the 141 aren’t stupid -- they wouldn’t carry a photo of you in their vest or helmet. no name written anywhere, nothing on their body that could potentially trace to a woman back home.
but they all carry something.
simon has a hair tie on his wrist. black, cheap, the kind you buy in packs of fifty and lose all over the damn flat. it sits under the cuff of his glove, biting into his skin, reminding him exactly why he needs to make it home. it always smells like your shampoo for a bit before it starts to smell like his own sweat, he finds himself a new one on the bathroom floor before each deployment.
price wears a watch. it’s not the watch that’s about you, really. it’s that he started setting the second time zone to match yours. he checks it more than he should, especially at night when he can’t sleep and it’s three a.m where he is and eight a.m where you are. he’ll think: ‘she’ll be making coffee, i wonder what she wore to bed’ and that’s the closest he lets himself get to mixing you with work.
kyle wears a bracelet. it’s thin braided yarn, the kind of thing you learned to make as a kid at camp. you made it on a slow sunday afternoon while he was half-asleep on your thigh. he said ‘oh, that’s sick, darling. ta!’, put it on and hasn’t taken it off since. it’s absolutely filthy these days. and when it starts to fray, he simply keeps re-knotting it, sometimes johnny has to help get it tight.
johnny carries a folded square of paper that’s gone so soft it feels like fabric, he keeps it safe in a zipped pocket on his kit. it’s a grocery list in your looping handwriting that you’d left him on the kitchen counter one morning. eggs, soy milk, the good butter, berries, your stupid crisps, wine (red). it’s got a small heart in the corner -- that’s the most worn bit because he brushes his thumb over it every night.
john price who was used to be fit in the military, being his height, he was usually the bigger man in the room when simon wasn’t there.
now, since price took an early retirement few years ago, he had been eating well thanks to you. at first he availed his free time to fix as much things as he could in your house, renovating your yard and building your pool like he promised you when he was still working. but now that all of this was done, he became a professional in couch rotting.
he absolutely hated it, even as you assured him over and over that he was perfectly fine, and that he needed it, he still felt useless.
to not make it any better, john noticed that he was slowly loosing his muscles and a pouch of fat was starting to be noticeable in his lower abdomen. he was slower than before, wincing when getting up from the couch and he now necessarily needed his glasses to read.
however, he couldn’t help but love your delighted expression as you came home, happy to see him healthy and alive, clearly traumatised from all the years you spent waiting for him to come back from deployment. you'd hug him tightly and sigh contently at the feeling of his heartbeat against your temple.
even with all his worries, nothing could beat the moments you spent eating well together, or cooking when you had a day off ; price knew that you probably didn’t notice the weight he gained, and by the nights you spent together, he could tell you couldn’t care less.
Haven’t written for him in ages but was thinking about Price last night
Fully convinced that no matter how furious you may be with him after a fight, no matter how pissed you might be at him, this man will never accept sleeping on the couch
You can roll away from him all you like, try to give him the cold shoulder as you tug the sheets closer to you, ignore his kiss goodnight all you want, but Price isn’t sleeping anywhere but in bed with you
He’s away from home, from you, too often, he knows the risks of his career too well, has been forced to sleep apart from you too many times now
Doesn’t matter how minuscule or major the fight is, none of it matters to him, if he’s home, he’s sleeping in bed with you, no ifs ands or buts about it
By morning you’ll have rolled over anyhow, winding up pressed against his warm chest with morning breath fanning across his shoulder and limbs tangled between the blankets
So no, John Price is not a man who does well with being banished to the couch
But luckily for him, he’s got more than a few ways to earn his way back into your bed
It was just a one night stand is what you’d told yourself.
You weren’t Cinderella and your life wasn’t going to miraculously change overnight, you had a job at your families hardware store to attend to.
