Feel free to request! Just please add (if it's unclear) if the relationship is meant to be romantic or platonic. Requests might take anywhere from days to weeks for me to complete :D
For the past few months, my posting has been spotty, and it’s because…. I’ve been applying to colleges! Yup — I’m a high school senior.
This writing blog has been amazing, and I plan on continuing it, but I’d first like to share the news that I applied to many colleges, including some for English. University of Iowa and University of Florida both accepted me for English, while Cornell waitlisted me (honestly, I’m surprised it wasn’t a rejection). It’s thanks to all of you that I was even able to apply to these colleges and have the chance to follow my dreams.
Thank you to everyone who stuck with me when my posting slowed down and I became cryptic, I love you all.
Hii i see u often writecc! Tommy, have you ever did any with c! Tommy? He's my fav and there's rarely stuff abt him (I'm a minor s i think it's fine(?))
I believe I’ve written one c!Tommy thing! I don’t get requests for it often, but I’m totally open to writing c!Tommy.
The one thing I’ve written is called “Just A Kid” and it’s genuinely 2 years old so… don’t judge haha.
"You are an absolute dumbass." You deadpan, backing away from Tommy slowly.
"Who? Me?" He grins back at you, eyes sparkling.
Hell no. Without much thought to it, you turn tail and book it out of there. Within seconds his footsteps are following you, echoing loudly on the sidewalk as you both sprint through the streets of Brighton.
After a second, you realize you’ve wound yourself through their favorite grass park. And, of course, you realize this right before Tommy tackles you and tries to murder you.
Okay, that's an overstatement. He tackled you, yes, but quite gently for Tommy. And when you went down, he made care to be the one hitting his ass on the grass.
Either way, you both get the wind knocked out of you.
"Fuck." You wheeze, rolling onto a patch he isn't occupying.
"Sorry." Is his similarly wheezing response.
Tommy regains his breath quick, leaving you struggling to intake air. Really, it's unfair how fast he regains it.
"Alive?" He asks.
"I'm going to kill you."
"Hey! We can talk about-" he lets out a yelp when you send an elbow his way, careful it doesn't actually connect.
You flop closer to him, and he cautiously tugs you so that you’re resting your head on his shoulder. Perhaps a little too much caution than your mere elbow warranted.
"You're okay?" He asks, somewhat sheepishly.
"Yeah, fine." You quickly answer, propping yourself up on your elbow to overlook him.
"I swear I didn't mean for us to hit the ground so hard.”
"It's okay Toms, I know."
He still looks mildly worried though, so you press a quick kiss to his lips. Before pulling back and laughing.
"What? What?!" He questions.
"You've got so much grass in your hair!"
You run a hand through it, ruffling his hair to try and get it all out.
"So do you!" He protests, ducking away from your hand.
"I make it look fashionable, you look like you're about to transform into a blade of grass."
He gapes at you, mock-offended. "How. Fucking. Dare. You."
Awkward moment to be someone who writes fanfiction for Tommy and Dream… 🧍🏼♂️
I want to make it clear that I write fanfiction for the people I thought they were in little ol’ me’s head. And I think that’s all Fanfiction ever is — us writing about who we think they are. And I find that absolutely beautiful.
Would you look at that, it's another COD songfic.
⚠️ WARNING: the last bit is a little spicy!! ⚠️
Pairing: John Price X Gn!Reader
Talk
I'd be the choiceless hope in grief that drove him underground
I'd be the dreadful need in the devotee that made him turn around
Your Captain was a good man. Everyone said it. He was revered, looked up to, practically worshipped. A man who got his team in and out, often in one piece.
A man who appeared around every corner you turned, a friendly smile on his face and a coffee in hand.
"Thought I'd catch you headin' toward the armory." He'll say, offering the cup to you.
"Did you need me for something?" You ask, although you know his response will always be the same.
"Just wanted to check on ya. Can't hurt to have some company."
John Price is always there. In the hall outside your room in the mornings, in the mess hall when you are, stepping into the range when you're practicing. A constant presence behind you, oftentimes with gifts.
It's as if he has to seek you out, a magnet pulling him to wherever you are. Maybe it should be alarming. Maybe. But your Captain is a good man.
"Old wraps are no good, you know." Price says from behind you, his footsteps quiet in the training room.
You reach out, steadying the punching bag. After a moment, you turn to see him, eyes flitting down to the new wraps he holds in his hands.
"We order new ones?" You ask, already starting to unwind the current ones around your knuckles.
"Aye. Meant to be made of stronger stuff. Someone likes to wear through them."
"Guilty as charged, Cap." He doesn't offer the wraps to you, so you offer your hands instead. You're rewarded with a smile in return.
