’ that new sheriff takes her off my hands when he finally rolls in, given he don’t know her. He’s been sendin’ letters.”

Father John rested his wrist on the table and tilted his head.

She seemed only then to realize what she had just said, and instantly retraced her steps with a wet pout. “Not that I’m pullin’ any wool over his eyes, mind you. A husband’ll settle her, is all.”

Mister Garrick gave her a gracious smile. He looked at Father John for just a moment, but a conversation played through the air. “Well, ma’am, until then, we could use some help at the church,” he said. “It could give the young miss something to focus on—you know what’s said about idle minds.”

Mama went white. Addressed Father John, even though he was not the man who offered. “Oh, I—I couldn’t possibly burden you, Father—”

“No burden,” Father John said, and the conversation was over.

The rest of the meal went by slow and smooth. You were not asked any more questions, and so you did not speak again. You kept your eyes on your plate and, occasionally, on the bottles and glasses as you refilled drinks. One time, when you had risen and leaned over the table to drip whiskey into Mister Garrick's tumbler, the Father’s hand notched into the small of your back. To steady you, surely. Just a kindness.

At the door, as the two men donned their hats and gun belts, Mister Garrick turned to ask one final question. “What did you say the last sheriff’s name was again?”

“Bass,” Mama told him, twinkling teeth. “Bass Graves.”

Mister Garrick licked his lips and hummed, turning a look on the Father that you could not read. You could only name the shine in his eye: some cocktail of amusement and excitement. “Bass Graves,” he repeated. Then, with a quick and deep breath, he bid you good evening. “Thank you again for the meal, ma’am, miss.”

Then the two men tipped their hats and stomped heavy boots down the stairwell, spurs scratching witness marks into the steps as they went.

“Go, girl—catch him, quick!”

Mama’s tone was as sharp and sour as vinegar as she shoved the dish into your hands—her look frantic, her apron stained with the fervor she had wielded shoving leftovers in the heavy dinnerware.

“Mama—”

“Now! I ain't tellin’ you again, and I ain’t runnin’ after him like some schoolgirl. Go!”

You were shoved out the door and down the stairs without ceremony. As if you were some stray snuck in with the draft, sniffing for scraps. Tossed by your scruff to catch yourself on the steps. You took them two at a time, careening forward and over the taproom floor until you were met with the cool night air.

“Father John!” you called, desperate as the batwing doors swung behind you.

You spotted him halfway down the street astride a horse, Mister Garrick atop his own beside him. They waited as you stumbled through the dust, far more patient than the horses rearing their necks beneath them. The mounts huffed like dragons, puffs of hot air steaming from their noses when you approached. You came up, eyes level with the Father’s knee, and when you spoke, it was weak with breathlessness.

“My Mama wanted you to have this. Said she didn’t want you going hungry later.” You extended the dish with both hands upward to him, feeling supplicant and silly. Trying in vain to calm your running lungs.

Mister Garrick, behind you, scoffed. “What’s the real reason?”

You hesitated. Wary both because of the incredulous tone you hadn’t thought him capable of, and because you were not behind the privacy of a door. But the street was dark, then. Near silent. Seldom did souls kick about in the distance; some ranch hands singing lullaby tunes for the sows, campfires dotting the horizon, sending smoke-wishes to the inky and wide heaven above. Maybe one of them belonged to the Misters Riley and MacTavish. Maybe they were out there, sleeping under the stars. How cool, how calm, it might’ve been.

Father John tilted his head. “Go on.”

Tattling made you itch, always had, but the Father’s encouragement brooked no argument. “I think she wanted to give you something to return.”

Father John smiled. Dipped his hat brim in a nod. Then he asked, “Where do you wander?”

Now that you had looked at his face, you found you could not stop. For the same reason that had stayed your hand before: anything else would be a mistake. In the mouth of the celestial yawn, moonlight casting a pale glow over his brutal features, he looked a lot like the gaps in the sky. Only special for the absence of stars. Powerful, how a storm is powerful—but you’d known that the moment you saw him.

A williwaw had blown into town the day he’d arrived, and not a one was boarding their windows.

“My mind runs off sometimes, that’s all,” you told him.

Your arms were still outstretched, still hoisting the heavy dish. Your muscles shook, elbows begging for mercy, but Father John just looked at you for a long while. Finally, the moment before you were sure to drop, Father John took your burden; placed it in front of him in the saddle and reached back down to gently palm your crown. His hand was heavy and warm atop your head, and it lingered there so long your eyes shut.

“We’ll fix that,” the Father promised. “Thank you, sweetheart.”

You stood out in the chilled street for a while after they had left. Thinking that maybe, just maybe, if you wished hard enough, you too would float upwards into the endless night. Drift along the breeze with the smoke and the bugs. Maybe you’d land somewhere far away: a snow-covered mountain, a churning, grey ocean. You’d never seen the sea. Maybe you’d roam above forever, look down at all the people like little ants. Watch the lamps turn on in their windows at dusk.

If only you could jump. But you were too heavy.

You went back inside.

[kiinfics]

The Devil sent you, Darlin' || ch.2 + ch.3

Cowboy! John Price crosses paths with CityGirl! Readeron his routine coffee run. He finds himself prying her for her dry remarks, sharp-tongued, quick-witted comebacks that leave his heart kicking like a spooked colt. She pretends to study… and fails miserably under the distraction of the rugged older cowboy she knows she absolutely shouldn’t be entertaining.

CW: age gap ( John mid fourties, Reader mid twenties), slight smut, street smart country man meets book smart city girl, high- maintenance kinda bitchy reader, John seems to have a thing for being insulted and rejected, reader kind of likes it because hell yes we love obsessive confident men!!! WC: 2.6k Ch.1

It's a few days before John runs into you again.

John pushed the door of the local café open; same routine: black coffee, a couple eggs n' bacon and the kind of peace that makes the morning right. The café was one of the many small sanctuaries within the town, the kind of place folk drift into without thinking— quiet, warm, worn in all the right ways. The uneven wooden floorboards creaked with a greeting for every customer, welcoming locals like they knew them by name, and the mismatched patchwork fabrics on each well-used booth looked as though they had comforted a thousand lives before now. Tables decorated with the uneven rings of cup stains and chips that carry stories. All of which were comfortable in their own rights- inviting friend and stranger alike for long sits and slow sips.

The walls were decorated with photographs old and new- tales of big rodeo events, dusty railroad tracks and southern sunsets that themselves have slowly changed the booths by the window...each hung framed and crooked, but no one ever bothered to fix them. The air—roasted coffee beans, buttery toast and fresh cuts of bacon, the kind of scents that weave into a person's bones and settle their aches. It was cosy—intimate in a way that made strangers into neighbours and neighbours into family.

"The usual, John?"

Debbie scribbled as she asked, the question almost rhetorical. She's served the cowboy since he was young... still, however, the question is asked all the same. It's both common courtesy and routine within the routine of his usual order.

"Course' Deb, unless ye'v got a special on I'd take a likin' to"

She hummed, placing a hand on her hip and cocking her head over to board above, fingers drumming a lazy little rhythm on the table in consideration. "jus' the seasonal, hun... got a pecan pie if it takes yer' fancy"

John pretends to mull it over, purely for her amusement. Debbie knew damn well he hadn’t deviated from his order in the last six years, but in a town where gossip dies faster than the grass, keeping the small talk alive mattered.

"ah, y'know I ain't for nothin' sweet much" he drawls with a slow smile thats still catching up with the morning. Debbie chuckles and nods as she clicks the coffee pot on with one hand and wakes the grill with the other simultaneously.

"takin' away too, I guess" she adds, already reaching for a paper cup

"yeah sure th-"

He cut off, the words drying up mid-sentence.