You were the youngest of six, all girls, all working for the one family business that helps keep your town a float. You’d thought you’d be able to keep a secret to yourself about sleeping with John Price until the town gossiper, Shonda Lewis, stuck her head into the shop window blabber mouthing with your older sister Lisa.
Something about, “Have you heard, John Price is looking for his special lady.”
Lisa raised an eyebrow, “A special lady?”
“Mmmhm! Said he met someone he’s been waitin for his whole life but they ran off! So he’s been goin ‘round town lookin for ‘em. But it’s been dozens ‘f women sayin it’s them, hell, I would too if I wasn’t married. That whole family is rich as shit!” Shonda laughed.
John Price came from a long line of cowboys, from ranchers to rodeo to farm hands— the Price ranch was thee most thriving ranch connected to your small town— probably in the county. Not to mention, Price was the oldest of his 3 siblings, he was a gentleman and took care of everyone and everything. What was not to love?
You, have been hiding in the back of the hardware store all day, absolutely sure there would be no run ins with that Price man and you could go about your business. It’s not that Price would find you anyway, you were sure he was just looking for his real type which was stuck up southern bells. Not you, who didn’t mind getting your hands dirty, begged your parents for a 4 wheeler for your 15th birthday, spent the weekend line dancing and drinking whatever concoction your wild ass cousins could mixed up. 
Your sisters had slowly left one by one, leaving you to take care of the shop by your lonesome. The door chimed just before you were able to lock it. You cursed, shoving the box in your hand on its necessary shelf. “Give me one moment!”
“Will do.” The person replies.
With a huff, you quickly get down the step stool, rushing to the front of the shop. “Hello! how can I help you?”
Fate is really funny isn’t it? You can never avoid what was meant to happen.
A blue set of eyes meet your brown ones, the bearded man quickly takes off his tan cowboy hat once he laid eyes on you. Gorgeous, gorgeous thing. John Price doesn’t know what happened to the air in his throat, “It’s you ain’t it?”
You know exactly what he’s talking about, but you ignore the temptation, glancing away and fiddling with the register. “I got no clue what yer talkin bout sir.”
John can’t help the chuckle, cheeks growing more read as he simply looks at you. He manages to take your hand that was on the counter. “It’s good to finally meet over different circumstances.” He gives your knuckles a kiss, letting his thumb rub over the spot as if to rub it in.
“I’m John Price, ‘nd I intend on makin you mine. Seriously this time.”
And fuck, maybe you were Cinderella and this man was Prince Charming.
And you were tripping and falling in love with him before you even got the chance to properly deny him.
a/n: Cowboy!Price and reader who didn’t stand a fuckin chance (aka Cinderella!reader). I’m sorry I like a headcanon and plot.
⸺ 'old man' used romantically, mw4 beard price, infidelity, oral sex (f!receiving), piv, price is a genuinely bad father, age gap (price is old!!), overstimulation, daddy kink, past mentions of virginity loss & 'cherry popping', light teasing & humiliation kink, outfit & hair descriptions. 18+ only / all characters are 18+.
“Come on then, give your old man a kiss. Put that down for a second.”
You looked up from the impeccably dressed box of chocolate-coated strawberries in front of you—Price's sorry excuse of a make-up present for disappearing on a military stint unannounced—blinking slowly at him like a feline, your legs kicking behind you with ballet-slipper-pink shimmering on your toes. You weren't supposed to be there and you knew it.
He could practically see the gears turning in your head. His very own calendar kitten, gauging whether the specimen in front of her was a hazard or a toy. Or rather, in this case, if John was a worthy playmate. Though it was too late from the moment you hopped into his Jeep, for what it's worth, you were still cautious, thoughtful—he liked that, even if it only served to delay the inevitable. Big or small, a cat is prideful.
His belt was level with your face when you lifted your head, his hands resting on the buckle as he shifted his weight. Your lips puckered around the heart-shaped treat and a ragged breath hissed past his teeth, strawberry juice popping in your mouth. The tent in his pants was hard to miss, but it's totally not your fault for holding out all that time, spending your time licking juice off your fingertips. Totally, wholly, completely, not your fault.