Carefully, and perhaps taking too much time, he winds the wrap around your hands and knuckles. "Gotta take care of these hands. We need 'em." His hands squeeze yours before he pulls back.
Is it a crime to miss the contact? You'll ask the punching bag. "Yes sir."
I won't deny I've got in my mind now
All the things I would do
So I try to talk refined, for fear that you find out
How I'm imaginin' you
"A man would be lucky to have you." Price tells you from behind his beer, dark eyes slowly tracing down your figure and back up again.
The hair on the back of your neck raises, like it always does when you're in danger. When you're the prey instead of the predator.
"Not all of them are worthy of having you, though." He continues, taking a sip—a swig—from the bottle.
Was it any wonder he'd find you in the rec room tonight, alone? That he'd have alcohol to share?
"Amen to that." You answer, laughing to try and diffuse the heaviness in the air.
"'M serious, love. Poets write sonnets 'bout the likes of you."
The idea is laughable. "It's the muscles." You joke to him, glancing down at your own empty bottle.
"A beautiful body." He hums, his gaze weighing on your skin like a physical touch. "With the mind to match, of course."
Bad ideas upon bad ideas. You didn't feel smart right now, just ensnared. A rabbit who stumbled into a trap, exactly like planned.
Price smiles at you, slow and relaxed. You smile back.
"Help an old man to his room?" He asks you, standing. There's not a hint of a slur in his words, nor does he wobble. You're willing to bet he isn't even buzzed.
"You're hardly an old man." Yet you stand too, waiting by the doorway for him.
"Compared to you?" He pauses next to you, ducking his head to speak the words into your ear. "It'd be a crime in God's eyes for me to touch you."
You're frozen in place, but he doesn't reach for your body. He waits, though it's clear he's anything but patient right now. The look in his eyes is hungry — for you.
"Don't think God watches us anymore." Your voice comes out quiet.
His hands land on your waist, pushing you against the doorframe as he boxes you in. "Let's hope not, yeah?"
I'd be the last shred of truth in the lost myth of true love
I'd be the sweet feeling of release mankind now dreams of
Imagine being loved by me
John's arm slides around your waist as he settles on the couch beside you, pressing a brief kiss to your bare shoulder where your sweater has dipped down. You relax into him and his warmth easily, eyes never leaving the intense board game between Soap and Ghost on the floor.
"Having fun?" John asks, dragging his teeth on your shoulder before relenting and stopping. "They still going at it?"
"It's the most entertainment we've had in weeks." You nod. "And I think Ghost will stab him in his sleep."
"I heard that!" Soap shouts, barely even looking up from the board.
"You got bigger problems, lad." John snorts, squeezing your waist. "And I have more important things to focus on." He adds, quieter so only you hear it.
He's the perfect gentleman. A good Captain, a good man, a good lover. Sweet.
But sometimes, when his lips ghost over your skin, soft as a breeze, you get the feeling he's playing a sheep in wolf's clothing. The blue of his eyes can't hide how they linger on you when he thinks you aren't looking, and no amount of gentle affection can mask the way he always grabs for you.
Sweet little soldier, caught in your Captain's webs. Somewhere dangerous that you love to be at.
He laces his fingers with yours, sighing quietly. Probably tired from paperwork that accumulates after every mission, per usual. At least it makes him a great pillow at night.
What an honor it is to be loved by him.
I won't deny I've got in my mind now
All the things I would do
So I try to talk refined, for fear that you find out
How I'm imaginin' you
"Fucking gorgeous."
You tighten your hand in his hair, heading tipping back against the pillows as his lips trace a path down your body. You're peeling apart, splitting open, right along the seam of where his kisses are. Down the center of your chest, down your abdomen, down your stomach.
"So pretty." He murmurs, eyes on you even as he bites into your skin. His tongue lathes over the mark to soothe it, only for him to immediately repeat the motion elsewhere. "And all mine, sweetheart."
"Yours." You agree mindlessly. "Fuck, John. Just stop teasing."
John laughs against your skin, squeezing your thighs just because he can. His grip will leave bruises in the morning you're sure. It's not the first time, and wont be the last.
"I've got you all to myself, sweetheart. You think I ain't gonna enjoy it? Take my time putting you in all the positions I've imagined?" His eyes meet yours, and you swallow.
You're so fucked. Have been since the second you stepped foot on this base.
"Dontcha worry 'bout a thing." He lifts his head a little to grin at you. "I've got you."
As his lips return to your body—and that fucking tongue—you send a silent prayer to God to look away.
John Price may be a great Captain, but he was hungry for something you found out far too late, after you were in far too deep.
