Chapter Text
You were 7 when your father left home. From that day on, you spent the last 12 years alone. Your mother was always there, but not for you, but she had withdrawn into her own world. Your father's disappearance had shaken her more than anything.
After few years of growing up on your own, your mother had finally accepted the fact that your father wasn't coming back and always had found someone new to lean on.
This was the point where John Price entered the story.
Because your mother was a lucky bitch, she managed to have one of the best men in the world. He was a much better than your mother deserved. He was the kind of person who would stand right behind her no matter what, and would hold her hand and help her up when she fell.
This was not fair.
That was all you thought about from the first moment you saw him.
You couldn't stand the fact that your mother, who was so selfish that she would even give up her own child and become embittered with life for the sake of a man, had such a gift. You prayed to God that John would leave your mother, as if you were seeking revenge for the childhood stolen from you. In this world where you were all alone, your mother didn't deserve a man like him.
However, this feeling of revenge began to give way to jealousy as after two years together went by. You didn't want to admit it to yourself, but what you wanted now was for John to be yours, not gone.
One evening, after dinner, John found himself alone with you in the living room. Your mother had excused herself to take a call. He sat down next to you on the couch, his large frame taking up most of the space. You stiffened slightly.
"You hate me, don't you?" John asked softly, his deep voice barely above a whisper. He wasn't looking at you. Instead, his eyes were fixed on the TV, where a football match was playing. He had his arms spread out along the back of the couch, one leg bent up on the seat, making him seem entirely relaxed.
“What?” you asked, caught off guard by his question.
John's gaze remained on the TV, his profile stern and unreadable. "Don't bother denying it," he murmured. "I've seen the way you look at me when you think I'm not watching." He paused, then added, "You think I stole your mother from you." You felt a jolt of surprise at his words. You quickly looked away, pretending to watch the football match as well, but your mind was racing.
“I don’t hate you” you mumbled, not taking your eyes off the TV. You realized he had completely misjudged your attitude towards him.
He watched you from the corner of his eyes. You were look younger even for a 21 years old, with a thin frame and long hair that was usually tied up in a messy bun. You wore oversized shirts and shorts, making you look even younger. He had initially thought you disliked him - your silent treatment, disinterested expressions, and avoidance made him believe that.
"Then what is it?" John asked, his voice low and calm. He waited for your response, his eyes flicking back and forth between the TV and you. The room was quiet except for the sounds of the football match and your mother's occasional laughter coming from the other room. "You don't talk to me, you don't look at me, you barely acknowledge my presence. It's like I'm invisible to you." He sighed and rubbed his temples. "So, if you don't hate me, then what's your problem?"
"There's no problem," you said indifferently.
He studied you for a moment, his gaze sharp and piercing despite the casual pose he maintained. "No problem?" he repeated, a hint of skepticism in his tone. "You've barely said ten words to me in the two years I've been living here." He leaned forward slightly, his elbows on his knees, bringing him a little closer to you. "Look at me when you speak," he commanded softly but firmly. His large hand rested on his knee, mere inches away from your leg. The room suddenly felt warmer.
Your eyes snapped to his face. “Don’t give me orders, captain. I’m not one of your goddamned soldiers.” If there was one thing you hated about him, it was that sometimes he acted like he was in the military, even when he was at home.
John's eyes widened briefly at your sudden outburst, a flicker of surprise passing over his rugged features before he regained his composure. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, and he leaned back into the couch, his arms crossing over his chest. "Feisty," he murmured, almost to himself. "I stand corrected. You do have a problem with me." He chuckled softly, shaking his head. "But orders or not, looking at someone when they're talking to you is basic courtesy."
“I don’t hate you,” you said slowly. “I just don’t care enough about my mother to care about what’s going on in her life.”
John's expression darkened slightly. He had always known you had a strained relationship with your mother, but your words still stung. He uncrossed his arms and leaned forward again, his eyes searching yours. "You're her daughter. Of course you should care about what's going on in her life." He paused, his jaw clenching briefly before continuing. "Or are you just too selfish to give a damn?" His voice was low and measured, barely containing his frustration.
