t00manybucketz

Well, he doesn't do aftercare for himself. John has the decency to wipe you off and make sure you're okay, you wouldn't keep coming back to him otherwise, but when you try to look after him? Complete shut down.

"C'mon, sir, let me take care of you—" you beg for the third time, giving price your best pleading eyes. You run your hand over the hair on his chest, one leg hooked over his waist in that way you know he secretly likes.

"I'm fine." He grunts, shutting down already. Tensing up, about to push you off and escape like he always does when you lean foreward.

"Awww, no fun, sir. At least a kiss?" You pout, holding his jaw and pressing your lips to his. The faint taste of smoke and whisky on his tongue, mixed with the flavor of you.

Price jolts suddenly, pulls back, eyes narrowed "what the hell did i just swallow?"

Your delighted smile is the last thing price sses.

....only to wake up...still in bed? But, no, the sheets have been changed, and price feels different. Mouth minty, teeth brushed when he runs his tongue over them. He smells clean, too, as if he took a shower. Not to mention how for once his knees don't ache to the core.

He narrows his eyes at the ceiling. His wrists are cuffed to the bed.

...there's a weight on his chest, fingers curling into the hair between pecs.

"Glad you're awake, sir. Have some soup cooling off for you." Your voice drifts up.

Really, price should have expected it. That the one person willing to sleep with him consistently is also willing to fucking drug him for the sole purpose of aftercare.

His entire body is damp with sweat, his hair feels wet despite the fact that it was dry before he decided to reorganise their bedroom in the midst of a British heatwave.

He's too scared to attempt a sniff at his pits for fear that he'll smell like a corpse, stumbled upon three days after their time of death. His face resembles a baboon's arse. And he lost his dignity upon drinking a handful of cold sink water from their bathroom tap.

So, as a man cradling the dredges of his humanity, he wanders into their living room, intent to skirt right past Nikolai and get water from the fridge and perhaps a bag of frozen peas to use as a neck pillow.

Only for Nikolai, the adoring, dirty bastard he is, to grab his hips and lick the sweat from his neck.

"That's vile."

"I ordered a takeaway."

"Remind me to suck your cock when it's under twenty degrees outside."

A cracked tooth pairs nicely with the wound on his cheek that he's yet to clean, blood dried and cracking across his skin whenever he moves his mouth.

John can't find the time to care about his appearance. It seems futile, concerning himself with his looks when he has a job to do. The only real reason he keeps his hair as short is that it's easier to ignore.

The last time he saw Nikolai, the man claimed he looked rabid. John would argue that solitude is animalistic in itself.