Hi! You can call me Rosie, I am 22 years old. I just started writing, and I’m happy for any notes and reblogs. If you like my work and want to send me asks or prompts, I’d be happy to write for you. I will try to post something at least once a week and I will probably start with short stories and drabbles.
If you like my work you can support me here : ko-fi
MINORS, DO NOT INTERACT
I write adult content, and you must be over 18 to read it. I mostly write from a female perspective, but I will try to write gender-neutral readers as well.
I mainly write for Call of Duty characters, even though I’ve never played the game and don’t plan to. I just like the characters and their vibe. I write for John Price, Simon "Ghost" Riley, and König, but I will likely expand my choice of characters over time. I am also a huge swiftie so I will probably write some Taylor Swift's song inspired stories.
ENGLISH IS NOT MY FIRST LANGUAGE, SO PLEASE BE KIND.
John “Breeding Kink” Price who finds out you don’t use condoms and has the one single goal of knocking you up and leaving you with the baby. He goes hard, deep, unrelenting, every position, every surface, multiple times a day. It’s about impregnation. About ownership. About planting something so deep inside you that you can never shake him. Not even if you tried.
He watches your body like a hawk. Tracks your cycle. Fucks you stupid the week you’re ovulating, dripping possessiveness every time he spills cum deep inside you. Doesn’t stop even when you’re shaking, overstimulated, dazed and bruised from the intensity of it all.
And every time your period comes on time, like clockwork, his eyes get darker. His thrusts rougher. His grip bruising. He mutters curses under his breath, things like “Useless little cunt,” and “You better hold onto it this time,” while forcing his cock as deep as he can go, grinding slow just to flood you with another load. When he pulls out and watches it leak, he shoves it back in with his fingers, murmuring things like “not wasting a drop, sweetheart” or “c’mon, take it all.”
He starts keeping you in bed longer. Legs up, hips tilted, cock still twitching inside you even after he’s emptied everything he’s got. All in a desperate, obsessive attempt to make it take.
Vs.
You, who saw through his game from the very beginning. You, who never told him your tubes were tied years ago, because honestly? The dick is spectacular and watching him lose his mind trying to breed a body that can’t be bred is just icing on the cake.
his daughter, charlotte, more commonly known as lottie, was born in the spring of 2019, the product of an exceptionally toxic relationship between simon and some waitress who used to serve his drinks at his local pub. it wasn’t supposed to be anything serious — at the time, he cared for little else but his duty, and he considered her too immature, too needy, to handle long-term — but, when she fell pregnant, simon did what he thought was right, and married her. he didn’t want his kid growing up like he did, feeling unloved or unwanted. but it came back to bite him in the end, as she proved to be, what price called, a raging fucking cunt. she berated him and manipulated him, cheated on him, claimed that the distance was too much, that if he really gave a damn about lottie, he’d retire from the service.
so he did. and then he divorced her, took her to court and got partial custody of his baby, who was three years old at the time. he’d get her every other week, on father’s day, christmas eve, and his birthday. he would’ve preferred to never have to see his ex-wife again, of course, but wouldn’t rob lottie of a relationship with her mother unless it was absolutely necessary. he wasn’t cruel, just bitter. he lets her have the house, and the car, for their daughter’s sake, he moves out and finds a new place, a quaint two bedroom with a big yard for lottie to play in, and makes peace with his new reality. at the end of the day, he would be happy so long as he had his girl.
you move into the house next door three years after the divorce. this wide-eyed, honey-toned thing, with a dog near the size of you, and a shitbox car whose breaks squeal obnoxiously the first time you make it into the driveway. he reckons you’re fresh out of university, or close to it, you’ve still got that sweetness about you that tells a tale of hope and youth and things he’s long since lost.
simon, with a child of his own and too much time on his hands, sees you struggling to carry your boxes inside and offers to help. to him, it seems quite simple. to you, it’s this big, mean-looking man, who you imagine has every capability of ruining your life, wearing a white wife-beater that does nothing to hide his soft tummy and bulging muscle, calling you kid and offering to install a second deadbolt on your front door. you’re a goner.
over the next few weeks, juggling the new surroundings and new job, you see him occasionally. in his driveway, working on his motorcycle, listening to the same 90s rock your dad used to blast while grilling in the summertime. or he’ll be on the front porch, smoking, sometimes arguing with someone on that archaic, deteriorating cellphone. if you manage to catch his eye, he’ll offer a wave, his fingers perpetually oil stained and permanently crooked, and ask if you need anything from him. you could think of a thing or two but nothing you dare say aloud.
you’re walking your dog one day when you turn the corner, headed to your house, and find simon helping a little girl out of his truck. you’ve no doubt who she is to him, as she looks just fucking like him, blonde curls, brown eyes, and a resting scowl. you didn’t know had a kid, but seeing him, with all his tattoos and bulk and scars, cooing at this little creature does something to you that cannot be undone. lottie squeals when she spots your dog, and almost sprints down the street, asking to pet him.
simon thanks you for indulging her, inviting you to have dinner at his place, because he’s noticed how often you come home with takeout and says that you need real sustenance, you’re practically withering away. you’re not. but you accept anyways, because you’d have to be mad to turn down that offer.
simon’s house is intimidatingly clean, like one would expect of a man who spent most of his life in the military, but traces of him and lottie are everywhere. pictures of her on the walls, alongside a few of simon with a group of unfamiliar men, her drawings and report cards on the fridge, handmade toy-chests in the living room. it’s a real home, with a heart and soul of its own.
lottie shows off her impressive collection of barbie dolls and RC cars, keeping you entertained while simon cooks, and the man watches on with something both amused and curious. he admits, when she goes to wash her hands for supper, that she’s not always so open with new people, that she must like you. you beam at that praise, to his blatant humor.
when dinner is done and lottie is tucked into bed, after she made you promise to come play with her again, and to bring your dog with you, you stick around long enough for a drink. simon asks about you, why you moved here, why you’re living alone. you tell him that you went to school to be a nurse, and got a job offer from the local hospital which you couldn’t refuse. his secondary question, you shrug off with a grin that doesn’t meet your eyes. too busy to date, you say. nobody’s ever seemed worth the trouble.
