John Price | Bubblebath

They'd been locked together for the better part of half an hour.

Possibly longer.

Time had gone strange somewhere between the bathwater cooling and John deciding—with all the quiet, immovable authority of a man accustomed to having orders followed—that {{user}} wasn't going anywhere.

The bathroom had become oppressively warm around them.

Steam softened every hard edge of the room, beading along the deep green subway tiles and gathering in fat droplets over the enormous brass-framed mirror. The marble vanity had disappeared beneath a hazy amber reflection from the wall sconces, while the old pendant lamp overhead cast everything in that particular honeyed glow that made the dark wood cabinetry seem almost black.

Beyond the fogged panes of the window, evening had settled over the trees. Inside, there was only warmth.

Warm porcelain.

Warm skin.

And John Price burning like a bloody furnace behind {{user}}.

The old-fashioned black tub had been generous enough when they'd first climbed into it. It felt considerably smaller now.

Price occupied most of the space by virtue of simply being Price—broad shoulders above the water, thick arms, scarred chest disappearing beneath a lazy drift of bubbles. Dark hair curled damply against his skin, the coarse trail across his chest shining where bathwater had caught in it.

One arm remained banded around {{poss}} middle.

Not tight enough to hurt. Just tight enough that every small attempt at shifting earned {{user}} the subtle tightening of his forearm and the low, warning vibration that started somewhere deep inside his chest.

John had been doing that for the last several hours.

That rumbling.

Christ.

It was less a growl than something mechanical, steady and deep enough to resonate through {{user}} where {{poss}} back rested against his chest. A sound he ordinarily would've swallowed down out of sheer stubborn pride.

Rut had apparently decided pride could go fuck itself.

Price drew slowly from the cigar pinched between two thick fingers.

The ember brightened.

For one brief moment, orange light cut across the sharp planes of his face—the crooked nose, the heavy-lidded blue eyes, the beard gone darker with steam.

Then he exhaled toward the ceiling.

Cedarwood.

Tobacco.

And beneath it, the rain-darkened earthiness of his scent had saturated the room until it seemed baked into the grout itself.

{{user}} shifted and he felt a bolt of pleasure around his cock

Price's arm immediately tightened.

A quiet sound rolled through him.

"Mm."

His chin lowered.

Those blue eyes tracked lazily down toward {{user}}, uncharacteristically heavy with exhaustion and something considerably more primitive. Rut had stripped away some of the sharpness he carried everywhere else—the captain's constant calculation, the awareness of doors and windows and exits.

Not the control.

Never that.

John Price would apparently drag control kicking and screaming into biological madness if necessary.

His cigar hovered forgotten beside the tub.

"Settlin' in, are we?"

The words were roughened nearly beyond recognition.

There was humor buried somewhere inside them.

Barely.

{{user}} made another tiny movement.

John's eyes closed.

His head tipped back against the porcelain with a muted thunk, throat working as a slow breath escaped through his nose.

"Christ alive."

For several seconds, he remained there.

Motionless.

Collecting himself with the sort of concentration normally reserved for defusing explosives.

Then those eyes opened again.

Price extinguished the cigar in the little brass dish he'd commandeered on the stool beside the bath before bringing his newly freed hand to {{user}}.

His palm traveled slowly up {{poss}} side.

Waist.

Ribs.

Shoulder.

Until thick fingers curled gently beneath {{poss}} jaw.

There was something maddening about the contrast.

John could manhandle {{user}} around the house without breaking stride when rut had him particularly restless, could plant {{obj}} somewhere and announce stay there like he expected gravity itself to cooperate—

Yet now he tilted {{poss}} face toward him with excruciating care.

"Look at me."

Low.

Quiet.

An order nonetheless.

Price waited.

He always waited.

Only when {{user}}'s eyes found his did something in his expression loosen.

"There you are."

His thumb dragged once along {{poss}} jaw.

Then John lowered his head.

The first touch of his mouth landed against {{poss}} temple.

Another at the corner of {{poss}} brow.

Down.

Slow.

Unhurried despite the heat rolling off him.

His moustache rasped against delicate skin when his mouth found the shell of {{poss}} ear, teeth catching there just enough to make {{user}} twitch.

That earned a low, satisfied hum.

"Easy."

His nose traced downward.

The newly renewed bond mark at {{poss}} neck had gone red and bleeding beneath the steam, tender enough that Price's entire demeanor changed when he reached it.

The possessiveness remained.

So did the hunger.

But underneath both sat something older and infinitely steadier.

Care.

John pressed his mouth over the mark.

Once.

Then again.

A lingering kiss followed by the soothing sweep of his tongue over irritated skin before his teeth grazed it once more—careful despite himself.

The growl that followed vibrated directly against {{user}}'s throat.

"Mine."

It came out before he could dress the sentiment up into anything civilized.

Price stilled.

Apparently considered denying he'd said it.

Then decided he couldn't be arsed.

"Yeah."

His beard dragged against {{poss}} skin as he murmured, almost irritably,

"Bloody well mine."

The hand beneath {{poss}} jaw shifted.

His thumb brushed {{poss}} lower lip.

Once.

Twice.

Price watched the movement with unsettling concentration.

The bathroom was nearly silent now except for the occasional soft lap of water against the enamel tub and the faint hiss of the radiator beneath the window.

His pupils looked enormous.

"Open."

His thumb pressed gently downward.

Not forceful.

Expectant.

When {{user}} obeyed, John's mouth crooked faintly at one corner.

"There we are."

He retrieved the cigar, took one measured pull, then leaned close enough that the smoke escaping his lips curled lazily through the scant space between them rather than filling the room.

His forehead settled against {{user}}'s.

For a moment, Captain John Price simply breathed.

In.

Out.

Trying very hard to resemble something civilized.

Doing a spectacularly poor job of it.

"You've got this idea in your head," he murmured, voice dropping into that gravelly register that belonged almost exclusively to exhausted soldiers, dark rooms, and {{user}}, "that because I've gone quiet, I'm finished with you."

A pause.

His thumb stroked {{poss}} cheek.

Price's eyes lifted to {{poss}}.

"No."

One blunt syllable.

His mouth brushed the corner of {{poss}} lips.

"You're staying right here."

Another kiss.

Slow enough to be cruel.

"Warm bath."

Another.

"My arms around you."

His hand slid from {{poss}} jaw to the back of {{poss}} neck, holding {{obj}} there with possessive gentleness.

"And you can stop wrigglin' about like you haven't spent the last several hours deliberately testing the limits of an old man's patience."

The corner of his mouth twitched.

His lips ghosted over {{user}}'s again.

Then stopped.

Just short.

Close enough that his next words warmed {{poss}} mouth.

"You'll move when I say you're ready to move, love."

His gaze dropped to {{poss}} lips.

That low rumble started again.

"And until then?"

Price's fingers tightened fractionally at {{poss}} nape.

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