Before you could reach for a tissue from the nightstand, Price's hand slid to your jaw, swiping his thumb over your sugary lips. The same hand guided you up to kneel in front of him on the foot of the bed, the spill of your cheek in his palm. “Stop,” you giggled despite yourself as his thumb breached your mouth, reaching up to touch his wrist. He bent over your kneeling form, slanted his mouth over yours.
“You taste sweet.” At first, you'd thought the remark rather cheesy—a sign of old age, perhaps—but it was literal. An observation, one which he superseded with another, fuller kiss, sucking on your bottom lip for size. “I could just eat you right up,” Price teased with an affectionate growl, nipping the tip of your nose with his lips and eliciting a giggle right from your chest, your fists going up to bat his chest just before you fell over backwards on the bed.
The sheets billowed around you as you landed while giggling behind your hand, your hair spread out like ivy along the gaudy floral print bedding. You felt yourself being dragged further down the bed weightlessly until your legs dangled off the edge, the springs of the cheap motel mattress squeaking as the pressure shifted, his arms going under your thighs.
Mr Price, nice and warm between your legs. Price. Your boyfriend's surname.
You peered down at him as if seeing him for the first time and wrinkled your nose with renewed embarrassment. “Hi, down there,” you murmured through a nervous laugh. The gauzy overhead lights swathed the room in a murky amber like swimming through honey, his stark blue eyes oddly anchoring through the fuzzy shadows.
“Hey there, pet.” The hem of your babydoll top tented over his head as he skimmed his lips across your navel, his wiry pepper-and-salt beard tickling your sensitive skin. A satisfied hum rumbled in his throat upon feeling the tremor of your skin under him—the way your breathing immediately fell out of rhythm.
The button of your denim shorts popped off with a soft clink and he dragged the shorts down with your panties without delay.
“Comfy?” Price asked, squeezing the ball of your heel in his big hand and rubbing the soles soothingly, then drifting his hand up to your calf as he held your knees open around his head. His warm breath fanned against your slick cunt unhurriedly, a shudder going through you as you wrought your fingers through his hair and dropped your head back.
“Oh, shush.” Between your legs wasn't the best place for conversation, you thought, your cheeks burning, though Price seemed perfectly in his element, mouthing against your inner thighs. It didn't seem right to affirm how good all of this, something so wrong, felt—you liked it far more than you should—but actions speak louder than words anyway.
He lowered his face to the top of your mound, kissing softly, a heavy breath rumbling through his chest as his big hands roamed along your hips and your belly with a certain reverence. You certainly weren't his to love and to hold, but the taste of you, so tangible and pooling on his tongue, felt like holding you in the palm of his hand, the heartbeat between your thighs a persistent flutter.
Before you, Price's relationship with his son may as well have been nonexistent. That was especially true after the fateful night when his son decided to rekindle their relationship to introduce his new girlfriend, and brought home… you. The same broad Price had shagged one year ago. A mindless one night stand between deployments. Price had popped your cherry before Tommy even got to third base.
It wasn't cheating at the time; you weren't dating anybody back then. Not officially, at least. You wanted to gain some experience before standing ten toes in with the guy you were seeing, learn what you were getting yourself into so you could do it right, on your own terms, when the time came.
Price could've, should've kept it that way—clean, in the past. You probably wouldn't have been able to stay with Tommy after knowing what his dad sounded like in bed, but you would've moved on eventually. But Price, when presented with the forbidden fruit right in his backyard, knew right then that he wasn't going to stay away. It wasn't in his nature. Tommy may have been the result of a mistake—another, one night stand—but you were no mistake. No one could convince him otherwise. He chose you and continued choosing you between every, 'We shouldn't be doing this,' and, 'We should stop meeting like this,' leading into bed.