His eyes had wandered out of habit, tracing the quiet morning scene the way they always did—but this time they snagged on something that un-characteristically punched the breath right out of him, lodging his heart up a notch in his throat.. Because in the corner booth, half-hidden behind a stack of books and a curtain of morning sun—

You were there.

Of all times.

Of all places.

Here. In his morning haunt.

Suddenly, his heartbeat felt too big for his chest, thudding hard and high, entirely unbecoming of a man like him.

Debbie followed his stare, eyebrows lifting.

“Well,” she murmured, a smile creeping between the dimples on her face “ain’t that somethin’.”

John swallowed, throat tight.

Yeah.

Somethin’, alright.

"ain't nothin', Deb" John turns his attention back to the little old lady behind the counter, with a look as conivincing as a man could manage under the tilt of his hat. It wasn't fooling anyone really, especially not the woman who's lived longer than he has and knows him as well as his order.

She scoffs in sharp amusement. "That's about as nothin' as a hundred bucks, John."

He huffed, adjusting the brim of his hat like that might help his lie sell a little better. It didn’t. Debbie turned back to the grill, spatula clinking against cast iron as she got to work, but her voice floated over the sizzle with the ease of someone who’d earned the right to pry. And oh pry she would.

“What’s yer business with a young thing like her, hm?” she asked, tone dripping with intrigue—and just a dash of judgement for flavor.

John's jaw clicked, tightened at the accusatory question. He crossed his arms and leant on the side of the counter, doing everything he could to keep his attention somewhere it should be.

"Ain't got no buisness" he muttered, though there's an undeniable rough-edged defensiveness that makes Debbie's smirk widen.

“Mmhmm,” she hummed knowingly, flipping a slice of bacon. “Then why’re you lookin’ at her like she’s the sunrise and you ain’t seen the sky in weeks?”

John didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

His jaw tightened, eyes betraying him with one more quick glance toward your booth. He really doesn't have any damn business being interested in you like this... hell you're what? Twenty-or-so years younger than him, and you are Alan's daughter for Christ's sake. He could list reason after reason as to why he absolutely, definitely should not be feelin' a damn thing. In fact, if he sat down and wrote a list—and he could, easily—it’d stretch clear across the café floor.

You're too young.

You're Al's kid

You don't even live in the same state

You're Al's kid

You are in fact, Alan Harlow's one and only daughter.

(That one would be underlined twice, written in bold red, with a warning sign beside it.)

He could stack excuse after excuse, pile the logic high enough to build a fence around himself and stay far, far on the right side of it.

And yet—

Several parts of his body didn’t seem to give a single damn about that list. His heart, for one, had its own ideas. Beating a touch too quick, a touch too loud.

His eyes refused to stay where they should, drifting back to you like they were tethered.

And somewhere low in his gut, a spark flickered every time your page turned or your brow furrowed in concentration, or whenever you tucked that one curl behind your ear- only for it to fall back down, or when you reapplied lip-balm to your lips that didn't need it, or-

He swallowed hard, fingers curling on the counter.

He shouldn’t want this—want you.

But want didn’t give a damn about should.

And want definitely didn't give a fuck about how you locked eyes with him like a deer caught in headlights once you finally took a break from your studies.

For a heartbeat, neither of you moved.

Your pencil stilled.

His breath hitched.

And the world outside that tiny, rustic café fell quiet enough for him to hear his pulse in his ears.

"starin' like a damn fool, John" Debbie muttered as she passed him his coffee and food. "or like a wierdo, with the look the lass is givin' ye". John blinked, forcing his eyes away from you and down to the steaming cup infront of him, but it was too late-

the image of your startled, wide-eyed stare was already branded into him, hot and stubborn and impossible to shake... and unfortunately for him you looked incredibly, devastatingly fucking attractive. He wasn't sure what was throbbing more- his heart kicking against his ribs or something decidedly lower reminding him he was a man with very human reactions.

Neither sensation was good. Both were dangerous... John was all too comfortable with dangerous.

He should have walked out. Picked up his coffee, his food, and put as much distance between himself and you as humanly possible. But “should” had never held much sway over him—and right now, with your gaze still flicking his way every few seconds like you were trying not to look at him—he didn’t stand a chance.

After all, when he had first met you in your fathers feed store, he got a smile and a giggle out of you that embedded itself into his veins... the bright youth in your eyes and the softness of your tone knocking the wind outta him like he'd been struck by one of his horses.

Even if the reward for that tiny victory had been Alan Harlan’s boot up his arse, shoving him out the door like he was some stray mutt sniffin’ around the wrong porch and not and old time friend and customer.

John still reckoned it was well worth it.

Hell, with the way his chest gave a traitorous thump just thinking about that smile—it wasn’t even a question.

So he found himself crossing the café floor, coffee in hand, steps heavy and deliberate, heading straight toward trouble like trouble had placed a magnet on your damn booth and turned it up full. If the devil does tempt then his next church confession will be a long one, that he's certain of.

+

"Didn't expect t' see a city scholar up n' at it this early." You look up as if you hadn't watched the man contemplate joining you at your booth, eyes meeting his, slow and unhurried. John watches the moment you register him properly—your posture tightening, then loosening, lips parting just a touch. And then you do the worst thing imaginable: nothing. You just stare back, openly, deliberately, letting the silence stretch until his uncertainty cracks and reshapes into something bold, cocky. You still, deliberately observing him as he takes a seat and sips his coffee; foam tickled on the bristles of his salt n' pepper moustache, crows feet defined as that stupid fucking smirk reaches his eyes. He looks older like that, but in a way that makes your stomach flip—experienced, confident, maddeningly self-assured. He knows it, too. Bastard.

A muscle dances in his jaw before he finally sets the cup down, fingers tapping once against the mug.

“Y’know,” he drawls, leaning back as if this were all perfectly normal, “most folks say ‘mornin’’ when someone sits with ’em.”

You hum lightly, tilting your head. A quick one over in a deliberately uninterested fashion. “Most people don’t hover like ghosts before committing to the seat.”

Your voice hits him like a brick, he thought maybe that the first time it was just the polish of your accent.. he's very sure now that it just does something to him with how buttery and unrushed every word is. If he isn't careful (he's definitely not going to be), he's going to become terribly addicted.

A low laugh rolls from him, warm and rough like gravel tumbled in honey.

“Aye,” he admits, “well. Wanted t’ make sure yer' dad wasn’t lurkin’ in the shadows ready t’ tan my hide again.”

You fight a smile. He sees it anyway.

“Pretty sure he’d do worse than that,” you say, tapping your pen against your notebook. “Especially if he saw you making eyes at me over your coffee.”

John’s smile drops for half a second—just long enough for something raw and unguarded to flicker in its place. He exhales, caught —then it comes back sharper, more dangerous.

“Well now, trouble,” he murmurs, voice lowering like he’s leaning in without moving an inch, “you were makin’ eyes right back.”

Your breath catches—not that you let it show. Not much.

But John notices. Of course he does. His gaze trails, slow, from your eyes to your lips and back, like he’s filing the whole thing away somewhere he absolutely shouldn’t.

And then, with that same infuriating, irresistible smirk:

“So,” he says, “what’s the city’s brightest mind doin’ up at the crack of dawn spoilin’ good coffee shops with study notes?”

"spoiling?" you echo with a sharp scoff. The audacity of this man— who looks like he wrestled both a tractor and the terrain on his way here, to sit here and accuse you of spoiling? He's wearing more mud than denim, boots caked, shirt dusted, looking like he’s been up since before the sun even remembered to rise… and he’s judging you? You roll your eyes, gaze dropping back to your academic notes as you flip the page you weren't finished with and underline something that doesn't need underlining in a poised attempt to reclaim your academic dignity. An attempt to un-acknowledge the fact that he is sat across from you with those time-stealing eyes and a that smirk that makes heat rise in your neck.