Had this one cooking for a while… any other Zach Bryan fans??
Pairing: John Price x Gn!Reader
28
You showed me where your old man stayed
Took 28 years to feel loved on my own birthday
“They’re going to love you.” You tell John, grinning at him. “I swear. They’re more excited about meeting you than I am to have you meet them.”
Your Captain—and boyfriend—glances at you, hand tightening on the wheel slightly. Normally he’d have one hand on your thigh, or holding yours, but he insisted on driving with two hands in a new area.
Because you were taking him home. Not to your off-base apartment, but to your childhood home. To your parents, and home-grown memories. To your past.
Was it nerve wracking? Hell yes. But when John told you he didn’t have family to spend his birthday with, you offered up your own. They’d treat him right, and you knew it.
Besides, it was probably time he met your parents anyway.
“And if they don’t?” John asks quietly.
“Then we’ll hit up a hotel. Have a really nice night.” You reach out and squeeze his arm momentarily. “But they will love you. It’ll be the best birthday, I swear.”
“Mm. But if it’s not, I get a really nice night?”
Insatiable, he is.
“You get a really nice night either way.”
And I’s always felt like I’m in between something
Like home and somewhere far away
When you first kissed John Price, he had warned you away from him. A misguided sense of morals, maybe.
“I’m not a stationary man, doll.” He had whispered into your hair. “I cant settle down away from the military.”
A military man, through and through. You had curled your fingers into his shirt and met his eyes with steely determination.
“Guess that makes two of us.” You responded, leaning up to kiss him again.
Not a stationary man. Sure, that you could believe. He liked being in the firefight, out there following his own morals and rules. Leading men and coming back with them all in one piece.
But here, your head on his chest, legs tangled together in the sheets of his bed, you can’t help but think he’s a liar. He may not be able to physically settle down, but his heart sure could.
And it settled down right with you.
But Tonight, on the west side, in a bar out in Brooklyn
I saw tears outline your face
“This one’s on me!” Soap shouts over the noise of the bar, distributing shots to the team. Well, every team member that drank. Ghost refused to lift his mask in such a crowded place. “Here’s to getting drunk and not training tomorrow!”
“I’m starting to regret this.” John grumbles from your side. His hand rests on your hip, tucking you into him.
“Thanks Cap!” Gaz exclaims, knocking back the shot no problem.
John sighs before drinking his, and you don’t even look at yours. There’s a far better sight in front of you.
Soap, slinging his arm over Ghost’s shoulder, yammering on about some unknown topic. The Scotsman is already slurring his words. Or maybe that’s the accent. Gaz is laughing at him, or maybe at Ghost’s grumpy posture. And then there’s John, your John, warm and alive and breathing with you.
Your team. Your family.
Your heart beats in time to the music of the bar, the voices of everyone except your team fading out. Not that anyone else mattered anyway. You were safe within your team and the table they commandeered through Ghost’s menacing glare.
Warm hands cup your face, turning you slightly. You blink away the lights, looking up at John.
“You okay, sweetheart?” He murmurs, rubbing his thumbs over your cheeks. They smear wetness, and for a second you think he’s got liquid on his fingers. Beer, maybe.
“Yeah.” You confirm quietly.
“You sure? You’re crying.” Oh. So there’s where the wetness came from.
You nod, leaning into one of his hands. “Promise.” He’s still looking down at you with that concerned look, so you add, “just happy.”
John switches into a smile, and you know he gets it. Everyone in this damn team does; that’s what he gets for building a team of fuck-ups.
“With these lunatics, that’s a miracle.” He jokes, leaning down to press his lips to yours.
You barely get to savor the taste of him before you’re being rudely interrupted.
“Oi! Lovebirds! Someone didn’t drink!” Soap yells, making the two of you break apart.
“And we all know what happens to the first to stop drinking…” Gaz trails off, and your eyes go wide as you grab your shot.
“I’m not done!” You promise, knocking it back. You will not be the first to stop drinking, even with these idiots.
You can feel John’s laugh against your body.
There’s smoke seeping out of your bloody teeth
But you're home somehow
Smoke swirls up into the night air, vanishing as quick as it has appeared. You don’t watch it vanish, keeping your eyes fixed on your Captain’s mouth and the cigar his lips wrap around.
You knew you had fucked up. Nobody else had chewed you out or shouted at you, knowing damn well Price would do it enough for the whole team. And maybe you deserved it, but you wouldn’t change what you did.
Going back inside the building filled with enemies for the intel was a bad idea. But the intel you had grabbed could (and would) save thousands of lives. That made it worth it to you.
Only when the cigar is done does he speak.