“smart kid.” he says to that. “men your age don’t know shit about shit—god knows i didn’t.”
then, he tells you about his retirement, and the divorce that followed, vaguely, admitting that lottie’s mother isn’t always the most gracious co-parent, but he wouldn’t change a damn thing if he could. he loves his daughter, wholly and relentlessly. you admire that, if nothing else.
after that, he becomes a more permanent fixture in your life. dinners, drawn-out conversations when you happen to be coming or going at the same time, play dates with lottie and your dog, wesley, and, once, even a ride to work when your car breaks down. by the time you came home, he had it fixed and running better than it has since you got the damned thing. your infatuation festers like an infection in an opened wound. simon notices, as there’s very little that escapes his attention.
he teases you for it, good natured but somewhat patronizing in a way that thrills you more than it should. “i’ve got tattoos older than you,” “did your mama not warn you about guys like me?” “keep it up, and you’ll end up bitin’ off more than you can chew.” unfortunately, all he manages to do is feed into it. still, you take his scolding as disinterest, and, at the risk of ruining what’s turned out to be a decent friendship, you move on with your life. or you try to, at least.
it all comes to a head when he finds you sitting in your car one night, miserable and dejected, with tears in your eyes, despite the fact that you’re in your best outfit, looking heartbreakingly lovely. you confess, when he comes and knocks on your window, that you were meant to meet a coworker for drinks, but had been stood up. he only sighs, his eyes gleaming with fury on your behalf, and says, “thought i told you men your age ain’t shit.”
you remind him that he said the same thing about older guys, and he scoffs, calling you a cheeky brat, and practically manhandles you out of your car. he wipes your tears, graceless but thoughtful, and orders you to give him ten minutes—he returns in fresh jeans and a tee shirt, corralling you towards his truck.
“you look too good to waste it your night crying over some cunt who didn’t deserve your time in the first place.”
Simon who still has Mr. Kitty in a box under his bed, safe and hidden.
He cant leave base without the fear of someone finding the little thing and tossing it, thinking it trash from the way one button eye is missing and its fur is all wrinkled.
Like his dad once did when he found the ratty thing hidden under little Simons pillow
He had spent hours crying silently, searching for it in every nook and cranny
Only to find it in the bile filled trash.
His ma in one of her kind moments, helps him wash it and dry it before his father can find out the thing was still in the house.
After that night one dark button eye is missing forever.
Ghost who cant bring Mr. Kitty with him on missions. Too terrified of bringing the last pieces of Simon onto a battlefield and loosing him there.
Ghost who cant bring himself to touch Mr. Kitty in fear of tainting the wee thing with the blood staining his hands.
Ghost who also cant sleep without Mr. Kitty tucked securely against his chest, in the hope that keeping Mr. Kitty close will keep Simon close, will keep his Ma and Tommy and all their soft moments together tethered to the tainted wretched thing that is Ghost.
It didn't matter the occasion, Price made sure his wife always has cut flowers. Even when he's away, he's calling the local shop.
"The usual?" Fran is the lady's name and she knows John by name. He can hear the smile of in her voice even through the phone line.
"The usual." He says back. Sometimes he mixed it up. Roses near Valentine's and Peonies in May because they were her favorite. And of course sunflowers because yellow was one of her favorite colors.
There had been a time once when he'd have to pick her whatever beetle ridden weed was on the side of the road. She looked at those little weeds the same way that she looked at £200.00 bouquets.
Some of the men give him shit. The younger men who thought spending more than a fiver on their bird meant she must be a gold digger.
"They die, Captain." A young cadet had once bemoaned to him. That was funny because everything died.
But one thing never died and it was the smile on her face when she saw the flowers. That quiet awe, her eyes when she saw the blush of babies breath and the the violet tongues of irises. That never died.
John Price who finally loves soft sex. He is older now, his knees are not what they used to be and his back hurts when the weather changes. So of course, the rough manhandling and quick pace don’t work for him. He knows that he is still good in bed but now its just different.
He loves to hold you close, whisper how good you’re for him and how good he will make you feel. The days of quick fuck are long behind him. He takes great pleasure in fucking you sideways, laying on bed behind you and holding your waist or kissing you on the shoulder. Or when he rediscovers the missionary and now, he has you spread open under him, making eye contact the whole time without his back hurting.
When he realizes that he can also fuck you in the bath everything changes. Not only he can relax but now, he can have a pretty thing bouncing on his cock. It doesn’t take him long to realize that he needs bigger bathtub or even a hot tub. Thank God he doesn't have any neighbours who have a view of his terrace.
summary: every sunday, you spend your day selling your homemade jams and spreads at the market. it's your favourite part of the week; but the real highlight is when customers assume you and bucky barnes, the town's baker and local grump, are together because of the perfect and accidental pairing of your trades.
pairing: baker!bucky barnes x preserver!reader
word count: 4.1k
content contains: fluff, farmers market au (includes my horrible knowledge of a market and how it works), grumpy x sunshine, opposites attract, idiots in love.
author's note: HI KRYS THIS ONE IS FOR YOU. @its-in-the-woods oh my goodness i hope you like this.......... saw farmers market au and grumpyxsunshine and ran with it..... no smut this time because i am all smutted out i apologise ;( youre so awesome sauce and you deserve all of the happiness in the world. i hope you enjoy it!!!!!!
to put it simply, you love the weekend. its the part of the week where you can turn your mind off and enjoy the things you love. saturdays smell like fresh linen and the early-morning scent of sweet jam settling into their jars, while sundays smell like honey, dirt, and something warm that you can't quite place.
the market on the edge of town is your second home and has been for the past three years. it's an escape from your busy life in the suburbs, a major investment you'd made after deciding you wanted to live your life the way you wanted to, so you knew that if you were going to do it, you'd do it right and you'd give it your all— from the very first jam jar you picked up to the last spoonful of a sample you'd handed a customer.
by 7am, your stall is already set up; a red gingham cloth draped across a table, jars containing all sorts of fruit preserves and buttery spreads are stacked in intricate pyramids, handwritten paper labels and price tags curling at the edges, and sunlight catches the jam in their containers like jewels. its a ritual now— a quiet worship for the little peace you get to claim as yours.
you dust your hands off on your apron, a small sigh of content leaving your lips. you can hear the hum of customers trailing in and their voices as they speak to the vendors. the market is slowly waking, and with it, your favourite part of the week commences.
you straighten your stock one last time, straightening labels and fiddling with the jar of sample spoons, and then there's that familiar thump of a crate against a table.
bucky barnes, the town baker, has arrived. he doesnt say good morning. he rarely does. he just shoulders his way through the growing crowd, lugging one crate after the other from his truck towards his stall. the crates clatter onto the table, fresh bread leaving a trail of steam in the air— rosemary sourdough, pumpernickel, olive loaf, sun-dried tomato focaccia, and so much more. the smell is intoxicating, warm and homey enough to make any stranger stop in their tracks; and that includes you.
every movement he makes is precise and a little intimidating. his sharp movements shake the tent, one that matches yours. you should be used to it by now— and you are— but it never fails to make your chest flutter a little bit.