His tongue dipped between your folds, just tasting, lapping up the slick that gathered there with your hips twitching against his mouth, his throat bobbing as he looked up at you and tilted his head.
“Is this cunt off limits, baby?” There it was. You hesitated, feeling quite dumb and exposed with your legs spread around his shoulders while he reminded you that you in fact weren't supposed to be doing this, and wanting to beg him not to stop now. Quite frankly, Price was having fun. Watching you get all wound up and off-balance with an amused crinkle around his eyes, though he presented a sympathetic croon at your plight. Price was unfair.
He bit a fair chunk of your thigh for a reaction. “Come on, baby, tell me. Should I stop touching you here?” You shuddered as the pad of his thumb circled your clit languidly, tugging on his hair on instinct, a traitorous trail of arousal running down the cleft of your ass.
“Stop it--”
“Stop touching-?”
“No!” A whiny, petulant noise unlike anything you've heard from yourself filled your ears, you may as well have been kicking your feet. “Stop bein' gross.”
That earned a truly hearty chuckle from Price—the old, distinguished kind, crow's feet deep. Pearly strands stuck to his fingers as he pulled his hand away from your seam, caressing your thighs as if calming a small, angry animal. “Gross? You're right, baby, we should stop. I mean, look at you—you're soaked. This is just filthy, darling. You don't want these dirty old hands touching you, do you? This is gross.”
“That's not what I-” You were getting all puffed up and red, he knew. Overwhelmed, even. It required too much brainpower to keep up with his games while your cunt was all achy, and his mouth was right there. “Please don't stop, Iʼm so, so wet, I don't wanna think about him right now-”
All in one, long-winded breath.
“Atta girl.” The vibrations of his voice rumbling through your sensitive bundle of nerves made you gasp out, his middle and ring finger plunging inside your cunt before you could ever catch your breath. The achy throb between your legs was tuned into a deep, perfect fullness that left no room for thought as his fingers curled inside you.
You never mentioned 'him' in these moments, refused to acknowledge his existence altogether. But that was too safe, too easy. Price didn't offer you the respite of ignoring reality, to languish in a safe little bubble where you forgot your obligations to your lover for a while. That might have went over with another man, but not one like Price, who thought the forbidden—Or perhaps just seeing you compromise your morals for the pleasure he gave you—was half the fun.
Spit and arousal alike dripped down your cunt while he slurped and lapped at your center, thick, deft fingers squelching inside you. His lips closed around your hood, sucking gently as he let out a muffled groan that pulsed through you. "Christ,” Price hissed against you, drawing your hips closer as you mashed your cunt against his mouth. “There's my girl. Don't fucking come until Iʼm inside you. Wanna feel you come all over me.”
The sound of his zipper unfurling made your eyes fly open, met with the blurry sight of a water-damaged ceiling through tears you didn't realize had sprung in your ears. His moans down below had grown more feverish by the minute, and you realized he was fucking his fist. You propped yourself on your elbows as you guided Price's head down on you and let your gaze fall over him, the fabric of his trousers stretched across his thighs as he kneeled on the carpet with his hard cock in his free hand.
“Price-” You preened his name brokenly, only to earn a muffled grunt from him against your clit, his tongue flattening against your folds with each lap. The muscles in his forearm jumped and tightened, veins standing out as he crooked his fingers and worked that spot in sharp, merciless curls. Too close—your thighs cinched around his ears, your fingers curling in his hair like you meant to drag him off, but you only pulled him closer.
Price slid his fingers from your cunt with a wet spray and a whimper fell from your lips, your hips jerking against the air uselessly.
You scrambled up the sheets as he climbed onto the bed, one knee on the mattress, then another. “You close, sweetheart?” Price cooed while settling between your legs, knees pressed wide to accommodate the breadth of his waist, your thighs tender from being scratched by his beard. His big hands haphazardly reached for the fabric of your top and ripped it over your head.