“I’ll have you know,” you say, voice crisp, defined. “I’m always up this early. Usually to go to the gym—” a pointed look at his mud-splattered knees, “—but there isn’t one here.”

Flat. Neutral. Dismissive.

Doesn't deter the man one bit. Great.

John hums, deep in his chest, the sound low and amused. You don’t look up, but you can hear the smile he’s wearing— the way he leans back into the booth like he's at home, you can feel his eyes lingering.

“A gym, hm?” he muses. “Right shame darlin'. Could show you a proper workout, if you weren’t so busy pretendin’ you don’t know I’m here.”

Your hand freezes on the page.

You do not. look at him.

He leans forward, elbows hitting the table with a soft thud, mug cradled in one big hand.

“Bet you’d wake the whole town with all that effort,” he adds, tone scandalously innocent. “Burnin’ off energy. Breakin’ a sweat.”

You inhale through your nose—slow, controlled, absolutely not affected.

“…You’re covered in dirt,” you deadpan, refusing to rise to the bait.

He grins wider.

“Aye,” he says, “an’ you’re still lookin’.”

He reaches for one of your books, mucky fingers barely brushing the edge when you slam your hand on it, eyes finally meeting his with an annoyance that you have pushed forward to swallow... whatever else you don't want to admit right now.

John freezes, more from surprise than anything else.

He meets your stare head–on, the smirk faltering just enough to show he hadn’t expected you to react quite so fast. Or quite so… intensely.

“Don’t.”

Your voice is low, the word clipped.

A beat.

Two.

And then you throw the first stone.

“You’re old, cowboy” you snap quietly, like you’re trying to convince yourself as much as him, narrowing your eyes as you slide the book towards yourself. “Same age as my dad.”

It hits him square.

Not in the way you want it to—but it hits.

John leans back a fraction, one brow lifting, the café’s warm morning light catching on the lines at the corners of his eyes and the silver in his beard. You expect him to bristle. Or retreat. Or crack a joke to cover the sudden tension.

Instead? The older man lets out a soft, amused exhale— its barely a laugh, in fact you don't think its supposed to be one. He's just amused by the obvious. By you. Like you thought he isn't already aware of the age gap amongst all else. John leans back, so infuriatingly unbothered, casual like he isn't sitting in-front of the very problem he told himself twice this week to stay away from.

And his eyes—those steady, warm, weathered eyes—hold yours with a knowing glint that tells you he clocked the truth behind your jab the moment you said it. There really is no shock. no offense. just an unmistaken amount of awareness to the situation he's happily sinking his teeth into. They wander, studying you and the way your knuckles whiten around the pen you are doing nothing useful with.

"You think I aint' noticed the gap, trouble?" he says finally, voice gravelly, scraping a shiver up your spine.

"Trust me, I'm well aware".

The way his smirk creeps up is devastating for the resolve you are desperately trying to maintain right now. You can't begin to unscramble your poor mind right now as it flicks through every handbook for an answer that doesn't make this situation more dangerous. You are usually more sharp and structured than this but how could you be right now? Nothing is sticking because, well...

Because the way he’s looking at you…

It’s not fair.

It’s not polite.

It’s not harmless.

And it’s definitely not something you can ignore with a couple of bullet points and a note to 'focus on your studies.'

Your pulse betrays you, quick and traitorous, and you try—god, you try—to focus on the words on your page. But they blur instantly, because all you can register is the warmth of him across the table, his cologne mixed with coffee and dust and the faint scent of leather.

And that smirk—

that smug, quiet, devastating thing—

keeps tugging at the edges of your composure.

He knows.

He absolutely knows.

And that makes everything inside you even worse.

@rvvaged @krispymagazinepizza-blog @sweetascherrylies @impurefawn @shamelesjaroflaffytaffy

[bvanes]

cowboy!john is so real to me that i literally miss him irl

[tojisteddy]

It was just a one night stand is what you’d told yourself.

You weren’t Cinderella and your life wasn’t going to miraculously change overnight, you had a job at your families hardware store to attend to.

You were the youngest of six, all girls, all working for the one family business that helps keep your town a float. You’d thought you’d be able to keep a secret to yourself about sleeping with John Price until the town gossiper, Shonda Lewis, stuck her head into the shop window blabber mouthing with your older sister Lisa.

Something about, “Have you heard, John Price is looking for his special lady.”

Lisa raised an eyebrow, “A special lady?”

“Mmmhm! Said he met someone he’s been waitin for his whole life but they ran off! So he’s been goin ‘round town lookin for ‘em. But it’s been dozens ‘f women sayin it’s them, hell, I would too if I wasn’t married. That whole family is rich as shit!” Shonda laughed.

John Price came from a long line of cowboys, from ranchers to rodeo to farm hands— the Price ranch was thee most thriving ranch connected to your small town— probably in the county. Not to mention, Price was the oldest of his 3 siblings, he was a gentleman and took care of everyone and everything. What was not to love?

You, have been hiding in the back of the hardware store all day, absolutely sure there would be no run ins with that Price man and you could go about your business. It’s not that Price would find you anyway, you were sure he was just looking for his real type which was stuck up southern bells. Not you, who didn’t mind getting your hands dirty, begged your parents for a 4 wheeler for your 15th birthday, spent the weekend line dancing and drinking whatever concoction your wild ass cousins could mixed up. 

Your sisters had slowly left one by one, leaving you to take care of the shop by your lonesome. The door chimed just before you were able to lock it. You cursed, shoving the box in your hand on its necessary shelf. “Give me one moment!”

“Will do.” The person replies.

With a huff, you quickly get down the step stool, rushing to the front of the shop. “Hello! how can I help you?”

Fate is really funny isn’t it? You can never avoid what was meant to happen.

A blue set of eyes meet your brown ones, the bearded man quickly takes off his tan cowboy hat once he laid eyes on you. Gorgeous, gorgeous thing. John Price doesn’t know what happened to the air in his throat, “It’s you ain’t it?”

You know exactly what he’s talking about, but you ignore the temptation, glancing away and fiddling with the register. “I got no clue what yer talkin bout sir.”

John can’t help the chuckle, cheeks growing more read as he simply looks at you. He manages to take your hand that was on the counter. “It’s good to finally meet over different circumstances.” He gives your knuckles a kiss, letting his thumb rub over the spot as if to rub it in.

“I’m John Price, ‘nd I intend on makin you mine. Seriously this time.”

And fuck, maybe you were Cinderella and this man was Prince Charming.

And you were tripping and falling in love with him before you even got the chance to properly deny him.

a/n: Cowboy!Price and reader who didn’t stand a fuckin chance (aka Cinderella!reader). I’m sorry I like a headcanon and plot.

[fairycoures]

happy anniversary to my john price obsession, started last year i was watching edits instead of listening to family on thanksgiving <3

[kiinfics]

The Devil sent you, Darlin'

Cowboy! John Price meets CityGirl! Reader who's visiting family in Texas, and immediately sets his eyes on a pretty young thing thats nothin' quite like the women he's used to CW: age gap ( John mid fourties, Reader mid twenties), slight smut (no sex just thoughts), reader is a bit of a bimbo, high- maintenance kinda bitchy reader, John is a bit condescending and also a shameless flirt WC: 1.5k

Dust clung to the hem of his duster as John Price stepped out of the sun-baked roads, muddied tassel boots hitting the porch boards of 'Al's Equine' with the slow, unhurried confidence of a man who's spent more years in the saddle than out of it. He was tall in the ways that the plains made men— lean, broad shouldered, all sun-browned skin and easy smiles with the tip of a hat. Quiet ambition dripping through that buttery, thick country Texas dialect. The warm flicker of daylight catches the sliver feathered into his beard and bristled mustache, hat pulled low— the hem weathered and sweat marked, casting his sharp blue eyes all steady and calculated. Every part of him looked warm and worn and weathered by hard work; yet not a part of him was tired. John carried himself with the calm presence of a man who understood every curve of the land, and let it shape him rather than fight it.