“I gave you direct orders not to go back in.” Price says. Not John, because this isn’t your boyfriend speaking. It’s your Captain. “I directly told you to stay the fuck out. And what did you do? Disobey them.”
“The mission was the intel. I made a risk for the success of the mission.” You argue, crossing your arms over your chest.
“And disobeyed a direct order from your Captain in the process!” He returns just as quickly. “I should have your ass written up for it.”
He won’t, and you both know it.
“Never do that again, you hear me?” He asks, fixing you with a stern look.
Even so, you don’t falter under it. “If it meant saving lives, I will.”
“The fuck you will.” He damn near snarls. Price straightens, stepping closer to you. “Your life is more important. The team needs you—“
“The team is capable of succeeding without me—“ you interrupt, but he slams his hand against the wall next to your head.
“I need you!” He shouts, chest heaving, and you see it in his eyes. The fear.
Your hands creep up his chest until you can cradle the back of his neck. His drop to your waist.
“I need you.” John repeats lowly. “Alive. Damn the mission, damn the intel, damn everyone else. You come home alive, no matter the cost.”
“I did.” You murmur. “I came back to you. In one piece, see?”
“But you could’ve not.” He stares at you, imploring you to agree with him. “I cannot live without you. So you fucking come home, and stop being reckless. I tell you to back off, you back off.”
You can smell the smoke on his breath. If he were to kiss you, the taste would invade your mouth. His taste.
“I’ll come home. Every time.” You promise him, knowing damn well you can’t make that promise.
He presses his forehead against yours, your breaths mingling in the space between your mouths.
“Swear it to me, doll.”
You swallow back the taste of the lie. “I swear.”
I lost my mind on the streets of the city
Maybe I lost all hope too
Took twenty-eight years of blood pumping through me
To get to this evening with you
“She’s a real-estate mogul.” You tell John, chin in your hand and elbow on the white-cloth table as you stare at the blond woman in question.
This is your favorite game: the guessing game. When the two of you are out, you sometimes make up life stories for people you see. John always decides they’re some tragedy. You always decide they’re secret millionaires. Or royalty.
“A mogul?” John repeats, amused as he cuts into his steak.
“And she’s thinking about starting her own firm. It’ll succeed, obviously. And the man across from her is her… best friend. They’ve been friends for years, ever since he babysat her as a kid.” You continue, examining the blond woman and the man at the table across the room from yours.
Was it rude to stare at people during a fancy dinner? Probably. But nobody was going to stop you. And if they tried, all you’d have to do is flash your credentials of being a 141 operative at them. It tended to make people stumble over their words.
“He’s definitely her sugar daddy.” John argues, motioning at them. “Look, he’s greying.”
“Just because someone’s greying doesn’t mean they’re a sugar daddy. You’re greying.”
“Exactly.”
You roll your eyes, and he smiles at you. “Well he can’t be a sugar daddy if she’s already rich.”
“Sure he can. All of her money’s going toward her failing real estate agency—“
“It’s not failing!”
“—so he has to pay for everything else. Like this dinner.”
You turn to stare at him. “I’m paying for tonight!” You say, knowing he’s talking about you two and not the strangers anymore.
“Bullshit.”
“I can!”
He reaches out, taking your hand. There’s a light in his eyes that you love to see, a teasing sparkle you adore.
“Doll, I’m not saying you can’t. I’m saying I’d never let you.”
There’s smoke seepin’ out of the bar down the street
But we're home somehow
Smoke swirls up into the night air, but it doesn’t vanish. You watch as it plumes in the sky, creeping over the night sky. It’s all you can see, directly above you.
Your shoulder aches with every inhale and exhale, and you know if you touched it your fingers would come away red. Your leg hurts too, although less. That one’s barely a graze. That’s not the one to worry about.
Splayed on your back on the ground, you stare up at the few stars you can see. The smoke from the building will block it out soon, and then you’ll be left here.
Surrounded by broken glass from the window, a gunshot wound in your shoulder, and alone. Dying, you know. That’s not giving up — that’s fact.
Your breathing is labored, each breath a struggle, but all you can think about is your team and your heart. Did John make it out? He better have. The man with an angel’s heart, who saw a tragedy and a way out for everyone. Who became the way out for many.
He’d survive. He was too good not to. And then maybe he would finally settle down. Stop going to the bar with the team, choose to stay in for a quiet night.
Breathe on and have his heart beat every moment.
Something crunches, but you can’t be bothered to strain to look in the direction. If it’s an enemy, maybe they’ll put you out of your misery.
The footsteps pick up into a run, and when they’re close enough you roll your head to the side to make eye contact with the person.