"morning, bucky." you chirp anyway, hands folding behind your back with a casual smile. "smells extra good today. what is that? rosemary?"
bucky pauses what he's doing. he drops the crate with a thud and leans back up with a small huff, his hands resting firmly on his hips. he gives you a quick once over, eyes glazing over you like you're the first real person he's seen all day. his tongue swipes over his bottom lip, a hand coming up to rub at the stubble on his jaw before he looks away and continues his work.
"it is." he grunts as leans down to grab a loaf or two from a crate, back turned like the conversation is finished; but knowing you, it never is.
you pretend you don't notice how his gaze lingered longer than necessary. you're used to this game with him by now; him looking, then not looking. him almost saying something, then shutting his mouth.
you lean against your table, a toothy grin settling onto your face before you can stop it. "might have to snag a loaf if you aren't sold out by the end of the day."
he glances at you over his shoulder— just barely— before turning back to his odd arrangement of breads. "you say that every week, sunshine."
sunshine. that heart melting nickname that should not do to you what it does. at first it had been a tease— a jab at your relentlessly bright attitude— but over the years, it had sunk its teeth into your weekly routine, and you weren't going to jeopardise this one small, sacred pleasure by mentioning it now.
"well, maybe i mean it this time." you shrug, fiddling with a pen just to give your hands something to do, otherwise you'd probably stare holes into his back. "i mean... i told you that rosemary was my favourite herb last week, so either it's just a coincidence that you show up with three rosemary sourdough loafs this week or you actually pay attention to me."
it's an accusation disguised as a harmless joke, but the way he stiffens mid-arrangement tells you exactly how guilty he is.
"you've been inhaling too much of those fruit fumes." he mutters, his his tone is dry enough to rival a desert. he's trying hide the false amusement in his words, but you can read him like a book.
you grin, "uh-huh. sure... that’s what it is."
"whatever." he murmurs. his eyes float somewhere over your shoulder, nodding just slightly. "you got company."
you turn, and sure enough, there's a pair of older women ogling your stall, all bright smiles and embroidered tote bags slung over their shoulders, brimming with the energy of two people who definitely plan to chat up a storm— your type of people.
you put on your biggest smile, standing straight and tall. "good morning ladies! how can i—"
"oh, just look at these, margaret." the taller one cuts in, eyes going wide at the table lined in copious amounts of spreads. "aren't they gorgeous?"
the other— margaret— leans in close to the display, squinting to read a label. "ooo, homemade? my goodness, you must have a gift."
your chest warms. you never get sick of hearing that. "thank you! everything is made fresh every week with produce sourced from local farmers and a few of the vendors at this market. if you'd like to try a sample, i'd be happy to—"
"let's get a marmalade set, darla. this one has lime, grapefruit, and kumquats. my, i dont think i've ever had kumquat marmalade before." margaret says, "could i sample that?"
"of course!" you quickly nod, reaching over to grab a sampling spoon. you dip it into the kumquat marmalade and hand it over to margaret.
"ooo, pepper jam? i dont think i've ever tried that before." darla marvels, handing the jar towards you with a grin. "i'll throw this one in there as well, sweetheart. ooo, and this garlic butter! i love butter and i love garlic, so this will be wonderful."
margaret licks the sample spoon. "and this kumquat marmalade is amazing. i might have to get two jars of that!"
"let's get three!"
it's pure and utter chaos— a familiar moment full of talking and sampling and customers debating on which flavour they want to take home— and you don't even have to glance over to know that bucky is watching it all happen.
you can feel it in the way he goes quiet, in the pauses between the sound of bread being moved and the rustle of paper bags. he always pretends he isn't paying attention, but you've learned the rhythm of him— the way he slows down when someone stops at your stall, the way he speeds up when the guy in the next stall over selling fresh produce is flirting with you, the way he stiffens whenever the nickname 'sweetheart' is sent your way.
so you keep smiling and chatting and handing out samples like party favours, a smile plastered on your face like you're not acutely aware of the fact that bucky's zeroing in on every single word you say and every little movement you make.
by the time margaret and darla come to a conclusion, your trash can is stuffed full of used sampling spoons and a good chunk of each sampler jar is gone.
"i think..." darla pauses with pursed lips, squinting at the jars like she's negotiating world peace. "we'll take all of these."
the ladies place a handful of items in front of you, and you instantly perk up like you'd just won the lottery.
you nod, "of course! so the marmalade set, the kumquat marmalades, the pepper jam, and the garlic butter all together will be $60. will that be cash or card?"
"card please dear."
you pause mid reach for your card reader, only to find that it's not in its usual spot on the table. you pay your apron pockets, but all you can feel is a pen, some spare change, and a candy wrapper.
"oh shoot." you blink. "i think i left my card machine in the car."
the ladies blink at you, surprised, while you try to scramble for a solution. leaving "i'm... i can run and grab it really quick, but—"
bucky's low, dry voice cuts through your sentence.
"i'll take care of them." he says as he steps out from behind his stall, making his way to the divide that separates the two of you. "you go and get your reader."
"you sure?" you ask, hesitant.
you'd never asked him to look after your stall or your customers— because frankly, this has never happened to you before— and asking something like this of him would be bold... risky... slightly terrifying.
his eyes flick up at you, sharp and unamused. he gestures with his head for you to leave, "yes. go before the ladies' butter melts."
but of course, as usual, the baker never lets you down.