The door crawls shut behind him, crooked Bell chiming in a minor key shifted out of tune as the hinges complain. The echo bounces off of shelves stacked with feed bags and second hand tack, smells of oats and leather welcoming him like a handshake— firm and sure. Stood at the counter is good ol' Al' with his chipped tooth smile and dirty white hair in a careless man-bun, beard unkept with the appearence of a man who's seen it all; yet still holds kindness in his hazel eyes. A timely look indeed. The usual comment spits, teasing about feeding those damn horses too well with the frequency John buys, raised bushy eyebrow and a chuckle to boot.

"them stallions gon' need two hacks a day with the rate you feed em, John"

John chucked heartily, slapping money down on the ledge pre-emptively: "when's the last time you tended a horse proper Al'?"

"now now sonnie, remember who books the prices in this here store" Al shoots back, cashing the money in without the need to check the amount.

the banter came easy as always, John tapping his boot methodically, arm resting on the counter as Alan counted coin. He was halfway through another joke about oats when the shuffle of lighter footsteps came in from the storeroom. John glanced over his shoulder expecting some hired hand— met instead by a young woman dressed too pretty for the plains, sleeves rolled to her elbows, stray curl fallen beside her cheek.

you huffed and brushed some dust from your straight-leg jeans, raising your eyebrows at the two men chatting casually before you, trading their usual jokes.

Alan didn't even bother to look up from the ledger.

"John, this here's my daughter, she's in from the city— figured she'd grace us simple folk with her presence"

you shot him a look that only a daughter gets away with. "I'm visiting, Dad. Not descending from the heavens."

John straightened, thumb hooking his belt as his eyes raked you over with intent, slow grin tugging at his mouth: "well now.." he drawlled, "s'pose tha' explains the fancy lookin' boots. Don't see many folk 'round 'ere wearin' ones that clean"

your eyes take a quick look over the older man, flicking down to his dusty spurs, unimpressed: "when's the last time you cleaned yours, Cowboy?" You snap back, crossing your arms.

Alan finally looked up with a tired sigh, an unimpressed groan in your direction. "Lord help me... Two minutes in the room n' she's already causin' trouble"

John just chuckled, tapping his boot again as his hands fell casually onto his hips: "Reckon Trouble here's the most excitin' thing t' walk into this store all week, ey darlin'?" He says with an undeniable amount of intrigue and a drizzle of condescendance, tilting his head and tipping his hat.

The man couldn't help himself, grin lingering a little longer than it should've, settling into something slower— more deliberate, dangerous maybe. There was a youthful spark in your eyes he hasn't seen in the women around these parts, bright and sharp like you know you're well placed in society. The way your features catch in the sunlight like the edge of a blade... His attention has been pulled from him willingly towards such a proper little thing, more than anything had in a long time.

You moved around the counter to help your father stack feed receipts and reach below the ledge, where his tired knees would rather not go. The city polish in your gesture a stark contrast from the rough n' tumble of everything surrounding you yet somehow you seem to compliment it all well, maybe it's the confidence radiating. John watched the way you tucked that loose curl behind your ear, muttering profanities that sounded eloquent on your tongue as papers slipped. You aren't aware of it, but the man is studying everything about you like a new horse of his own that he hasn't quite figured out the gait of yet.

Too focused on trying not to catch a nail on the clips, you didn't notice when John leaned in to steal the scent of your perfume, whispers of cherry and vanilla and something expensive he's already addicted to— the distinct, brand new smell of you going straight to his crotch as he imagines tucking his head into the crook of your neck. You eventually look up, breath catching in surprise at the casual proximity of the undeniably handsome man.

"do all of your customers stare this much or am I just lucky" you say to your father with a flattened look as you check your manicure.

John blinked, caught but unbothered, and tipped his hat slightly with a playful smirk. “Can’t blame a man for takin’ notice of somethin’ worth lookin’ at. Yer a sight f' sore eyes, hun"

Al' groaned again, louder, more annoyed. "John, I swear don't y' start courtin' trouble either"

But you've paused—just for a heartbeat—then lifted your gaze to John’s. There was amusement there, yes, but something softer beneath it. Curiosity, maybe. Matching his own.

“Well,” you said lightly, looking him up and down with a different version of "disinterest". “trouble usually has better manners.”

John let out that low laugh, leaning back on his elbow against the counter. “Stick around, darlin’. Might surprise you.”

He studied your reaction, the way your eyes rolled and you shifted your weight onto the other leg. before he could push the banter any further, Alan snapped the ledger shut with a thump that echoed through the store.

“That’s enough of that,” he warned, giving John a stare sharp enough to cut leather. “She’s here to help, not get pestered by cowboys who forget how to behave when a pretty face walks by.”

You rolled your eyes. “Pa, I’m not twelve.”

“Never said you were,” Alan muttered, stepping between them under the pretense of tidying a stack of grain sacks. “Just sayin’ I know that look this fool gets. Seen it plenty.”

John straightened, palms raised in mock surrender, though the smirk tugging at his mouth didn’t lift. “Aw, c’mon now, Al. I ain’t done nothin’ but say hello.”

Alan jabbed a finger at him. “And that’s plenty for you.”

John chucked and tapped his foot again— nervous this time, but warm. Protective or not, Alan's stance only made your more intriguing to him, the notion that you are meant to be off limits sets him off more than he's willing to admit right now. He has to redirect the blood from his cock to his head and rein in the thoughts of how that delicate accent you have would translate after a couple orgasms.

“Don’t fret, Al,” John said, adjusting his hat with a lazy confidence that didn’t quite hide the spark in his eyes. “I’ll be on my best behavior.”

Alan snorted. Looking at the cowboy like he's two more comments towards you away from a swift boot up the arse. “That’s what worries me.”

You bit your lip, trying not to laugh—and John felt that small, secret smile hit him harder than any warning Alan could throw.

Alan's warning hangs thick in the dust-scattered air, but John— stubborn as a mule and twice as confident— only leant a little further over the counter, eyes flickering back to you.

"So, trouble" he drawlled, "how long ye plannin' on stayin' in our little corner o' nowhere? Long enough fer a man to show ye round good n' proper"

Your cheeks warmed, though you tried to hide it behind a smirk. “That depends. Are the tours run by men who can go five minutes without flirting?”

“Five minutes?” John scoffed, tapping his boot again. “Darlin’, I can go at least six if I’m properly motivated.” he smirks, looking you uppp and downnn. "And if we're talkin' bout you sweetheart' I can go-

Before he could finish that thought, Alan slammed his palm on the counter so hard both of them jumped. “That’s it,” he barked. “John Price, take your feed and fuckin' git.”

“Al—”

“Nope.” Alan pointed straight at the door, eyes narrowed under bushy brows. “Out. Store’s closin’ early. Suddenly. For no reason whatsoever. Other than you runnin’ yer fool mouth.”

You covered your smile with your hand, shoulders shaking.John let out a breathy laugh, picking up the sack of feed Alan pushed toward him a little too forcefully. “Alright, alright. Didn’t mean no harm.”

“Mm-hm,” Alan grunted. “Door’s still that way.”