You turned to him angrily. “Am I selfish?” you said through gritted teeth. “My dad left us because my mom cheated on him. My mom gave up on life for something that was her fault. She gave up on me. She made me carry her unconscious, drunk ass up the stairs when I was 9. She stole the money I was saving for college. She let her ex-boyfriend beat me up. When another one tried to rape me, she accused me of seducing him.” You winced at the sound of your mom’s laughter on the phone from the next room. “Yes, I am her daughter. But she never loved me. Just like she never loved my father.” You paused, looking into John’s eyes. “She will never love you either. She just loves the idea of being loved.”
John stared at you, his mouth slightly agape as he took in your words. He had seen glimpses of her neglectful behavior, but hearing it all laid out like that was overwhelming. He felt a pang of sympathy for you, realizing that your cold exterior was a defense mechanism built up over years of emotional neglect.
“I felt bad for you,” you said, getting up from the couch and heading for the stairs. “I thought you were a good guy, and it felt sad that my mom would eventually disappoint you too. But I guess you two idiots are just right for each other.”
John sat there stunned, your words echoing in his mind long after you disappeared upstairs. He felt a strange mix of anger, sadness, and a twisted sense of understanding. Your mother's laughter from the other room suddenly sounded hollow and meaningless. He stood up abruptly, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "Fuck," he muttered under his breath. For the first time since he'd been with your mother, he felt genuinely confused about his feelings and his place in this dysfunctional family dynamic. The beer in his hand suddenly tasted bitter.
When you got to your room you changed into a hoodie and skinny jeans. You grabbed your bag from the hook behind the door and went back downstairs. As you returned to put on your boots that were next to the door, “I’m going out,” you said to John, who was still sitting where you left him. “You can tell my mom. Not that she cares.”
John watched you put on your boots, his expression thoughtful. Your movements were quick and sharp, like you were trying to get away as fast as possible. "Where are you going?" His voice was softer than he intended. He watched you slip your arms into the sleeves of your jacket, covering up your slim frame.
“As far away as possible from both of your stupid asses,” you said, walking out and closing the door behind you.
He sat there for a long moment after you left, your words hanging heavy in the air. A small smile tugged at his lips despite the situation - he'd never heard you speak so honestly and bluntly before. He stood up abruptly, grabbing his phone. Your mother was still on the phone laughing loudly when he entered the room. "Honey," He interrupted gently, "Your daughter just stormed out." Your mother froze mid-laugh. "Again?" She asked nonchalantly, going back to her conversation.
Twenty minutes passed, then thirty. Your mother finished her call and came looking for him in the living room. "Did she say where she was going?" she asked casually, opening the fridge for a bottle of water. John leaned against the counter, watching her. "As far away from us as possible," he recited your words exactly. Your mother rolled her eyes. "She's being dramatic." She took a sip of water. She went back to watching TV, completely unaffected by your disappearance.
John watched your mother for a moment, her indifference to your whereabouts evident. He felt a growing sense of unease and frustration. He had always known she was a bit self-centered, but this was beyond anything he had imagined. He pushed off from the counter and walked towards the front door without a word.
"John?" Your mother called after him, pulling her blanket tighter around her shoulders. "Mm?" He responded shortly, already having one foot out the door. "Where are you going?" Your mother asked, furrowing her eyebrows slightly.
"I'm going to look for her." His voice was firm, leaving no room for argument. Your mother scoffed. "John, it's late. She's probably just with her friends or something. She'll come home when she wants to." But John was already out the door, locking it behind him. Your mother rolled her eyes and turned back to her TV, completely dismissing the situation. Meanwhile, John started his car and began searching the streets for you. It was past midnight. After driving around for almost two hours, he decided to check out some bars closer to home.
John parked his car in front of a popular local bar, the neon lights casting a harsh glow on the pavement. He stepped out, his tall frame casting a shadow over anyone who passed by. The music from inside was loud and thumping, spilling out onto the street along with laughter and chatter. He scanned the crowd through the window before pushing open the heavy door and stepping inside.
The smell of alcohol, and smoke hit him immediately. He scanned the room, his eyes adjusting to the dim lighting. The bar was packed with people laughing, dancing, and drinking. John's gaze landed on the long counter, where bartenders were frantically pouring drinks. He moved through the crowd, his height and broad shoulders making it easy for him to navigate. As he reached the bar, he caught the bartender's eye and ordered a whiskey neat.
As John sipped his whiskey, his eyes continued to scan the room. He saw groups of young women giggling and taking shots, couples dancing closely, and men playing pool or darts. But no sign of you. He finished his drink quickly and ordered another one, starting to feel a hint of frustration and worry. He had already checked two other bars nearby with no luck.