"thanks bucky. i owe you." you can't help the grin that tugs at your lips as your pull your apron off, already halfway out of your stall. "i'll be two seconds, ladies! try not to eat anymore samples!"
you turn on your heel and dash towards the parking lot where your beloved card reader sits. bucky and the women watch as you dart off, a blur of sunshine weaving through the early morning crowds.
"that one's a real keeper. its like speaking to sunshine in a human body." darla says with a light laugh as she turns back to bucky. "you must be real proud."
bucky raises his brows, the smallest hint of a smile on his lips. "it's hard not to be."
"what a beautiful pair. you two are so sweet together." margaret swoons, "honestly, the way you two look at each other— it's something out of a movie."
the women practically vibrate with excitement, fully convinced the two of you are dating, and he shifts from one foot to the other, jaw ticking slightly. bucky— the infuriatingly grumpy baker— does absolutely nothing to correct them. he just stands there, arms crossed, expression perpetually gruff.
because he loves it. he loves watching you smile so big when customers compliment you. he loves when customers gush about you to him. he loves when they assume that he's yours. every time someone treats you like you two belong together because of the perfect pairing of jam and bread, his heart swells.
and although he never actually claims that he's yours, he never ever denies it whenever someone brings it up.
darla presses a hand to her chest, "so bright and so sweet. just being around that kind of presence makes you feel... lighter."
"mhm." bucky's jaw clenches when he catches sight of you wandering your way back towards them, eyes softening almost imperceptibly. "spending a lot of time around that one'll do that to you."
margaret and darla follow his gaze, watching the way it locks onto you— how he tracks every small move you make like looking at anything else just isn't an option for him.
"he's gone." darla whispers to margaret with utter delight.
"oh, stop it, you're making me emotional." margaret swats her hand at bucky like they're old friends, her eyes tearing up. "you two are perfect. don't you dare let that one go."
bucky barely has to think of a reply. it's one that feels natural and complete, like it's been sitting on his tongue for years just waiting for someone to tell him; "wasn't plannin' on it."
the three of them watch as you make your way back, footsteps eager against the gravel.
"got it!" you announce triumphantly as you shake the card reader around in the air like a trophy. you slide back into the stall with a breathless sigh, glancing between the women and bucky. "he didn't say anything bad about me, did he?"
darla shakes her head, "trust me, darling, that man thinks the world of you."
"is that so?" you tease, glancing towards bucky.
bucky rolls his eyes, a little too fast and a little too defensive, he grumbles something low under his breath that nobody can quite make out as he turns to tend to a customer at his own stall. the women share a knowing look and you pretend not to notice that faint pink blush that coats the tips of his ears.
ever the professional, you start up the card reader and bag their purchases. while you work, you lean in just a touch and whisper to the ladies in a conspiratorial tone—
"if you want something to go with those spreads, he sells any type of bread you can think of. his bread is really good, but don't tell him i said that."
you dont even have to look over to know that bucky heard you, because he always hears you. and right on cue, there’s a soft scoff behind you. he acts annoyed, but you see it in the reflection of a mason jar— the tiniest, stupidest, most hopeless smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
the day goes by before your eyes, and soon enough it’s the late afternoon. the sun is on its way out, low and golden and hazy, and you can sense the market energy draining out of both you and all of the other vendors.
your sample jars are half empty, which is usually a good sign, and about three quarters of your products have been sold. you make a mental note to visit the donation centre later. whatever doesn’t sell always ends up there— it’s become a tradition for many of the vendors at the market.
across the small gap between your stalls, bucky stands with his back turned towards his stock. you notice how empty it is— almost completely picked apart besides for a few loaves of the more sophisticated breads. you’ve sold a lot; he’s sold more. its a good day for the both of you, and now that you’re getting hungry, you decide to start packing up.
and just as always, the noise of glass jars clinking together catches bucky’s attention. he never seems to ignore the sound that signals your inevitable departure.
“leavin’ so soon?” he asks, not looking at you. he continues wiping bread crumbs off his table, glancing up only when you reply.
you nod as you stuff your products into a box. “if i don’t eat soon, i might pass out, and then you’d feel obligated to resuscitate me.”
he huffs out a laugh— a small, barely audible laugh— and shakes his head. “don’t be dramatic. if you needed something, you coulda just asked.”
you scoff, “what, and eat up all of your stock? you’d have nothing to sell and i’d never hear the end of it.”
bucky raises his brows like you’ve just said nonsense. “you think i’d complain about someone eatin’ bread i already made?”
“yes.” you answer almost immediately.
his mouth falls open like he’s about to say something, but then, just as quick, he snaps it shut. “whatever.” he grumbles, picking up a crate like it’d personally offended him.
you laugh to yourself as you wipe your hands on your apron. you’re about to turn around when bucky’s voice cuts through the rough crunch of cardboard and box buffer.
“actually, i was wondering if—“
and just as bucky had started speaking and you’d barely had enough time to face him, a customer strolls up to his stall like it’s still noon. both of you turn to face a woman with a floral dress and a wide brimmed hat. the universe has such great timing.
“excuse me! hi, sorry.” she calls with a smile, “i hope i’m not too late. you’re still open, right?”
bucky’s mouth shuts so fast that you can hear the click of his teeth. disappointment flickers through his eyes before he kills it, a customer-ready expression replacing it. he clears his throat, the muscle working around a lump as he straightens his back and wipes his hands together.
“lucky. i was just about to close up shop.” bucky says, voice flat but forced into something vaguely polite. “what can i getcha?”
"well, i was speaking to a couple of ladies just before and they mentioned that you had some rosemary sourdough." the lady says, hands clasped together like she's waiting for a miracle.
bucky does the theatrical act of pretending to look around his stall for the loaf, even leaning to the left a little and lifting a box on his right like maybe an entire loaf of sourdough might appear out of thin air, but you both know that there’s nothing left.