John drops to his knees next to you, his gun falling to the ground. “You’re meant to be inside. Fuck. Fuck, baby, you’re okay.”
“‘M okay.” You croak out agreeably. “Gotta go.”
“Not leaving you. I’m staying right here till evac gets here. You and me.”
You shake your head, but he holds your head still. His expression is so concerned that you can even muster a glare.
“Christ. What happened? Your shoulders all torn up.” Panic lines his every word, especially as he starts ripping clothes to press the cloth to your shoulder. It hurts, but when you try to squirm away in pain he holds you right there. “Shh, shh, you’re fine, you’ll be fine.”
“You have to go.” You repeat, blinking away the tears in your eyes. He can’t die here too.
“I’m not going anywhere without you, doll. Just us. I told you I can live without you, and you’re not allowed to die.” His hand finds yours, squeezing it.
It’s not too bad of a way to die.
“Love you.”
“You know I love you too. But no talking like you’re dying, got that?”
You look at the sky past his face, stars clouded by smoke. It reminds you of his cigars, and your eyes flutter shut with a smile on your face.
“Doll? …Fuck!”
How lucky are we?
It's been a hell of a week
The beeping of machines greets you when you wake, and you groan at the noise. Stupid fucking alarms.
But when you go to slap at your alarm clock, your hand fumbles in the air. Something tugs at the back of your hand, so you open your eyes.
The room is dark, but it’s definitely not yours.
It takes a few more minutes for you to recognize the room as a hospital room, and the pounding in your head as a fierce headache. One of your shoulders is bandaged up, and you can feel gauze on your thigh too. You’re pretty sure there’s something on your ribs too.
“Hey sweetheart.” Someone murmurs. “Woah, no sitting up.”
You abandon your attempts at movement, turning your head to find John there with his hands clasped around one of yours. His hat is gone, and his hair is unruly. So are his clothes, which are wrinkled and stained.
“Doctors are stichin’ ya back together.” He tells you, thumb rubbing along your hand. “Evac got to us. Ghost helped me haul you along.”
“Am I dead?” You ask hoarsely.
John sits up, grabbing a cup of water with a straw for you to drink. You empty the entire thing within a minute, and still feel thirsty. And hungry. And cold. And in pain.
Everything fucking hurts.
“No. Not for a lack of trying, though.” He answers, and you startle at the tears you find on his cheeks.
Why is he crying?
You reach a hand up, patting his face because it’s all you can reach. He laughs wetly, lowering your hand again.
“Am I dying?” It sure feels like it.
He glances at the heart rate monitor, then over you slowly. Not hungrily, but assessing. Lovingly, too.
Okay it's time to admit that this was originally going to be fluff about reader and Price being glad to be alive after a tough mission with no angst. Oops.
I’m so sick idk if this is coherent at all. Enjoy some stupid fluff where you and Tommy simp for Chris Evans.
Pairing: Cc!Tommy x Gn!Reader (platonic)
Silly Simping
Your jaw drops.
Tommy laughs manically, you having been on a call with him. This was all his fault. All of it. He was the sole reason you were looking up shirtless guys, and maybe you shouldn't have clicked the first link, but fuck.
You weren't particularly vulgar, but there were a lot of words running through your head right now.
Tommy had been complaining about not getting a good photo during golden hour, a sentiment you deeply agreed with. That led to you screen sharing as you googled how to optimize golden hour, both trading suggestions. And then that led to searching photos of golden hour for inspiration. And it just so happened that one photo was of a shirtless guy.
You had casually remarked that most photos of shirtless guys looked weird, like they were trying too hard. He egged you on, telling you that you two could criticize all the guys on Google.
So you googled shirtless guys.
And yeah, the first few were funny, pointing out how the one guy was clearly trying to flex his muscles and how the other obviously tried too hard, because who does a handstand to flex? It wasn't body shaming, it was simply not understanding why people tried.
And then you landed on a photo of Chris Evans working out.
"As a man, I can say that there is not a single flaw in this photo." Tommy chokes out.
"Holy fucking shit. That's hot." You sputter.
"Amen. Look at that undisguised sweat, that's what I want in the photo industry. Not any of that fake shit. Just pure, perfect-"
"-hot as fuck Evans?"
"What the hell." Dream says, voice projecting his panic.
Tommy did not erupt into laughter this time. Instead, his eyes go wide with shock and he freezes. Why, oh why, did you have to have your cameras on?
You flush bright red, your jaw that was dropped closing.
"Dream, Dream I can explain—"
"What are you screen sharing?"
In your panic, you click to move to the next picture.
The next picture is Sapnap.
Tommy screams, and you do too, trying to close your tab with frantic clicking.
"WHAT THE HELL?!" This time, Dream is even more panicked.