Just as he was about to leave and check another bar, his gaze caught on a familiar figure in the corner. There you were, sitting at a high-top table with two guys who looked a bit older than you. You were laughing at something one of them said, a beer in your hand. John's eyes narrowed slightly as he observed the scene. The guys were leaning in close, one with his hand on your knee.
John set his jaw, feeling a sudden surge of possessiveness and annoyance. He watched as the guy with his hand on your knee leaned in even closer, whispering something in your ear. You laughed again, throwing your head back. John felt his gut twist. He finished his second drink in one gulp, slamming the glass down on the bar. Without hesitation, he pushed his way through the crowd towards your table. The two guys immediately noticed him approaching, their expressions changing from confident to uneasy as they took in his imposing figure.
When you noticed the person approaching you, you stuttered in surprise. “Wh- what the fuck are you doing here?”
John's eyes flicking between you and the two guys. He noticed how one of them had his hand on your thigh, and it took every ounce of self-control not to reach out and slap it away. "What are you doing?" He asked, his voice low and controlled. His gaze met yours, searching for answers. The music and laughter of the bar seemed to fade into the background as tension filled the air around your table.
"I'm having fun," you said. "What are you doing?"
"Having fun?" John repeated, raising an eyebrow. He couldn't believe his ears. You were supposed to be at home, not out here with some random guys who looked like they were trying to take advantage of you. "At midnight, on a Tuesday, with two guys who probably just want one thing," he said bluntly, his voice dripping with disapproval. The two guys exchanged uneasy glances, realizing that John was not someone they wanted to mess with. John focused his attention back on you, his piercing gaze unwavering.
One of the men said, "She’s not worth it," and got up from the table, and his friend followed him and walked away.
John watched as the two guys quickly retreated, leaving you alone at the table with him. A small smirk played on his lips as he turned back to you, crossing his arms over his chest. "Looks like your new friends weren't so interested anymore," he remarked dryly, his eyes gleaming with a mix of amusement and annoyance. He reached out and grabbed your arm, pulling you up from the chair before you could protest. "We're leaving," he stated firmly, already dragging you towards the exit.
“Let me go,” you tried to protest, but the alcohol had weakened your already limited strength.
"Not a chance," John muttered, keeping a firm grip on your arm as he navigated through the crowded bar. He could feel you stumbling slightly, your movements uncoordinated from the alcohol. As they reached the door, he pushed it open with his free hand, pulling you out into the cool night air. The sudden change in environment made you sway on your feet, and John instinctively wrapped an arm around your waist to steady you. "Fucking hell."
"I hope you will burn in it," you muttered.
John snorted at your muttered curse, but he didn't release his hold on you. Instead, he tightened his arm around your waist, pulling you closer to his side as he unlocked his car with his free hand. "Keep telling yourself that," he retorted dryly, opening the passenger door and practically lifting you into the seat. You sprawled across the leather, your long hair spilling over the headrest. John leaned in to buckle your seatbelt, his broad frame crowding you in the small space.
As he straightened up, he quickly closed the door and walked around to the driver's side, getting in and starting the engine. The car filled with tense silence as he drove home, one hand on the wheel while the other rested on his thigh clenched into a fist to keep from reaching out to hold you again. Your muttered curses only fueled his annoyance.
“You ruined everything,” you said, rubbing your face with your hands.
John's grip on the steering wheel tightened at your words, his knuckles turning white. He kept his eyes fixed on the road ahead, jaw clenched so tightly it ached. "Ruined everything?" he repeated incredulously, his voice low and dangerous. "I saved your drunk ass from getting taken advantage of by those fucking idiots." He glanced over briefly, seeing you rubbing your face agitatedly. "You're welcome, by the way." The sarcasm was thick in his voice.
"If I consent, we cannot call it taking advantage."
John's eyes snapped to you for a hot second before returning to the road, his expression darkening. "Consent while you're blackout drunk doesn't fucking count," he bit out, his tone sharp and angry. He pulled up to a red light and turned to face you fully, his face mere inches from yours. "You think you'd be able to give clear consent if one of those guys tried to fuck you against the bathroom wall?" His words were crude, meant to shock and wake you up.
“Maybe I wanted to get fucked,” you said, your voice starting to rise.