"seems like i’ve sold out." his voice is friendly enough, but you can hear the disappointment in it— disappointment that has nothing to do with bread. "but i've got this sourdough with caramelised onions and another with olives and sun dried tomatoes. how do those sound?"
the lady’s eyes widen like she’s just been offered the key to the fountain of eternal youth. "ooo, that onion one sounds great! i think i'll take a loaf of that.“
“great choice.” bucky grabs the last caramelised onion loaf and wraps it up, handing it to the lady with practiced ease.
even after paying, the lady stays to talk bucky’s ear off. she goes on about how her in-laws are visiting for the weekend and they’re both bread fanatics and blah blah blah. bucky’s customer service attitude is in full effect, but every time her head is turned, you catch little glimpses of him trying to get back to you, eyes flicking your way like he’s trying to keep your attention in the midst of your packing up.
by the time the lady pays and walks away with the loaf tucked under her arm and bucky turns back to you, you’re already tugging your bag over your shoulder and hauling your leftover stock onto the table in two big boxes. you’re done, packed and ready to head back into town for another week of gruelling responsibility.
it’s only then that you realise that the moment you had briefly shared was gone. you force out a breath and give him a small smile— gentle, polite, safe.
“i’m heading off. long drive ahead of me.” you gesture to the parking lot with a tight lipped smile. “i’ll see you next week, barnes.”
you start to turn— slow, almost hesitant— waiting for either a hand on your shoulder or for nothing at all. after a few steps, you accept defeat. bucky isn’t going to call you. you’re just friends; if you can even call yourself that.
“wait.”
bucky calls. it’s not dramatic or overwhelming. its a quiet step forwards and a slip of the tongue, the kind that someone makes when they’d been holding something back for too long, and you stop and turn like you’d been waiting for it.
he clears his throat once and holds something out for you. "here."
in his hand sits a brown paper bag, a twine bow wrapped around it with a small tag hidden underneath the knot, ‘rosemary sourdough’ scribbled in messy handwriting that that you recognise as his. he must’ve written it in a rush, maybe even before the market started, maybe even with you in mind.
you pauses for a moment, blinking like your mind needs to catch up to what he’s offering you. you take it with care, your fingers brushing his— entirely accidental but enough to make your pulse spike. the scent of rosemary filling your nose.
"i thought you sold out of the rosemary sourdough." you murmur as you stare down at the packaged loaf, sounding a little breathless.
bucky shrugs a shoulder, gaze dropping to the ground for a second before returning to you. "i did.” he says simply. “i saved this one for you. figured you might want it.”
the words linger as the paper crinkles in your hands. you’re sure your heart might explode at any moment, so instead of bursting out into tears like you feel like you might do, you give him a smile.
“thank you, bucky. this is really nice.”
for a split second, it looks like he doesn’t know what to do with it. he looks like he didn’t expect a smile or gratitude or the way you’re looking at him now. his jaw clenches once, throat bobbing like he’s fighting the urge to look away— but he doesn’t.
“d’you have dinner plans?” he rushes out in a single breath, like if he didn’t say it fast enough he wouldn’t have said it at all.
“dinner?” you blink, “i mean… i have leftovers that need to be eaten by tonight or they’re getting thrown out… but otherwise, no, i don’t. why?”
“you said earlier that you were hungry, so i figured that we could… y’know…” bucky trails off, awkwardly gesturing between the two of you in the most endearing way you’ve ever witnessed. “maybe we could fix that.”
you stare at him for a moment, the gears turning in your brain. you give him a cheeky smile. “what are you asking me, bucky?”
he rolls his eyes, but there’s no real bite to it. he knows that you know what he’s asking, and he knows that you’re teasing him and he can’t do a damn thing about it. that familiar grumpy edge in his face melts away and he gives you a deep breathy laugh.
“you know what i’m asking.” he says, and you can’t ignore the way you hear his voice waver just slightly. "you also said you owe me, so how about i take you up on that offer and take you out tonight? my treat."
oh my god, you want to jump his bones right now.
you grin big enough to make your face hurt. "it sounds like you've been looking for an excuse to ask me out, bucky. you could’ve done it forever ago.”
“i couldve—“ he says quietly. “but the last thing i wanted to do was rush you, sunshine.”
your heart stutters embarrassingly loud in your chest. you dont hesitate, nor do you play coy. you dont have to anymore now that you know he’s just as enamoured with you as you are with him.
you nod. “i’d love to have dinner with you, bucky.”
and for a moment, he just stands there— like maybe his brain has to catch up to what you’ve just said, like maybe he didn’t hear you quite right— but the way you’re standing in front of him, practically beaming, settles warmly in his chest.
“okay.” he clears his throat, trying to play cool but he fails spectacularly. “good. uh… that’s good.”
and then, because playing cool isn’t working;
“‘m starving too, so…” he adds with a nonchalant shrug.
you don’t laugh, but your eager smile gives you away. god, he’s so big and gruff and hopeless and idiotic that it just makes you wanna throw yourself at him.
and bucky notices— because he always does— his eyes flickering down to your lips for a fraction of a second before he clears his throat and forces himself to look somewhere else. he grabs a crate even though it’s empty like he needs to do something with his hands before he says something he regrets.
“let me just—“ he gestures vaguely at the table still scattered with his things, “finish up here.”
“i’ll help.” you’re already reaching for a crate, placing his display items into them. “that way we can get to dinner earlier.”
you finish packing together in a rhythm you’ve never experienced before. your hand brushes his every so often and his shoulder brushed yours whenever he passes you, both of you acting like it’s an accident when you know damn well that it isn’t.
as the sun sets and the two of you help each other pack your stalls into your cars, you cant help but smile. weekends have always been your favourite, and now you finally know why.
Simon moving in temporarily after your flat's been broken into, you tell yourself it's only until the locks are replaced, the alarm's installed, until you stop jumping at shadows. But days turn into weeks, and he never really leaves. His things start to migrate— a toothbrush beside yours, leather gloves that're cracked at the knuckles left on the radiator to dry, a half empty pack of smokes on the windowsill.
You don't really remember saying yes to any of it. (Barely remember much at all, honestly. Can't seem to find the will to think past the break in.)
He's quiet. Keeps to himself. He doesn't cook without asking, fixes the loose hinge on the back door, changes the bulb in the hallway before you even notice it's out. He doesn't hover, but he's always nearby, watching, listening, making sure the silence doesn't turn threatening.