John backed up, tipping his hat toward you even as Alan hovered like a guard dog. “Pleasure meetin’ you, trouble. Hope your visit’s a long one.” Alan nearly shoved him off the porch.The door swung shut behind John, the bell giving a final indignant jangle. Through the glass, he caught one last glimpse of you shaking your head, smiling despite your father’s grumbling.He walked down the steps, feed sack over his shoulder, grin stretching slow across his face.

Worth gettin’ booted out for, he reckoned.

[bvanes]

Stoooooooo you KNOW how much i love cowboy! John price 😝

[thistle-wrote]

The Sacrifice

F!reader X John price Cw: Religious trauma, Implied self hatred, Age gap relationship (20s and 40s?), Catholicism written by someone who has never and will never be Catholic.

“John, I can't do this anymore.”

You found yourself saying the words as you stood before the man you once knew as nothing more than a nuisance. Now, he was everything. To explain how you even got to this place would require far too much therapy and too much thinking on your part.

You were once softer, sweeter, more easygoing. But then life happened, as it does to most soft things in this dark, desolate world. You could still envision that day in your religious studies class as if it happened only yesterday. You remember the seed of doubt that conversation planted in your soft, pliable mind:

Is God willing to prevent evil, but not able? Then he is not omnipotent. Is he able, but not willing? Then he is malevolent. Is he both able and willing? Then whence cometh evil? Is he neither able nor willing? Then why call him God? — Epicurus

Your Professor rattled this quote off like it was nothing, a regular bit of everyday conversation. You remember it still: the inflection in his voice deepening, as it always did when he saw something as absolute truth. To you, this was not only a sad lie spoken by a sinner, but the scornful words of a blasphemer. But now, look at you: a broken shell of the woman you once knew.

You woke up this morning on a regular Sunday, just as you always did, and began grooming your hair and makeup for morning mass. You looked into the mirror, stained with toothpaste and foggy from your shower, and spoke to God like all good girls should. You were a good girl; Daddy always told you so. You wished to stay in bed. You had a paper due and a pile of laundry to tackle, but church was so much more important. You had to be there on the Lord’s Day.

You could hear the sounds of Ma in the kitchen, cooking what was most likely another flavorless dish. Your mother seemed to think everything in life must be bland to be holy, or at least, that was the way you had begun to interpret it. Her lack of thought felt like a desperate effort to submit to Daddy, to truly be a woman of God. You wanted to be holy, to be of God, but you didn't want to be Ma.

For the last few months, your thoughts had been those of a heretic. You knew it; God knew it. You suspected Ma, Daddy, and Father Smith all knew too. You desperately wanted to be the good girl you were raised to be, but you had too many thoughts, too many feelings, and too many questions for the liking of those around you.

So, as you brushed that soft pink color onto your cheek, you prayed. You apologized for your doubtful spirit. You asked your merciful God to forgive you for your humanity. You wanted to be like Job in the Bible, to have such unwavering faith that the stress and pain of life were no match for you. Instead, you had gone to uni, studying religion, wanting the knowledge of a priest and the faith of Daddy. If you could admit it to yourself, which you rarely could, the studies had the opposite effect.

Still, you pressed on, living the double life you had come to know: a soft woman of the Lord on Sundays, but a criminal to divine law by night.

The only thing that truly made any real sense in your entire life right now was John. Captain John Price, your next door neighbor, a man Daddy had repeatedly warned you to stay away from. You couldn't stop now, even if you tried. Not when you had felt the rock of his hips. Not when you had felt his breath down your neck. Not when your dreams were filled with the deep sound of his voice. Not when he was the only person who truly saw you for what you were: a sinner worthy of love.

Your mind drifted from the quiet prayers to thoughts of the hard muscle of his bicep and the scent of his cigars, smoke blown directly into your face. You mentally cursed yourself. You would definitely need to speak to Father Smith about that later.

Later that afternoon, the smell of incense wafted through the air. The poorly sung hymns from only hours ago were still fresh in your mind as you sat in the same wooden confessional booth you had used since childhood, your white dress tucked uncomfortably underneath your leg.

You had done this song and dance countless times. You made the Sign of the Cross.

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been one week since my last confession," your soft, timid voice managed.

Father Smith replied as he normally did, his voice authoritative but kind, a sound you had known for more years than you could even recall. "I confess to sins of the flesh, Father, and for impure thoughts. I have allowed John to replace God in my mind. I am tempted by the world," you continued. You sucked in a deep breath; no matter how many years you had done this, you always expected yelling, but it never came.

You furthered your ongoing confession, detailing what you and John had done last Tuesday when he had gotten back from God knows where. You were sure Father Smith was tired of hearing you confess the exact same thing each week, and yet, you were always unable to stop yourself.

Once you finished your full confession, tears began to prick at your tired eyes. Father Smith finally spoke: “The temptations of the flesh are powerful nets cast by the Adversary, my child. John is a distraction, allowing Satan to poison your spirit. This is a sin of the spirit, not merely of the body. To correct this, you must anchor yourself in purity.”

“Yes, Father,” you mumbled. Yet, even the idea of John being a tool for the devil to use against you set you on edge.

“Your penance will be to recite five decades of the Holy Rosary every day for the next week, offering each one for the restoration of your purity and chastity. Go now, and may the Lord restore you to grace.”

As you dabbed your eyes with your tissue and exited the booth, you could not help but think how, despite your previous dedication to every penance ever given, you never actually did them anymore.

The New Confession

After afternoon lunch with your parents, you decided on taking a walk. You still had not written that paper or finished that laundry, but you needed to think. As you walked through the neighborhood, you talked, not to God, but to yourself. The disconnect between the beliefs you were raised on, your classes, and most of all, John, was becoming too much for just one girl to bear alone. A small part of you wanted to be pure again, to be a lamb, an innocent thing who never knew the touch of a man could feel so close to heaven. But you knew the truth: a rosary would not wash away your sin, and a soft voice was not fooling the righteous.

So, you found your feet where they always ended up when God was not enough to worship: John's.

You didn't knock; you never did. You just made the loop through the trees and walked into his house. John was not a man who rested, probably due to all the years of grueling work, so you found him exactly where you expected: in the shed in his backyard, working on something.

“John,” you spoke, your voice more assertive with him than it was in really any other situation.

He looked up from his project, smiling. He stood and wiped his large hands on his pants. “Hi, Rabbit,” his rough voice hummed out. He immediately reached a hand out to brush along your neck, a gesture that felt less sexual and more like an unspoken claim of ownership.

Your head tilted to look at him. You were not sure exactly what the trigger was. Maybe it was thinking too hard. Maybe it was the guilt. Maybe it was the indignity of having to lie to your parents as a grown woman about where you were and what you were doing. Whatever the reason, it all came crashing down at once.

As the tears flowed, he paused whatever he was about to say or do. John froze for only a moment before crouching to meet you where you stood. His hands found their way to your hips as he began to speak in a voice softer than the one you knew from the empty sky.

“Hey, hey, what is it, huh?”

“John, I can't do this anymore,” you told him, starting to sniffle. Once, John was nothing but a too loud neighbor with a too loud truck whom Daddy shamed for cursing so much. But now? The man standing before you was not a scary agent of the underworld, or a sinner; he was a saviour.

You did not need to explain much more than that. John knew. God, if anyone, knew it was him.

He had listened to you cry and confess more times than a man should have to. He had answered your questions about his lack of faith and done it in a way so respectful of your struggle you never questioned if he was trying to persuade you to leave. He had read your papers on religious study and encouraged you to ask questions, not for him, but for you. Yes, he knew very well what this was about.

He did not say anything for a while. He simply took you inside, guiding you with a rough hand on the small of your back, leading you to the couch, and settling you there. He let you cry, but you were in no mood to explain your thought process; it was all over the place as is. He brought you tea without asking, because that was John; tea was his love language.