The car suddenly swerved slightly as John's hand jerked on the wheel from shock and anger. His face turned red, veins popping in his neck. He pulled over abruptly onto the side of the road. He unbuckled his seatbelt and turned to face you fully, grabbing your face roughly. "I will not let some random guy stick his dick in you when you can't even remember it happening tomorrow."
"That's none of your business," you said through gritted teeth.
"The fuck it's not!" John exploded, his voice rising to match yours. "I'm not going to sit back and let you destroy yourself because you're pissed off at your mother!" He realized he was practically shouting and took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. "You're drunk off your ass and you're talking about letting strangers use you like a hole." His voice softened slightly, but remained firm. "Is that really what you want?" He searched your face, looking for any sign that you were actually thinking straight.
Without answering his question, you leaned forward and pressed your lips to his. When you pulled away, you leaned back and looked out the windshield, muttering, “There you go, taking advantage.”
John froze mid-shout, your sudden kiss catching him completely off guard. He stared at your lips for a moment. "You're impossible," he muttered, putting his seatbelt back on and pulling back onto the road.
The rest of the drive was silent and tense. John's mind was reeling from your kiss and your drunkenness. He pulled into the driveway and turned off the engine, sitting there for a moment before getting out and walking around to your side. He opened the door roughly and reached in to unbuckle your seatbelt. "Get out," he ordered gruffly. When you didn't move immediately, he grabbed your arm and pulled you out of the car roughly. Your feet stumbled on the gravel driveway as he dragged you towards the house.
John was too focused on getting you inside and up to your room without making a scene to notice your silent tears at first. He fumbled with his keys to unlock the door, then dragged you through the house and up the stairs, his grip on your arm unyielding. It wasn't until he reached your bedroom door that he finally looked down at you, taking in your red, puffy eyes and the wet tracks on your cheeks.
John's grip on your arm loosened immediately, his expression softening as he saw the tears. He let go of you entirely, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "Fuck," he muttered under his breath, stepping back to give you some space. He watched as you wiped away your tears with the back of your hand, your shoulders shaking slightly with silent sobs. His heart twisted painfully in his chest. "Why the hell are you crying?" He asked softly this time, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Go to hell," you muttered, walking into your room. You laid down on your bed, pulled your knees up, and continued to cry silently.
John stood in the doorway for a long moment, torn between leaving you alone and going to comfort you. After a few minutes of internal debate, he stepped into the room and closed the door quietly behind him. He moved over to your bed slowly, as if approaching a skittish animal. When he reached the side of the bed, he sat down gently on the edge, leaving some space between you. He hesitated for a moment before reaching out to brush a strand of hair out of your face, his touch gentle.
As he brushed the hair out of your face, John noticed how small and fragile you looked curled up on the bed, your knees pulled up to your chest and your arms wrapped around them protectively. Your face was buried in your pillow, muffling your soft sniffles. He felt like an idiot for not noticing your tears earlier. He sat there for a long moment, just watching you cry silently, his heart aching in his chest.
"I didn't realize you were crying," he admitted quietly, still not moving closer. "You were being such a brat the whole drive home that I didn't notice you were actually upset." He tried to keep his tone light and teasing, hoping to make you angry again instead of sad. Anything was better than this quiet, miserable crying.
John waited for you to respond or react to his teasing, expecting at least a muttered insult or a shove away from his touch. But when you remained silent and still, he felt a growing sense of unease. He leaned closer cautiously, trying to get a better look at your face without disturbing you too much. Unable to stand the silence and your continued crying, John slowly reached out and gently pulled the pillow out from under your face. He turned your head to the side so he could see your face better. Your cheeks were wet with tears and your eyes were red and puffy. He felt like shit. Carefully, he pulled you into his lap facing him instead of having your back to him. "Hey," he murmured softly against your hair, holding you close, stroking your back gently. "Hey princess,"
He continued to stroke your back gently, his voice soft and soothing as he tried to calm you down. "I'm sorry," he whispered against your hair. "I didn't mean to make you cry like this." He felt your small body shaking against his chest as you continued to sob quietly into his shirt.
John held you tighter, rocking you slightly as he murmured apologies and gentle words into your hair. He felt like the biggest asshole in the world. His strong arms wrapped around you protectively, one hand gently stroking your hair while the other held your small body close to his chest.
“Was it that bad?” you whispered, burying your face in his chest.