He takes the room upstairs, the one you never use except for storage. You hear him moving around at night: the floorboards creaking under his weight, the soft sound of a drawer opening, then closing. Sometimes pacing, like he's working something out in his head, like sleep doesn't come easy.
One night, you wake to the sound of your name. Low. Rough. Almost a growl. The flat's too still otherwise. You know he's awake. You should ignore it. But you don't.
Up the stairs, the door's cracked open, a thin line of light slicing through the darkness and inside—
Simon's sitting on the edge of the bed, hair damp from the shower, shirt off and the line of his throat slick with sweat. In one hand, your knickers. The pair that went missing from the laundry last week. His other hand works slow between his legs, thick fingers wrapped around his cock, your name coming out of him like he's carving it into the room.
He doesn't stop when you freeze in the doorway, just looks at you, eyes heavy and unblinking.
Price is so, so in love with his spouse...and as a result is horny all the time.
It's one thing for him to chub-up at the outfit you wear to military balls, or in the shower with you. But no, embarrassingly, it's the domestic things that have price grabbing at you at seven in the morning, bulge pressed to your hip.
You wearing his old shirts. Lounging on the couch while a documentary plays. Standing half-alseep in the kitchen and waiting for the toaster. It's all so horribly mundane, so domestic, and so fucking attractive.
Genuinely, he has to hold himself back from fucking you all the time, but that just means he's eager to go multiple rounds every night. Of course, price will me kissing your temple and holding your hand while he shoves you into the matress, he's your husband.
No thoughts just older!price proving younger!reader wrong...
"I don't understand the appeal of older guys. Don't they have shit stamina? Can they even get it up?" Of course price hears this, and decides his little sergeant needs some hands on experience before passing judgements.
Which is how you end up in his bed, fists desperately clutching at sheets with his head *still* between your thighs. Even as you gasp and twitch, trying to wiggle away from him, price just slings an arm over your torso to keep you trapped against his mouth. His beard scratches against your thigh when he says "yer doing good, kid. Just take it, yeah? Let me do the work."
When he finally, finally decides to fuck you, you still end up groaning at the stretch. It doesn't hurt but it feels so full, like there's not an inch left of space left inside you, hugging his cock perfectly.
He kisses you like a lover when he leans down. So much better than any of the guys you've had before. There's no too-fast thrusts, no burn, only a heady pleasure clouding any thought you have.
"I bet none of those boys ye had before fucked you like this, huh kid?" Price laughs, squeezing your side when you whine pathetically "aww, I know, I know. It's a lot, right? Just hold still, I got you."
Later, when price is washing you off in the warm shower because you legs shake too much on your own, you realize there's no way you can go back to guys your age again. Fuck.
Price just snorts at the defeated groan you make, patting your head in comfort.
He fucked you with his wedding ring still on, and you thanked him like it meant he chose you.
He only shows up late at night. Never a call. Never a warning. Just the sound of your door unlocking with the key he never admitted to taking, the soft click of it swinging shut, and the heavy, dragging footfalls of a man who shouldn’t be here. A man who doesn’t belong to you.
You’re always awake. You pretend you aren’t—lying still in bed, back to the door, listening to him strip the war off his body like it offends him. Jacket, boots, holster. You hear it all. Sometimes, you think you can hear him breathe, like he’s trying to steady something in his chest before he lets himself touch you.
Tonight, he doesn’t hesitate.
“Get up,” he growls.
Your body moves before your brain catches up, like muscle memory, like survival. He drags you up by the wrist, not rough, but not gentle either—like he doesn’t trust himself to ask twice. His mouth is on yours before you can speak. Teeth. Tongue. No softness.
You taste blood. You’re not sure if it’s yours. “Missed you,” you whisper against his lips, just to say something. He freezes. Just for a breath. Like that hurt. Like that mattered.
But then he flips you over like you’re nothing but a body and presses your face into the mattress, shoving your thighs apart with a knee. The sound he makes isn’t human, it’s hunger and guilt and a thousand things he’ll never let himself say. You know how this goes. No prep. No patience. Just the sharp sting of intrusion as he pushes into you, thick and fast and merciless.
It hurts. It always does. You moan anyway.
You clench around him, desperately trying to pull him deeper, trying to feel wanted even if it’s a lie. His breath stutters against your shoulder. His hand wraps around your throat. Not tight, not choking, just possessive. Like he owns you. Like she doesn’t exist. But she does.
You see it every time he pushes your shirt up, every time he grabs your hips, every time he fists the sheets beside your head. The wedding band he still wears on his left hand. Tarnished. Worn. Like a noose around a vow he’s too ashamed to break.
He touches you with it. Fucks you with it.
That gold band catches the light and presses to your skin like a brand, like a punishment. It digs into your jaw when he grips your face. Presses to your hip when he holds you down. Hangs heavy around his neck with his tags when he’s away, like a fucking relic. Like she blessed him before he left and he carries her prayers like penance.
You want to ask, Why not me? But you already know.
“Simon,” you gasp, body arching into him. “Look at me.”
He doesn’t.
He fucks you like you’re a sin. Like he hates what you make him feel. Every thrust is a punishment. For you, for him, for the fact that he keeps coming back. You reach between your legs and rub your clit, desperate for something to hold onto, something that’ll make this feel like love instead of ruin.
“You see her today?” you ask before you can stop yourself. Your voice breaks.
Simon stills.
His cock twitches inside you. For a second, just one, you feel him tremble. Then he pulls out, flips you over, and slams back into you so hard the bed frame cracks against the wall.
“Don’t fuckin’ talk about her,” he snaps.
But he’s angry. Not at you. At himself. You can feel it in the way he starts to lose rhythm, like the shame is eating him alive even as he chases his release. You cradle his face in your palms. He lets you. Eyes closed, jaw clenched.
“Do you think about me?” you ask. “When you’re with her?”
Simon shakes his head, once, twice, and then comes with a broken, strangled groan, spilling into you, hips jerking like it hurts. He stays there, buried deep, not moving. You feel him soften inside you. You wait.
He pulls out without a word. Stands. Finds his shirt. Lights a cigarette with shaking hands.
That’s when you see it again—his hand trembling slightly as he holds the lighter, and that ring, glinting dully under the room’s yellow lamplight. Not hidden. Not even ashamed. Just there.You stare at it. The same way you’d stare at a knife in your chest.