“I-Iʼm close-” You nodded your head, fisting up the sheets restlessly. His heavy cock rested against your seam, dragging back-and-forth through the mess while your walls clamped around nothing. “Please, need it-”
“Fuck—” Your breath mingled together as he pushed inside your heat with a guttural sound, your sloppy cunt practically drawing Price all the way in. “—That's it,” he grunted, “Gonna come for your daddy, luvie?”
You were already close—so close—every nerve pulled taut from what he'd just done to you, but it felt humiliating to finish as soon as he was inside, like some inverse of a teenage boy. Yet, your messy head of hair nodded wildly in the crook of his shoulder, wobbly legs criss-crossed behind his back.
The air knocked out of you as Price bottomed out fully, breathless cries spilling from your lips as your walls spasmed around his girth. His hips pummeled into you impatiently until your release slicked the way for his desperate strokes, a lewd, heavy slap of skin connecting with his beefy body bearing down on you, mattress springs groaning. A weak, trembling hand pressed against his stomach, trying to push him back, but his hand closed around yours, pinning it to the mattress as he drove into you through the oversensitivity, a guttural groan rumbling from deep in his chest.
“Ssh, I know, darling, I know,” he murmured, voice ragged, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “It's my turn now. You can take it.”
— writing cheap sleazy porn intended to be sold at half-price bookstores as usual. just a quick oneshot to give my brain a break from my longer wips! you guys should be grateful i took a break from bingeing TWD to post something. + sorry if there's any inconsistencies in the tenses, iʼm a little rusty with using past tense ever since i started writing fics.
❦ task force 141 when they receive teardrop stained letters from their lover ❧
summary: how the boys react when they see your dried up tears littering the letters you send from oceans away
warnings: lowkey just sad, they’re all obsessed and heartbroken. very fluffy
simon “ghost” riley
he notices immediately, brushes his fingers over the wrinkled paper. feels his heart break and swell all at once. he misses you terribly, and it’s killing him that you miss him enough to cry about it but—he’s never felt this loved before. he can’t help but imagine you back at home, curled into one of his hoodies on your shared bed, shedding tears for him. he’s never deemed himself worth much, let alone your pretty tears. he uses the letter as motivation to make it back home to you.
johnny “soap” mactavish
he stares at the smudged ink for a long time before he even reads the words. runs his thumb over one of the water-stained spots like he can feel the exact tear that made it. “oh, sweetheart…” he murmurs, swallowing thickly. he jokes a lot, flirts like it’s a reflex, but this—this makes him ache in the chest. you cried missing him. the idea alone nearly unravels him. he kisses the corner of the letter before folding it back up and hiding it in the inner lining of his vest, close to his heart.
kyle “gaz” garrick
his chest tightens the second he realizes what those faint stains are. you’d been crying. for him. he bites down on the inside of his cheek, blinking hard, reading every word like it’s your last. he hates that you’re hurting, but gods, he loves how open you are with him—how honest, how soft. it means the world. that letter doesn’t leave his side for days. he traces the lines of your writing with a gloved finger when he can’t sleep. sheds a few of his own tears next to yours. he writes back that night, asking you to keep writing, even if you cry. especially if you cry.
captain john price
his hands still when he sees the tear marks. jaw clenched, eyes sharp. the mission’s not over, but he’s already thinking about you. thinking about getting back to you. he reads the letter in private, sitting on the edge of his bunk, elbows on his knees, your words and those little stains etched into his memory. he doesn’t cry—but it’s close. his reply is shorter than usual, more clipped, but there’s a weight to it. “you keep those tears for joy, love. i’m coming home soon.”
John helping you fix up some stuff around your flat, but he doesn’t ask if you need him to do it, he’s going do it anyway. That leaky tap in the bathroom’s been driving him mad, the repetitive drip bordering on torture as he lays awake each night beside you.