"No! I swear we weren't calling Sapnap hot!"
"We're not lying!" Tommy adds. "We were talking about Chris Evans."
"I mean, have you seen the man?" You can't help but ask.
"Mhm! Mhm!"
"His wife ain't bad either."
"Wait, who is his wife?" A pause. "Oh, they're such a power couple."
"Yeah, have you found the photo of them at that charity ball yet?"
"Charity... ball... fuck. I think my sexuality just changed for Chris Evans."
"Amen."
"Guys." Dream sighs.
You both shut up.
"I'm- Sapnap just heard that entire thing." Dream tells you.
"Fuck." You both say in unison.
"He- Goddammit he wants to see the photos."
"I'm already sending them to him."
In the background you can hear Sapnap say "oh, he is hot."
I used to post every Monday night and now I post whenever I feel like it, so I apologize to my original followers but I PROMISE all will be revealed in May 👀
This quiz result hit the nail on the head!!! I have a deep fondness and love for the things I write like Hazbin Hotel or Twisted wonderland and I also tend to go down the lovey and romantic route in my stories cause I find it beautiful and want to express that with all of you.
You create from loneliness. There has always been a disconnect between yourself and others that you've never known how to breach. You want companionship, but it seems like something that just wasn't meant for you. With no one to confide in, you turn to art instead. Your loneliness lays the backdrop for all you create. There is a sense of frigid isolation that pervades your work, because that is the place it is created from. You pour out your heart and soul into your art because you do not know where else to put it. Art is an indirect avenue of connection. To understand another's art, to feel understood by another's art, is a way of connecting to each other across time and space. In creating and consuming art, you remember that you, too, are human.
uh hello stop ihwnkefwfenwefjwnefwef
tags (no pressure): @cosmiiwrites , @angelicpoison12 , @thisisthepartwhereishutup
and @ anyone else thats wants to do it! (if ur a moot and i didn't tag u im sorry im nervous to tag u for some odd reason)
A quiz for artists and writers to figure out the primary emotion they create from. 28 questions, 15 results that are about 150 words each, d
Had this one cooking for a while… any other Zach Bryan fans??
Pairing: John Price x Gn!Reader
28
You showed me where your old man stayed
Took 28 years to feel loved on my own birthday
“They’re going to love you.” You tell John, grinning at him. “I swear. They’re more excited about meeting you than I am to have you meet them.”
Your Captain—and boyfriend—glances at you, hand tightening on the wheel slightly. Normally he’d have one hand on your thigh, or holding yours, but he insisted on driving with two hands in a new area.
Because you were taking him home. Not to your off-base apartment, but to your childhood home. To your parents, and home-grown memories. To your past.
Was it nerve wracking? Hell yes. But when John told you he didn’t have family to spend his birthday with, you offered up your own. They’d treat him right, and you knew it.
Besides, it was probably time he met your parents anyway.
“And if they don’t?” John asks quietly.
“Then we’ll hit up a hotel. Have a really nice night.” You reach out and squeeze his arm momentarily. “But they will love you. It’ll be the best birthday, I swear.”
“Mm. But if it’s not, I get a really nice night?”
Insatiable, he is.
“You get a really nice night either way.”
And I’s always felt like I’m in between something
Like home and somewhere far away
When you first kissed John Price, he had warned you away from him. A misguided sense of morals, maybe.
“I’m not a stationary man, doll.” He had whispered into your hair. “I cant settle down away from the military.”
A military man, through and through. You had curled your fingers into his shirt and met his eyes with steely determination.
“Guess that makes two of us.” You responded, leaning up to kiss him again.
Not a stationary man. Sure, that you could believe. He liked being in the firefight, out there following his own morals and rules. Leading men and coming back with them all in one piece.
But here, your head on his chest, legs tangled together in the sheets of his bed, you can’t help but think he’s a liar. He may not be able to physically settle down, but his heart sure could.
And it settled down right with you.
But Tonight, on the west side, in a bar out in Brooklyn
I saw tears outline your face
“This one’s on me!” Soap shouts over the noise of the bar, distributing shots to the team. Well, every team member that drank. Ghost refused to lift his mask in such a crowded place. “Here’s to getting drunk and not training tomorrow!”
“I’m starting to regret this.” John grumbles from your side. His hand rests on your hip, tucking you into him.
“Thanks Cap!” Gaz exclaims, knocking back the shot no problem.
John sighs before drinking his, and you don’t even look at yours. There’s a far better sight in front of you.
Soap, slinging his arm over Ghost’s shoulder, yammering on about some unknown topic. The Scotsman is already slurring his words. Or maybe that’s the accent. Gaz is laughing at him, or maybe at Ghost’s grumpy posture. And then there’s John, your John, warm and alive and breathing with you.