“why do you wear both?”
You mean the band and the chain. The one she gave him. The one that rests next to his dog tags like it belongs there.
You think he might walk out without answering. He’s done it before. But then, so low it could be mistaken for thunder.
“Because I promised her forever.”
You sit up like you’ve been shot.
He says it like it’s an apology. Like it’s a curse. His back stays turned to you, tall and straight, like if he lets himself bend, he might break. The light catches the wedding band again, and it gleams like guilt.
“I would’ve given you forever,” you say, barely louder than a breath. And that’s the moment. That’s the one. The one that cracks something in him. Simon leans forward, presses his hand against the doorframe. Like the weight of you, of this, is too much. His head drops. You watch his shoulders heave once. Then again.
You realize, with a sick kind of clarity, that he’s crying. Silent. Still. Like if he lets the sound out, it’ll never stop. “I know,” he whispers.
That’s all he says. And then he’s gone. The door clicks shut behind him like the end of a dream you never wanted to wake from.
You sit in the bed you let him ruin, his come still inside you, his hands still on your skin like ghosts, and you stare at the space where he stood. You stare until your vision blurs.
Then you curl into yourself, naked and raw, and scream into the pillow he never sleeps on. You pretend the tears on your cheeks are sweat. You pretend the scent on your skin is love.
You pretend a lot of things.
Outside, a car starts. Drives off. Inside, you choke on the truth— You were never his, but you loved him like he was already dead.
jus been thinking about a reader who isn’t used to spending much money/grew up cheaper who is dating price.
because he’s absolutely the type to spoil you, and you are just baffled because £2,000 for a necklace is ridiculous. you only like it, not love it. and ‘sides, he shouldn’t be spending that much on a piece of jewelry.
but it made you stutter your steps when you saw it in the window. made you pause before answering him when he asked, “y’like that dove?” half-mindedly responding “mhm…” it all only solidified his assumption you were smitten.
course, when he started towards to the door your hands found fluttering purchase on his shirt, shaking your head, hissing,
“absolutely not. way to expensive.”
“nothing is too expensive if it’s f-“
“John.”
you could find one just like it at a flea market, a reassurance that didn’t seem to do much for John, but you were unbothered. you had a good eye for those things. so it was forgotten.
until, you’re bidding a sappy goodbye at the airport before his flight, and he slips something into your back pocket, taps your bum and winks.
“keep it safe.”
you leave your fury with it in your back pocket until you get home, ripping the box open to reveal, sneaky bastard, the necklace.
husband john price who goes to the end of the earth when his wife gets captured by an enemy group for leverage. husband john price who is still haunted by it, even when you’re back safe in his arms.
He doesn’t hear you come in.
Not over the silence. Not over the creak of leather beneath his elbows or the slow crackle of the fire in the hearth. The study is dim — warm, yes, but not alive. A space that once held meaning. Now it just holds him.
You don’t say a word. Just pad across the hardwood with gentle steps. His eyes are cast toward the fire — half-burnt logs, amber glow flickering across the hard line of his jaw and mingling with the smoke of his cigar. He hasn’t shaved in days. Not since long before he got you back. Hasn’t even thought about it. You know, because you counted each time he moved.
Three. Each to the kitchen, then back.
You pause for a moment, watching the grief calcify in his silence.
He looks like he’s been carved down to bone by fear and sharpened again by rage. The kind of rage only a man like him could carry. Cold. Surgical. The kind that doesn’t explode. It eats.
There’s a bottle of whiskey on the table next to him, half gone. You wonder how much of it he poured into the hollow that had your name carved into it. How many nights he drank your ghost down just to keep breathing.
You stop in front of him. No words yet.
Just you — bare legs, one of his dress shirts curtaining your frame, sleeves rolled up past the elbows. It smells like him. Cologne and smoke and something older. The scent of a man who nearly lost his world and hasn’t quite figured out how to let it back in without crucifying himself with the hurt.
“John,” you murmur softly.
He looks up.
And Christ — you weren’t ready for the way he looks at you. Not because he’s crying. He’s not. He’s past that. But because his expression is starved. Hollowed out. Like he spent every second of your absence chewing through every scenario that didn’t end with you in front of him, wearing his clothes and looking at him like you never left.
“I’m here,” you whisper. “It’s okay.”
He sets his cigar down, hand reaching out — rough palm sliding along your thigh like he’s checking for something, proof maybe, or pulse. You step between his knees without being asked, fingers finding the back of his neck, thumb brushing scruff made coarse by time.
His forehead presses to your stomach. Just rests there.
You can feel the breath he drags in — shaky, uneven, filled with everything he hasn’t said in the seven days he spent chasing hell to get you back.
“I should’ve gotten there sooner,” he says. His voice sounds like smoke and splinters. “I—”
“You got there.” You trace the age on his skin. He holds you tighter for it. “You found me.”
“Not a goddamn thing would’ve prevented that.”
You don’t answer that — just hold his head in your hands, willing your fingers to grow roots. Like the only thing you can offer now is proof of life.
He doesn’t ask you to forgive him for the days it took to reach you. Doesn’t apologize over and over for something he knows you'd never ever blame him for. It’s military. You know the job. The risks that often reap the rewards. And you — you know better than to tell him you’re fine. Because fine is the word people use when everything inside them is still bleeding. And besides, he isn’t really asking if you’re okay.
He’s asking if you’re still his.
So you climb into his lap, straddling his thighs. Not to fuck — not to forget. But to exist. With him. Inside the silence. Inside the ache. Inside the echo of what might’ve been lost if he hadn’t fought like hell to get to you.
“I had plans,” he murmurs, curling his lips into your neck. “For after. For now. Thought about what I’d say when you walked through the door. About how I’d ask if you wanted to get out of this life. Find something quieter. Something that doesn’t strip the good from our skin.”
You shift, press your forehead to his. Let the smoke on his exhales stick to yours. Let the ache burn through your throat.
“And now?”
He kisses you. “Now I just want to feel you breathe.”
Just thinking about Ghost having a shy, quiet wife. The glaring opposite of Ghost, painted in black and blood while you’re adorned in lace and frills. Smooth skin and delicate flesh, warm eyes and a bashful smile. Soft-spoken and so fucking sweet.