“Wanna talk about it?” he finally asked after a long stretch of silence.

You curled the teacup against your chest, noting that it was a cup too fancy for a man that lived alone to possess. You felt the warmth of the porcelain against your cotton dress, soaking into your chest as the steam hit your face.

“I’m tired,” you mumbled. It was not a physical sensation, and you did not need to clue him in on that. You were simply exhausted.

You were tired of fighting to be good. You were tired of feeling guilty for wanting love from a man who so willingly gave it to you. Most of all, you were tired of your throat being sore from screaming up to a God who was not listening.

“You aren't doing anything wrong, you know?” John said. His soft voice was a stark contrast to the pain and screaming you heard constantly in your head. If God was love, then why was the only time you truly felt His presence when John looked at you like that?

You said nothing for some time, instead opting to grab his hand, which he took with a squeeze. You scooted closer to him on the couch and leaned against his side.

You thought back to Father Smith's words: “John is a distraction, allowing Satan to poison your spirit.” This man? This man who was holding you so softly after you barged into his home and broke out into tears? No. He was many things, but he was no distraction.

“I love you,” you mumbled.

You did not say it often, not because you did not feel it, but because you were not supposed to love him. Yet, in this moment, you found the truth: he was it. This was the love you were supposed to feel for God, and if loving this man to the point of eternal damnation was what you felt, then so be it.

“I know, bunny. I love you too,” he said, lowering his voice while gently brushing a strand of hair from your tear stained cheek.

The Sacrifice

You were not completely sure what came over you in this moment. Whether it was how high your emotions were running or just the sheer weight of understanding. John was not just some man tearing you away from your religion. He was a man who had loved you to the point of being okay with being second place in your mind, next to God, all this time. He had been fine with that for the entirety of your relationship, and you were only realizing it right now.

So, for once in your life, you gave in to the temptation that was John Price without the guilt that normally followed. You kissed him, not a soft kiss, but one that was crying, desperate to fully feel the devotion you had been withholding yourself from. John, taken aback for only a split second, groaned at the action and gave in quickly, taking the tea from your hand and placing it on the coffee table. He did not need a verbal explanation; you both knew what this was: this was church, this was worship.

The clothes came off quickly, as they always did when you two were together, but this time, it was different. It was a sacrifice of sorts, like in the Old Testament, the slaughtering of a lamb for sins. But there was no judgment, no pain; it was just you, giving. You had felt John's hands in your hair and his knee between your legs many times before, but with the new freedom you allowed yourself, it felt different, new.

Your ears were ringing and your breath was heavy, and he had barely touched you yet. No matter how worked up you were, he always took his time.

“Bucking like that,” he tisked, playful for how heavy his lids were as he looked at you.

“John,” you pleaded with that single word, begging him not to be toyed with, even though you secretly enjoyed it each time.

John laughed at your plea. He picked you up from your spot on the couch, carrying you into the bedroom you had become so acquainted with.

John was not a messy man; in fact, it was quite the opposite. So, when he tossed you onto the bed, ripped the covers back, and threw them onto the floor, you knew he was feeling it too, how different this time was. And it was so different. You did not expect that reaction, nor did you expect the words that followed.

“I’ve been waiting to see how long it would take you to realize you don't need God to fix you when I’m right here,” he nearly growled as he crawled on top of you on the bed.

To this, you had no response. Mostly, it was because you had no idea how hot that line would get you. Although you could not see your face, you knew it had to be bright red.

“I know, baby,” he laughed almost immediately, confirming that you must have had a very outward reaction.

“I’m sorry,” you found yourself mumbling, but then he dipped his head down to suck on your neck. This was an action you never let him do, out of fear of someone seeing the mark of sin left on your body. You did not have the will to protest or care right now, though.

“What are you sorry for, sweet girl?” he asked, taking a break from the skin on your neck for only a moment to speak.

You realized this was not a genuine question by the way he sounded when the words fell from his smoke scented lips. He was not asking for a soft talk about your religious or relationship guilt; he was asking for a confession.

Months ago, the idea of rattling off your wrongdoings out loud to anyone, let alone the man you desperately needed the company of, would have sent you into a spiral. But now, with your face pressed into the bed and your hips in the air, it not only felt expected but like it was right. You were meant to be telling him all the filthy thoughts and dirty dreams you had about him. You were supposed to be whining through tear stained eyes about how good your body felt and how numb he made your overactive brain.

“Come on, bunny, tell me what goes on in that silly little head,” he grunted as he rutted into your body, and you did.

You had sex with him many times, but it was never like this. It was always a nervous, timid thing, nodding and squirming and trying not to think about the consequences. This act was not just one of love, but a prayer to the man who truly owned your mind. It was John; when you thought back to it, it was always him.

You could feel his hairy chest pressed against your back and the slick feel of him between your legs. You tried to take in the sensory details of your surroundings. This was your everything. John may not be the god you were raised with, but he was a deity to you.

Before you knew it, his hands were grabbing your hips harder, and his body was pushing in and out of yours at a quicker pace.

Your body was completely absorbed in the sensation of him to think. You knew he was speaking to you, and although you wanted nothing more than to listen to those breathless, rhythmic words, you could only focus on the white hot feeling in your gut about to pop. John noticed it before you did.

“That's it, baby. Come on, ohh, there you go,” he praised as you tipped over the edge. Your walls spasmed around him, leaving a creamy liquid in its wake. You had never been spoken to like that by him or anyone else in your life, and it was maddening. The brutal pace in which John was hitting your cervix was enough to make you nearly scream.

John finished quickly after you did, letting himself release into you as if that's where he was always meant to be. As he gathered his bearings, he took a deep breath, pulling out of you and laying down beside you, immediately pulling you into his arms.

God had no power to take this sinner away from you.

Authors note: Yes, I was a Pentecostal pastor once upon a Time in my life… no of course this wasn’t self insert and I’m not sure why you even brought that up?

CoD Masterlist

[bvanes]

UGH literally my fav John trope

[ilium-ilia]

John Price is the type of professor to attend each lecture with a mug in his hand and glasses low on his nose.

Crisp slacks, salt and pepper hair, and a button up shirt—he likes order. Doesn't mess with the power point presentations or online assignments. His lecture hall sports an old chalkboard and all of his assignments will be handed in on paper, attendance is necessary to pass, and exams are to be taken during class time, no exceptions.

He is also—unfortunately—the most infuriating professor you've ever had the misfortune of signing up for.

Each assignment you turn in gets handed back with scrawling handwriting that reads see me after class in blood-red ink. He's insufferably predictable in the way he sits in his office, sprawled back in his chair, fingers tapping on the table as he waits for you. For a minimum of ten minutes he forces you to sit across his desk so he can scrutinize you with never-ending questions about your work as proof that you know what you're talking about.

You hate the red tinge of his cheeks, and that tight-lipped smile and curt nod he sports as he listens to your impromptu presentation. None of your classmates can corroborate Professor Price's antics—it seems targeted. Yet, at the end he always tells you what a wonderful job you've done and to keep it up before handing your paper back to you with a smile, sending you on your way.

What he doesn't tell you—however—is that there is a long line of zero's sitting in his grade book beneath your name. How is he supposed to let such star pupil slip out of his grasp so soon?

[sarahsghosts]

Obsessed with Vampire!Price x Vampire Hunter!Reader.

For starters, Price is not the brooding, woe is me vampire. He’s very old, so he’s not impulsive and reckless like many freshly turned vampires are. He is pragmatic and maddeningly calm even when he has a stake or silver blade at his throat.