Your team. Your family.
Your heart beats in time to the music of the bar, the voices of everyone except your team fading out. Not that anyone else mattered anyway. You were safe within your team and the table they commandeered through Ghost’s menacing glare.
Warm hands cup your face, turning you slightly. You blink away the lights, looking up at John.
“You okay, sweetheart?” He murmurs, rubbing his thumbs over your cheeks. They smear wetness, and for a second you think he’s got liquid on his fingers. Beer, maybe.
“Yeah.” You confirm quietly.
“You sure? You’re crying.” Oh. So there’s where the wetness came from.
You nod, leaning into one of his hands. “Promise.” He’s still looking down at you with that concerned look, so you add, “just happy.”
John switches into a smile, and you know he gets it. Everyone in this damn team does; that’s what he gets for building a team of fuck-ups.
“With these lunatics, that’s a miracle.” He jokes, leaning down to press his lips to yours.
You barely get to savor the taste of him before you’re being rudely interrupted.
“Oi! Lovebirds! Someone didn’t drink!” Soap yells, making the two of you break apart.
“And we all know what happens to the first to stop drinking…” Gaz trails off, and your eyes go wide as you grab your shot.
“I’m not done!” You promise, knocking it back. You will not be the first to stop drinking, even with these idiots.
You can feel John’s laugh against your body.
There’s smoke seeping out of your bloody teeth
But you're home somehow
Smoke swirls up into the night air, vanishing as quick as it has appeared. You don’t watch it vanish, keeping your eyes fixed on your Captain’s mouth and the cigar his lips wrap around.
You knew you had fucked up. Nobody else had chewed you out or shouted at you, knowing damn well Price would do it enough for the whole team. And maybe you deserved it, but you wouldn’t change what you did.
Going back inside the building filled with enemies for the intel was a bad idea. But the intel you had grabbed could (and would) save thousands of lives. That made it worth it to you.
Only when the cigar is done does he speak.
“I gave you direct orders not to go back in.” Price says. Not John, because this isn’t your boyfriend speaking. It’s your Captain. “I directly told you to stay the fuck out. And what did you do? Disobey them.”
“The mission was the intel. I made a risk for the success of the mission.” You argue, crossing your arms over your chest.
“And disobeyed a direct order from your Captain in the process!” He returns just as quickly. “I should have your ass written up for it.”
He won’t, and you both know it.
“Never do that again, you hear me?” He asks, fixing you with a stern look.
Even so, you don’t falter under it. “If it meant saving lives, I will.”
“The fuck you will.” He damn near snarls. Price straightens, stepping closer to you. “Your life is more important. The team needs you—“
“The team is capable of succeeding without me—“ you interrupt, but he slams his hand against the wall next to your head.
“I need you!” He shouts, chest heaving, and you see it in his eyes. The fear.
Your hands creep up his chest until you can cradle the back of his neck. His drop to your waist.
“I need you.” John repeats lowly. “Alive. Damn the mission, damn the intel, damn everyone else. You come home alive, no matter the cost.”
“I did.” You murmur. “I came back to you. In one piece, see?”
“But you could’ve not.” He stares at you, imploring you to agree with him. “I cannot live without you. So you fucking come home, and stop being reckless. I tell you to back off, you back off.”
You can smell the smoke on his breath. If he were to kiss you, the taste would invade your mouth. His taste.
“I’ll come home. Every time.” You promise him, knowing damn well you can’t make that promise.
He presses his forehead against yours, your breaths mingling in the space between your mouths.
“Swear it to me, doll.”
You swallow back the taste of the lie. “I swear.”
I lost my mind on the streets of the city
Maybe I lost all hope too
Took twenty-eight years of blood pumping through me
To get to this evening with you
“She’s a real-estate mogul.” You tell John, chin in your hand and elbow on the white-cloth table as you stare at the blond woman in question.
This is your favorite game: the guessing game. When the two of you are out, you sometimes make up life stories for people you see. John always decides they’re some tragedy. You always decide they’re secret millionaires. Or royalty.
“A mogul?” John repeats, amused as he cuts into his steak.
“And she’s thinking about starting her own firm. It’ll succeed, obviously. And the man across from her is her… best friend. They’ve been friends for years, ever since he babysat her as a kid.” You continue, examining the blond woman and the man at the table across the room from yours.
Was it rude to stare at people during a fancy dinner? Probably. But nobody was going to stop you. And if they tried, all you’d have to do is flash your credentials of being a 141 operative at them. It tended to make people stumble over their words.
