#Captain John Price x Reader | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sugrcookiiee · 2 days ago

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I don’t even know how many times I’ve reread this.. and it still hits the same as the first

ミmy daddy didn't love me so i guess i've moved onto you

🍓 pairing: captain john price x fem reader

🍓 tags: nsfw, daddy kink, undefined age gap, oral sex, unprotected vaginal sex, rough(?) sex, both reader and price have a daddy kink that they indulge in with very little discussion, allusions to reader having a bad relationship with her father (but nothing concrete), price uses a lot of pet names for reader and also calls himself daddy several times

title is inspired by the song peter bogdanovich by my queen CMAT

masterlist

reblogs are always enormously appreciated!

If there’s one thing you know, it’s that you’re damn good at your job.

You have to be in order to survive in this ridiculous goddamn base. There are protocols to be followed, risk assessments to carry out, weapons and equipment requisition requests to send off, and you have to handle almost all of it for Task Force 141. That’s one thing about working with the military – they’re all about action, and rarely have the patience to fill in their paperwork, and then when they do it’s never done properly.

You’re patient when you need to be, willing to push when you have to, and you make sure shit gets done. It’s not an easy job; you work your ass off, and it’s often thankless. Most of your job is done behind the scenes, whether that’s requisitioning on-the-fly tactical or strategic airlifts, liaising with other units, or trying desperately to smooth over any little problems that might crop up with the higher-ups.

It’s challenging and exhausting, and you love it, but damn, it can be fucking infuriating. Working in a male-dominated environment is a little bit soul-destroying, with every condescending comment and lascivious gaze that lingers over your body. But none of that matters, because you don’t need male approval to excel at your job. You don’t need male approval for anything.

You repeat it to yourself on the daily, which is something that you’ve never had to do before. But before, you weren’t working with Captain John Price.

He’s not… rude, per se. If anything, he’s always coolly polite. But it’s obvious, so obvious, that he just barely tolerates you. He’s gruff, short, to-the-point, and never speaks to you outside of brusque orders. It takes weeks for him to start trusting you with even the most basic of files, and even then chunks of information are often redacted. And it shouldn’t matter; you’ve worked for men like him before, you know how it goes, and if anything he’s one of the better ones.

In the beginning, when you had first been assigned to the task force, Price had not been happy about it. It had been a tough transition; your assignment had been approved by Laswell in order to take some of the strain of liaising off both her and Price, but the Captain hadn’t been too pleased about it. He had seen you as a sort of interloper, a silly little pencil-pusher sent in by the brass to do the grunt work of administration that no one else wants to do.

But you work hard, you always have done. And maybe… maybe, part of the reason that you end up busting your balls so hard is because you want– no. Maybe you need his approval. You’d prefer not to think about it; it’s easier to throw yourself into your work, and pretend that you’re doing it for you.

You’re not even sure how it started, but at some point, Price starts looking at you differently. Maybe he realises that you’re competent at your job, or maybe he just needs to get used to you. Maybe, you hope, he’s finally starting to realise that you’re good at what you do; that you can be an asset to the team, so long as they actually work with you.

Whatever it is, he eases off. Stops being such a hard-ass, starts giving you space to do your thing. Eventually, he starts delegating too — stops hoarding the work like a miser, and finally starts treating you like you’re capable of something more than just photocopying.

He’s not a bad boss, not by a long shot. He’s kind, determined, patient when it matters, with a wry sense of humour. He’s also fiercely protective over his team, and that includes you now.

But he’s also older, by at least fifteen years, and he’s not always the most diligent with paperwork. Typical man of action, you’ve seen it a hundred times before. There’s always something more important to do, and while he’s always so cognisant of your workload and careful not to add to it, he is also all too happy to let you take the reins when it comes to bureaucracy. You like to think that you’ve proved yourself to him, but maybe he just respects competency.

That should be it.