You were raised in a guild of vampire hunters, and you had been trained to believe vampires were nothing but mindless, soulless killing machines. They ran on instinct alone and feel nothing.

You hunt Price for years, which is difficult because he knows how to kill without leaving much evidence behind. It begins with a few young people disappearing from one village, and then a few more in the neighboring village. You follow the trail and realize you have a very smart and very deadly vampire on your hands.

Over the years you encounter one another multiple times, but always from a distance, never giving you a chance to kill him. He always makes eye contact with you from up on the roof of a cottage or half a mile away, at the top of a valley. He never makes a move for you, leaving you alive to come find him again.

Until one time, you track him to a dense city, stalking him into an alleyway. In a flash, he has you pinned to the wall, snarling and growling, saliva dripping from his fangs. His eyes are no longer blue, but a deep dark maroon as his instincts scream for blood.

And that’s when he shows restraint. He lets you go, and you fall to your knees, heart pounding. You’re reaching into your satchel for a stake, eyes searching for him in the darkness, but he’s already gone.

You don’t see him for almost a year after that, but when you do, the encounter goes unacknowledged. Things go back to the way they have always been.

Shame fills you. You’re burdened with the knowledge that you’re only alive because he showed mercy.

You hope that killing him makes it go away.

He, on the other hand, looks forward to every one of your encounters. It had been over a century since he has found a true challenge. You’re possibly the first vampire hunter that he has truly viewed as an equal. Where other hunters have only been pesky nuisances, you’re a challenge with your wit, banter, and undeniable skill. It also helps that you’re easy on the eyes. Truly a source of entertainment in his unnaturally long life.

He enjoys provoking you. Where you’re sharp and righteous, he’s sly, calm and unflappable. It makes every encounter feel like a game of chess, which is infuriating to you who just wants to kill him and be done with it.

When your blades clash, once again, he presses in close enough that you can smell the blood on his breath as he murmurs, “You shouldn’t play with knives, love. You could cut yourself.”

He knows just how to get under your skin, teasing you about the way your hands shake, or how your heart skips a beat when his fangs flash in the moonlight. “Are you afraid, darling?” He muses. “You know adrenaline only makes blood taste sweeter.”

You tell yourself it’s disgust that you feel for him, but he already knows better.

Sometimes he doesn’t fight back at all, letting you get the upper hand just so he can study your face when you’re so close to killing him. He’ll grin wickedly through a bloody lip and say, “Go on then. Do it,” but then he immediately flips you, pinning you beneath him, before you can deliver the killing blow.

One fateful night, you’re wounded from hunting a rogue werewolf. You’ve posted up against a tree, certain that you were going to die moments after slaying your opponent. But Price shows up, watching from the shadows until you notice him.

You’re certain he is going to descend upon you, drink you dry, and leave your body there under the tree.

You see the dark red seeping into his irises as he approaches you slowly. But instead of finishing you off, he presses something into your hand. A rag and bottle of disinfectant.

“Patch yourself up before you bleed out, little hunter.”

After that, he begins to show up more often, lurking in the shadows. Sometimes you notice him, sometimes you don’t. His gaze becomes less predatory and more curious, maybe even protective.

John finds himself fascinated with your tenacity. “You should’ve been dead five times over by now, but you’re still standing,” he muttered to himself as he watched you battle with a bruja. “Stubborn little thing.”

He calls you “hunter,” or by your surname, but when he’s serious, your first name slips out in that gravelly voice, low enough to send shivers down your spine.

The first time he touches you, without trying to restrain or disarm, it’s to gently brush a drop of blood off your cheek. He lingers, his skin warm and calloused, before pulling back and pushing his thumb past your lips, forcing it into your mouth. The coppery taste of your own blood makes your stomach roll.

The longer this goes on, the more you realize you don’t actually want to win. If you win, Price is dead. And that doesn’t sit right with you anymore. No. You want to know him. You fight off the urge for as long as you can until…

You corner him one night, finally managing to restrain him chained with silver chains. He doesn’t fight, but watches you with unnerving calm and something akin to admiration. But both of you know he let you catch him.

He smirks and says, “You’ve finally got me where you want me, hunter. What’ll you do now, hmm?”

Your hesitation gives you away and he laughs, a quiet rumble, before breaking the chains with unnerving ease. He surges forward and grabs ahold of the back of your neck, jerking you forward and kissing you roughly. His lips taste of iron and they’re suspiciously warm for a dead man.

You dream of that kiss for weeks, trying to summon anger or rage in hopes that they can smother the unacceptable warmth that grows low in your belly at the memory.

Until he saves your life for a second time. This time by feeding you his blood after a mortal wound. It keeps you alive… but now you’re bound to him in a way that leaves you shunned from your guild. You’re furious with him.

“Why didn’t you just let me die?” You snap. “It would have been more honorable than being bound to a vampire like some sort of slave.”

John stares down at you, amusement evident in his eyes. “A pet would be a more accurate analogy.”

You scowl sharply and step forward, ready to argue some more, but he cuts you off, by stepping up to meet you.

As you crane your neck up to meet his gaze, the amusement leaves his features.

“I didn’t kill you because it would have been a waste,” he says lowly.

He didn’t elaborate on what he meant by that.

He didn’t tell you that he chose not to kill you the first time because he saw a fire in you that he hadn’t seen in centuries.

Something he wanted to protect, even from his own instincts.

He knew he’d have to turn you before bringing you back to his nest. You smelled far too tantalizing to bring around the others. Especially his newest fledgling who hadn’t quite mastered self-control yet.

Johnny would tear you apart in minutes.

Yes, it was better to turn you first. He knew you wouldn’t like it, but that didn’t matter. He’d grown far too attached to let anything happen to you.

And John knew you’d forgive him eventually.

Even if he had to wait a few hundred years.

masterlist

[bonesofall]

a noble who eliminates all your suitors one by one in mysterious, untraceable ways to get closer to you. lord hal drowned? how sad! he allows you to cry in his arms while he presses kisses along your face. the duke from the neighboring city fell off his horse? damn. he's rushing to your manor to comfort you and help you lay down. you poor thing, you're in shock. he must tend to you. get that tight corset you've been wearing all day off, and that stuffy dress... and those tight slippers. ah. now he knows just what will help you relax.

a massage.

with him inside you, stretching you out. breeding you.

oh no! someone must've heard your cries while he defiled you. he can't let word get around that you, an heir, had sex out of wedlock. that would be a big scandal, would it not?

well, he supposes he'll marry you if it comes down to it.

kinktober | main masterlist | navigation | multifandom masterlist

[yuckmr-deactivated20251218]

maybe I'm the pervert

[tojisun]

3 (@3uda3m0nia) gave me this brainworm and now it refuses to leave me but professor price and him being mean and nasty. // cw: f!reader; shitty power imbalance; pregnancy; again- john isnt a good man (he's a red flag)

professor price who is teaching a niche-ish major, maybe history with a focus on military and warfare from antiquity to modernity, and who is so charming and handsome and smart that he gets away with his snide comments and dismissive replies at students who come up to him with questions that skirt the edges of his syllabus. professor price who is so obnoxious because he's the only one who actually teaches what he does, and he does it well, but you? oh, you're onto him.

you're a graduate student with a vendetta the size of saturn on this man for refusing to be your mentor.

he didn't owe you that, of course, but maybe he did because every professor that you went up to, asking them if they could be your mentor as you write your dissertation on women under siege or something adjacent to what professor price got his PhD on, have always recommended him. they did not outright refuse you—professor laswell is your mentor right now, actually—but there is merit to what they're saying. price's own dissertation and his focus is something so close to what you want to make your research on that it just made so much sense for him to be your mentor.

but he said no; said he didn't want to. more than that, he said that he just has no time and he told you this while showing you his carefully arranged calendar which, true to his words, were stacked with meetings and undergraduate seminars. still, you're just a human and you can hate him all you want.

but apparently, so could he.

when laswell invited him so that they could sit down and listen to your first draft—"because he owes me one," is all kate said—he keeps cutting you off and asking why you used the resources that you have, before outright saying how your research is weak. no, not just weak.