You felt his muscles tighten when he heard your question. He knew what you meant. He swallowed hard before speaking. “No.” He paused for a moment before continuing, "It's not that it felt bad, it's that it was wrong."
“This isn’t fair,” you protested. “She doesn’t deserve you. She doesn’t deserve anyone’s love. But while she gets what she wants, I'm always the one left hanging."
John's heart ached as he listened to your whisperd words, feeling your small body shake with unshed tears. "Hey... hey, princess," he murmured softly, using the same endearment he had earlier. His strong arms tightened around you protectively. "You deserve so much more than what you've gotten." He paused, choosing his next words carefully. "I know it feels like the world is against you sometimes, but I promise you that you deserve all the love and happiness in the world." He gently tilted your chin up with his finger, forcing you to look into his earnest eyes. "And someday, someone is going to realize just how amazing you are and they'll treat you right." He gently tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.
After looking into his eyes for a while, you started to speak. "Can you kiss me?" you whispered shyly.
John's heart skipped a beat at your shy request. He saw the vulnerability in your eyes, the way you were biting your lower lip nervously. For a moment, he hesitated, knowing that kissing you would likely complicate things even further between you two. But seeing how sweet you looked, he couldn't bring himself to refuse you. He leaned down gently towards your face. His large hands moved to cup your small cheeks gently.
John gently captured your lips in a soft, tender kiss. He kept the kiss slow and sweet, his lips moving against yours with a tenderness that was almost heartbreaking. As he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, his eyes searching yours with an intensity that belied his calm demeanor. "Shh," he murmured against your lips as you parted them to speak. He pressed another gentle kiss to your mouth, silencing whatever you were going to say next. The kiss remained soft and gentle, completely unlike any other kiss you'd experienced before. It wasn't hungry or demanding like the other guys you'd kissed. It was almost reverent, as if he was afraid you might disappear if he kissed you too roughly. After a moment, he pulled back just enough to look at your face without breaking contact completely. His thumbs gently brushed your cheekbones, wiping away any lingering tears.
Seeing that you weren't going to say anything, he pressed another soft kiss to your lips before pulling back slightly. His eyes locked with yours, filled with an emotion that was hard to decipher - protectiveness, tenderness, something deeper that he wasn't ready to acknowledge. Before you could talk, he captured your lips in another kiss - this time, a little deeper, a little more meaningful.
As the kiss deepened, John's hands slid from your cheeks to the back of your neck, gently holding you in place. His tongue lightly brushed against your bottom lip, seeking entry with a soft request rather than a demand. You could taste the faint hint of whiskey and something uniquely him—a comforting warmth that made your knees feel weak. When you parted your lips slightly, he slipped his tongue inside gently, exploring your mouth with a tenderness that contradicted his rough exterior. His thumb rested against your pulse point, feeling your heartbeat quicken under his touch. The kiss was gentle yet intense, filled with unspoken emotions and longing. John's tongue danced with yours, learning the contours of your mouth as if committing them to memory. His breath hitched slightly when you moaned softly against his lips, the sound vibrating against his mouth. He deepened the kiss even further, his arms wrapping around your waist to pull you closer. Your small frame melted into his larger one, your arms wrapping around his neck as you clung to him for support.
After what felt like hours, John slowly pulled back from the kiss, his breath ragged and his eyes dark with desire. He rested his forehead against yours, his large hands still wrapped around your waist. "You don't know how dangerous that is," he whispered against your lips, his voice low and husky. "A man could lose himself in those lips." He pressed one last gentle kiss to your mouth before pulling back completely, his thumb grazing over your bottom lip once more. "You should go to bed," he said softly but firmly.
John watched as you slowly pulled away from him, your lips swollen from their kiss and your cheeks flushed pink. He felt like an idiot for kissing you like that - it was supposed to be just a gentle peck to shut you up, not a deep, passionate make-out session. He cleared his throat roughly as he got up from your bed and headed towards the door. His hands clenched into fists at his sides to keep from pulling you back for another kiss. "Goodnight."
John closed your bedroom door softly behind him, leaning against it for a moment with his eyes closed. He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself down. The kiss had been intense, more intense than he'd expected. He could still taste you on his lips, feel your small body pressed against his.
He groaned quietly, adjusting himself through his pants. He was hard as a rock from that single kiss.
And now he knew that nothing would ever be the same again.