He finds your metal toolbox in the oddest of places, picks it up and swings it to the side, surprised at the light weight. He shakes it, the rattle of whatever’s inside doesn’t sound like bolts or nails. Your screwdrivers are still under the sink in the kitchen, so he knows they can’t be in here.
It’s the same toolbox you spotted at his and you inspected all the compartments, even measured the width and depth. John opened yours chuckling at the tailors chalk and fabric scissors in a leather pouch, three tiny scissors which you’d told him were thread snappers. Spools of thread neatly crammed and colour coded on one side, bobbins and measuring tape on the other. The pin cushion has him retracting his hand, small nick of his finger prodding a sharp edge. Of course you had other ideas for this box.
In your defence there is a tiny screwdriver in there for your sewing machine. “See a tool,” you say waving it front of his face.
He’ll buy you some of the basics. Reminds himself not to let you in his garage or show you his metal drawer. You’ll no doubt want him to lug one of those up the stairs to your flat. Fill it with the overspilling contents in the sewing box under your desk.
John ends up bargaining with you, let him fix that sodding leaky tap and he’ll let you get his measurements for a better fitting suit.
⋆˚࿔ husband!price headcanons because i need him as my husband!
husband!price who has nightmares because of his ptsd and finds your hand under the covers, intertwining his fingers with yours and resting it on his chest.
husband!price who can never button the top button of his shirt. always has to ask you to do it for him before he leaves the house.
husband!price who cleans up after dinner. you cooked so he'll clean the kitchen while you rest up.
husband!price who swears he didn't eat your cereal. literally kisses your face but you see it in his eyes. thing is, you bought the cereal he likes on purpose.
husband!price who says he's never tried mango before, just so he can see your shocked reaction. you literally challenge him to a fight because who hasn't tried mango!
husband!price whos hands are always rough, doesn't matter how much lotion he uses. you complain but secretly love the feeling. especially when he massages your back after a hard day.
husband!price who keeps track of the dryer so he can take out the clothes when they're warm and throw them on you. it became a thing back when you first started dating and stuck ever since.
husband!price who makes you tie his tie in the morning. doesn't care that he can do it himself. something about having you close to him. bedhead and morning breath never stopped him from giving you a kiss.
husband!price who can't make his tea right anymore. you had made it for him many years ago and now you're in charge of making tea. secretly loves when you add a bit of vanilla syrup in it too.
husband!price who hugs you from behind as you brush your teeth in the morning. his chin finds your shoulder and his lips find your neck. he litters kisses all over your skin.
husband!price who complains about his beard. he loves it but sometimes he likes to get on your bad side. you literally hide all the scissors and razors around the house.
husband!price who most likely has a ring tan on his finger. he never takes his ring off. ever. if you ever find him taking it off, call the mental facilities immediately.
husband!price who looks at you like it's his first time seeing you. you still remember the first time he saw you. he was passing by a cafe and saw you in the window. he stopped there and stared at you. a bit creepy but it led to the best thing in your life.
husband!price who learned how to do origami so he could write love notes and fold them into cute swans or hearts. he'd hide them around the house like an easter egg hunt. you even accidentally burnt one in the toaster. swears he didn't put it there.
husband!price who dances with you in the living room when it rains. no music, just the pitter patter of the rain and swaying bodies. says he's trying to be romantic as if he's not already.
husband!price who helps you bathe on days you feel tired. he washes your body with such softness, you almost fall asleep.
husband!price who takes care of you on those certain hard days. the ones where you have no motivation to get up. he brushes your hair, brushes your teeth, washes your face, then changes you. he feeds you and gives you plenty of kisses, whispering how proud he is of you.
husband!price who kisses you passionately before going to bed. every night he'll grab your jaw and kiss you till your breathless. its an intimate and slow kiss but it makes night feel better.
husband!price who learns what if feels like to be whole. he was broken but now with you, he feels full. hes full of love, full of life. is grateful for you because you taught him how to live.