"you're playing it safe," he says with a disappointed downturn of his lips. "you had me all excited only for this to be such a trite thesis. i suggest you start all over." then he stands up, dusts off invisible dirt from his sleeve, and leaves without any other comment.

kate looks at you with an apology and spends a whole week helping you refine your research. reluctantly, you realize that professor price was right. fuck.

price finds out that you slept with his TA.

you met connor at a frat party, of all places, but your friends invited you for a night out and you were so burned out that you agreed. connor's a graduate student just like you are, with a research focused on something in modern history. he's price's TA for the semester and connor cannot sing him enough praises.

"i just want to be like him, y'know?" connor says and he's all quiet and shy and beautiful in the university's spring collection jumper. sleeping with him was almost a given.

the casual sex wasn't often but it was frequent enough that hangouts past the sex became common. he sends you videos that he finds funny, you send him links to seminars that the two of you could attend. one of them being price's.

price sees the two of you enter. you dutifully ignore every eye contact, made easier by connor's presence as he hovers close, thigh to thigh, and whispers in your ear how price took the time to explain to him this and that. lucky him; seems like professor price isn't a douchebag to everyone.

after the seminar, you and connor stay back, pamphlets filled with little scribbled questions that the two of you would like to ask price on. price, to his credit, greets you two amicably, especially extending his niceties to connor by asking him if he'd enjoyed the talk. connor leads the conversation; you try your best not to notice the way price's demeanor changes to a calloused chill, almost mocking with his upturned brows and his drawn-out hums, when you chime in.

genuinely, fuck this old man.

you leave, fuming quietly, and connor, bless his heart, gives you the space that you need.

but you should have known, really. professor price isn't a good man, remember?

somehow, with half the semester already gone and even after the outstanding remarks you know he received, connor was removed as price's TA. his new one? it's you.

"professor, i was wondering if i may have guidance on how to grade this paper?"

you don't know what you're expecting from price—with everything that happened already—but a long exhale, like you're the one being difficult, isn't what you expected. and it's this one, this reaction, that breaks you.

"what the hell is your problem?!"

you can feel prickles in the back of your eyes, your throat convulsing at your anger, and john just—

he's just looking at you with that sort of detachment like you should be better because he expected better from you. and it makes you feel so small; how he's looking at you like he'd already made up his mind about who you are and that whatever it was, you cannot come back from it.

the tears fall. god. you feel like a child before him and it fucking sucks. you've proven time and time again that you know better, that you are better than whatever preconceived notion he has of you, but he dismisses you every single time. why the hell are you even his new TA? which sick person would throw you to his door?

it takes a few minutes of you sniffling and pathetically wiping the tears away for john to finally speak.

"have you calmed down?" he asks like he isn't the cause of this. fucking bastard.

"mm," is all you give him. no olive branch, not when he clearly isn't gearing up for an apology.

"sit," he says. another quirked brow. "go on, kid. what're you waiting–"

"not a kid, sir," you grit out, dropping to the seat in front of him. "please."

he blinks at you, still sporting that mask of indifference. "of course," he puffs out and he sounds like he doesn't believe it which, fuck him, but also, it isn't like you can really blame him. you did just blow up at him and cried your eyes out while he watches on like he's waiting for a child's tantrum to pass.

maybe you should go to the dean—

"look," he starts, leaning forward. "you're smart, yes. talented, even. kate, professor laswell, tells me of your progress and congratulations, i guess, but you cannot be talking to me this way."

what.

"sir, if i could just–"

he raises his hand up, silencing you.

"you are being very disrespectful to your professor," he tuts and he sounds so condescending with all his furrowed brows and his lilting voice like you have purposefully been difficult to him.

the anger rises again, your cheeks heating up as you sputter you look at him in disbelief, your mind already mapping ways to escape this hell, all the while price is still looking at you like you are the problem.

"fuck you," you spit out, vitriolic, and stand up to leave.

"kid–"

"i'm not a kid!" you say, turning around, only to gasp in surprise at seeing him close; just a breath away. you didn't even hear him stand up to— what? catch you?

but here he is, so close that you could smell the faint scent of whiteboard markers and coffee, and see the speckles of gold in his eyes.

his eyes—thunderous. heavy as it looks back at you, meeting your gaze head-on. he looks like the very picture of a distinguished professor. the face of a celebrated scholar. this is the one you so desperately wanted to mentor you. to guide you. to talk to you about his research and his books, a handful of which you owned even after how he treated you.

connor was right—professor price is an amazing researcher. you wanted to be like him.

just like that, the tensions bleeds out of you. licking your chapped lips, all you can say is something you've repeated. "not a kid."

"no, you are not," he mutters. his eyes shift between your own, studying you, taking you in.

he's the first to close the distance.

the kiss is tentative, your lips twitching so much as it presses on his. you don't even breathe, scared of breaking the moment; it's john who swallows you whole. pawing hands on your hips, his tongue poking out to lick into your mouth. his beard is ticklish, borderline bothering you, but he is so warm to the touch and he is being so gentle and nice that you lose yourself in the moment.

he lays you down with such tenderness on his office desk. the stapled papers of the third-years fall to the carpeted floor, his pen organizer clattering soon after. he slots himself between your legs, hiking up your skirt to tug down your stockings.

thick fingers press on the crotch of your clothed pussy. it makes you gasp, bucking into the touch, and john hushes you with a reverberating, "ssh."

"p-professor–"

"i've got you, hun," he says, cutting you off again. but you don't even care anymore, suspended in the moment, stomach fluttering as john slips down your underwear.

you hide behind your palms as you watch him lick at his own fingers before dropping them to your pussy, past your mess of a bush, and into your slit. the first press makes you whimper, the muted pressure jolting your flickering mind back into your body.

"such a warm cunt," john hums, wistful like he's wanted this. it makes you groan, shyness encroaching in again, burning up your cheeks and making you listless underneath him.

it makes him chuckle, deep and rich and gooey, and when you finally peek behind your trembling fingers, john makes sure that you won't break eye contact again.

"ve' always wanted this," you think you hear john say to himself as he pushes himself in, slow and measured like he's savouring each slide. later, you'll convince yourself that you heard wrong; that as your desires bloated and you convulsed with the dizzying pleasure, your mind made up false memories.

because he couldn't have. he couldn't have.

the sex doesn't become a one-thing, it begins to consume you day-in and day-out. and it is so good, and john has become a little kinder, and you feel happier, even just a bit.

professor laswell studies you with pinched lips.

"prof?"

"s'nothing," she says after a while and tells you to re-draft the second part of your dissertation.

you get a pregnancy scare once. you tell john that the two of you have to stop fucking raw. john holds you close and says that he has it under control.

but it took. it fucking took.

you throw the test at john, screaming because the weight of everything—your responsibilities, your new reality—tears you asunder.

he consoles you with kisses on your wet cheeks, wiping away your tears.

"i'll take care of you," john whispers, pressing his promises on your skin. "didn't i tell you—i've got you?"

"okay," you puff out, breathing shakily as you burrow in his arms. he holds you tight, and later when the two of you sleep, you stare at his wide palm sitting atop your belly.

connor forwards you an email.

your unfinished dissertation, which was shelved when you decided to focus on your pregnancy, is completed and published under john's name, with laswell as the co-author.

your name is not even on a footnote.