“He’s definitely her sugar daddy.” John argues, motioning at them. “Look, he’s greying.”
“Just because someone’s greying doesn’t mean they’re a sugar daddy. You’re greying.”
“Exactly.”
You roll your eyes, and he smiles at you. “Well he can’t be a sugar daddy if she’s already rich.”
“Sure he can. All of her money’s going toward her failing real estate agency—“
“It’s not failing!”
“—so he has to pay for everything else. Like this dinner.”
You turn to stare at him. “I’m paying for tonight!” You say, knowing he’s talking about you two and not the strangers anymore.
“Bullshit.”
“I can!”
He reaches out, taking your hand. There’s a light in his eyes that you love to see, a teasing sparkle you adore.
“Doll, I’m not saying you can’t. I’m saying I’d never let you.”
There’s smoke seepin’ out of the bar down the street
But we're home somehow
Smoke swirls up into the night air, but it doesn’t vanish. You watch as it plumes in the sky, creeping over the night sky. It’s all you can see, directly above you.
Your shoulder aches with every inhale and exhale, and you know if you touched it your fingers would come away red. Your leg hurts too, although less. That one’s barely a graze. That’s not the one to worry about.
Splayed on your back on the ground, you stare up at the few stars you can see. The smoke from the building will block it out soon, and then you’ll be left here.
Surrounded by broken glass from the window, a gunshot wound in your shoulder, and alone. Dying, you know. That’s not giving up — that’s fact.
Your breathing is labored, each breath a struggle, but all you can think about is your team and your heart. Did John make it out? He better have. The man with an angel’s heart, who saw a tragedy and a way out for everyone. Who became the way out for many.
He’d survive. He was too good not to. And then maybe he would finally settle down. Stop going to the bar with the team, choose to stay in for a quiet night.
Breathe on and have his heart beat every moment.
Something crunches, but you can’t be bothered to strain to look in the direction. If it’s an enemy, maybe they’ll put you out of your misery.
The footsteps pick up into a run, and when they’re close enough you roll your head to the side to make eye contact with the person.
John drops to his knees next to you, his gun falling to the ground. “You’re meant to be inside. Fuck. Fuck, baby, you’re okay.”
“‘M okay.” You croak out agreeably. “Gotta go.”
“Not leaving you. I’m staying right here till evac gets here. You and me.”
You shake your head, but he holds your head still. His expression is so concerned that you can even muster a glare.
“Christ. What happened? Your shoulders all torn up.” Panic lines his every word, especially as he starts ripping clothes to press the cloth to your shoulder. It hurts, but when you try to squirm away in pain he holds you right there. “Shh, shh, you’re fine, you’ll be fine.”
“You have to go.” You repeat, blinking away the tears in your eyes. He can’t die here too.
“I’m not going anywhere without you, doll. Just us. I told you I can live without you, and you’re not allowed to die.” His hand finds yours, squeezing it.
It’s not too bad of a way to die.
“Love you.”
“You know I love you too. But no talking like you’re dying, got that?”
You look at the sky past his face, stars clouded by smoke. It reminds you of his cigars, and your eyes flutter shut with a smile on your face.
“Doll? …Fuck!”
How lucky are we?
It's been a hell of a week
The beeping of machines greets you when you wake, and you groan at the noise. Stupid fucking alarms.
But when you go to slap at your alarm clock, your hand fumbles in the air. Something tugs at the back of your hand, so you open your eyes.
The room is dark, but it’s definitely not yours.
It takes a few more minutes for you to recognize the room as a hospital room, and the pounding in your head as a fierce headache. One of your shoulders is bandaged up, and you can feel gauze on your thigh too. You’re pretty sure there’s something on your ribs too.
“Hey sweetheart.” Someone murmurs. “Woah, no sitting up.”
You abandon your attempts at movement, turning your head to find John there with his hands clasped around one of yours. His hat is gone, and his hair is unruly. So are his clothes, which are wrinkled and stained.
“Doctors are stichin’ ya back together.” He tells you, thumb rubbing along your hand. “Evac got to us. Ghost helped me haul you along.”
“Am I dead?” You ask hoarsely.
John sits up, grabbing a cup of water with a straw for you to drink. You empty the entire thing within a minute, and still feel thirsty. And hungry. And cold. And in pain.
Everything fucking hurts.
“No. Not for a lack of trying, though.” He answers, and you startle at the tears you find on his cheeks.
Why is he crying?
You reach a hand up, patting his face because it’s all you can reach. He laughs wetly, lowering your hand again.
“Am I dying?” It sure feels like it.
He glances at the heart rate monitor, then over you slowly. Not hungrily, but assessing. Lovingly, too.