No one else knows about you, or that he’s married, not from lack of wanting people to know he has such a pretty dove waiting for him at home, but because he knows all the men on base would eat you alive.
But one day, he forgets the lunch you made him. It takes everything in you to refrain yourself from driving to base to make sure he has something to eat— you know he doesn’t have the healthiest eating habits.
You choose to message him, something he usually responds fairly quickly to. Always at your beck and call just in case his sweet girl needs him, but he doesn’t answer. Your lips are pinched raw with worry by the time you decide to get in your car.
So, imagine everyone’s surprise when a sergeant interrupts the meeting Ghost’s in— ‘Lieutenant, um, Mrs. Riley is waiting outside for you.’
Ghost is on his feet in an instant, it must be some emergency if you’re there. He rushes to the hallway, everyone else in the room stumbling behind to snoop through the thin crack of the door, see who their big bad Lieutenant is married to.
And there you are, Tupperware container in your manicured hands, white dress covering your frame with matching ribbons and bows in your hair. The look on your face is anxious, right up until you see Ghost, your eyes softening as he approaches you with wide strides despite the fact that he’s twice your size, hulking and threatening.
“Sweet’art, everything okay? You’re not hurt, are you?” He asks, brows furrowing as he does a once over your figure, checking for injury.
You exhale a quiet laugh, “No, baby. You just forgot your lunch, and you didn’t answer your phone so I got worried you would go the whole day without eating.”
He cups your jaw, a smile breaking out on his face. His sergeants are baffled for several reasons— they did not expect their Lieutenant to be married to such a sweet thing, nor had they ever heard their Lieutenant speak in such a soft, hushed tone, never seen him touch something with such care, like you were so fragile in the palms of his hands.
They would’ve thought it was all a joke if it wasn’t for the massive diamond ring on your finger, or the way you pushed deeper into his touch.
“Sorry, dove, just been in a meetin’ all day.”
He stamps a kiss against your lips, lets himself linger just a little longer than he should because he knows the whole room is watching from behind the door.
i hate to be that girl but simon would NOT want sex after coming home from deployment. (reader x simon riley)
he would want SLEEP. i know for a fact this man doesn’t even care enough to shower most nights. so you know to hold off on changing them until the day after he comes home. he doesn’t care if the sheets are dirty. besides, your scent helps him sleep better.
he comes home and no matter the time of day, he strips off his clothes down to his boxer briefs.
side note:
price wears briefs
johnny wore briefs until he accidentally wore simon’s underwear and realized boxer briefs are far comfier
kyle wears boxer shorts, definitely has designs on them. beneath his exterior, brother is whimsical asf
he grabs you by the waist and moves you by pushing on you with his entire body weight, essentially forcing you into bed.
on typical nights, he’s a back sleeper. almost vampire like. learned habit.
on nights coming back from work? he collapses onto his stomach. face in pillow. out like a light. one arm draped over your stomach, pulling you closer. he definitely ends up with shoulder pain after. though he doesn’t really care.
in the late afternoon when he wakes up, he finally takes a shower. during his shower you change the sheets.
i imagine earlier in the day you would’ve washed his gear. out of the kindness of your heart. simon insists you don’t have to. he doesn’t need you to do it. he’s capable.
but he appreciates the gesture all the same. half the time he does it he forgets to take the chapstick out of his pocket and ends with oily gear. you always remember.
maybe after a day or two of just sleeping and eating he finds the energy. and it’s always soft. you do most of the work. his bones are tired, muscles weak. half the time he’s injured aswell.
but you like it all the same. you love this routine you have.
you match with john on one of those god forsaken dating apps you swore you'd never download again, because they make you question your faith in romance. the banter is better than you've ever had.
John (37) : I've got ten years on you, sweetheart. You comfortable with that?
Yeah. And we're hitting it off. I'm glad I put thought into my age limit settings.
John (37) : You calling me old?
You insert a little laughing emoji.
Just showing you I don't have an age fetish! That I didn't match with you just because of the number.
John (37) : Somehow still managing to call me old here.
You bet his laugh is so rumbly. You wish you could hear it.
A little Ghost Hairball I can't seem to get rid of.
Simon gaining weight.
His last deployment was particularly nasty and he was getting too old for field work. So, asked Price to transfer him to desk duty. It wasn't the most glorious job, but it would get him back home to you in one piece.
It was hard helping Simon adapt to his new, normal life. His military habits were definitely hard to break. But, over time, he realized he was allowed to live as a normal person. He slowly stopped going to the gym. He preferred spending time at home with you, anyway. He started spending more time on the couch. Whether that meant watching the newest Manchester Match, folding a load of laundry, or curling up next to you, he was allowing himself to relax. And, best of all, he actually had time for three good meals a day. At the base, the closest thing he got to dinner was a crushed up granola bar that he would later throw up after PTSD nightmares. Now, the two of you had warm meals together. Simon hadn’t sat at a dinner table since he was a kid. And even then, it was tense.
With time, his abs softened, hidden by a new layer of fat. He wasn't overweight, definitely not, he just became a little softer around the edges.
He was worried you would dump him. After all, the two of you started dating while he was being deployed every other week. You had always known him as your muscled, military boyfriend. It was so strange, a man that had braved through so much trauma and death, only to be nervous about putting on a few pounds. He started taking off his shirt less around you, embarrassed about the person he was becoming.
Saying you didn't treat him differently was a lie. But you weren't upset. No, you were the exact opposite. You grew more physically affectionate, with his permission, of course. He was still not used to any touch that wasn't cruel. You comforted him and told him how you loved him, hell, maybe you loved him even more now that you could lie in his stomach comfortably. Cuddling with him now was far better than cuddling with his hard abs getting in the way.
And it was the truth, he could tell. He had memorized all your little tells that would show if you were just trying to be nice like you did with the neighbors.
You loved Simon like this, you didn't judge him. He was finally happy. Healthy. All yours. You pressed kisses against his stomach, his arms, truly appreciating him. Now that he wasn’t all muscle, you could suck on his skin and leave hickeys all over him
Simon smiled to himself when he thought back to those moments. Perhaps getting soft wasn’t too bad.