But you’re so ashamed to admit that even when Price stops treating you like you’re a hostile target, you can’t stop hoping for his attention. Your mental chants of I don’t need male approval for anything, I don’t need male approval for anything become a daily thing, and sometimes a several-times-a-day thing.

Because the thing is, Price can be a difficult man to please. He’s always so busy that he doesn’t have time to give you the approval that you’re straining for, but when he does it gives you the most shameful warm glow in your belly.

A brief nod or a low grunted ‘Thanks, sweetheart’ is enough to fuel you for days now. Even better is when you’re walking along beside him, briefing him on the latest update from the higher-ups, and he leans his head in towards you as he listens intensely, sometimes even laying his large palm against the small of your back. Ostensibly, it’s to lead the way and guide you out of the path of the running cadets, but it just toes the line of professionalism and you flounder under the touch.

It’s stupid. You’re stupid. He’s just a coworker, and you need to keep your issues to yourself.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ

You’re perfectly self-aware enough to admit when you’re in a bad mood.

You start the day tired, and when you check your reflection in the mirror first thing that morning you’re greeted with the sight of a big, fuck-off pimple on your chin. It’s big, it’s throbbing, it practically has its own fucking heartbeat. You barely restrain the urge to pick at it, though you can feel it even when you’re not looking at it.

Your mood doesn’t improve when you get to the small kitchenette by your office and find that someone has used the last of the fancy French Vanilla flavoured coffee that you’ve stocked for yourself. As if that’s not bad enough, your little stash of chocolate digestives you keep for yourself for emergency bad days have disappeared too.

You clench your jaw and continue about your business. Whatever. You can survive without your coffee and chocolate.

Your resolve falters when you see the pile of paperwork on your desk, but whatever. It’s all part of the job. A little chocolate biscuit to nibble on would definitely make your job easier, but you’re a big girl and you’re just going to have to go without.

Then you get the phone call. One that makes you want to bang your head against your desk hard enough to knock yourself unconscious so that you don’t have to deal with this.

It’s time to update the TF141 personnel files. Orders from above, since there’s been significant changes to medical and surgical history in the last couple of months from injuries on missions.

Normally, that’s not such a big deal. It just involves updating their medical and technical files, making sure that nothing major has changed with regards their addresses or other personal information, even though a big portion of it ends up redacted anyway.

And, naturally, updating their photographs for their files.

You start easy.

Gaz is happy to come to your office when you text him, and he stands obediently for you as you take his picture. He’s gotten a metal plate fitted in his kneecap from the last time his file has been updated, and he sits and chats easily with you as you go through his information. He’s a sweet guy, and so easy to talk to, and you sigh with the knowledge that no one is going to make your job as simple and leisurely as Gaz just has.

After he leaves, you target Soap. He comes to your office as easily as Gaz, but he’s significantly more difficult to photograph.

He just keeps smiling, no matter how many times you tell him to quit it.

“It’s a personnel file photograph, not a photo for your Instagram.” You sigh, irritated. “I need you to have a blank, neutral expression. It’s like a passport photo, Sergeant. It’s for a government document.”

“Can’t help it, lass.” Soap says easily, that stupid grin not even dimming. “I see a camera, I smile. It’s muscle memory.”

You think that your irritation is only encouraging him, which only worsens your mood. In the end, you don’t get a single usable photograph of him for his file. You have to give up on him, swearing that you’ll come get him to try again later. He leaves your office still chuckling, like he thinks your frustration is cute.

You have tougher targets to tackle.

The difficult part isn’t even taking Ghost’s photo — the difficult part is catching him in the first place.

You spend almost three hours trying to track him down (because he won’t read your texts and your phone calls go unanswered), wobbling all over base in your stupid high heels and somehow missing him by mere moments every time. You arrive in the gym, the mess, the firing range, even the barracks, only to see the man’s enormous broad back disappearing out of the other door as soon as you get there.

You can only assume that Soap had given Ghost the heads up that you were on the prowl with a mission and a camera, because the lieutenant is avoiding you like the goddamn plague.

So yeah. You’re in a real bad fucking mood. But you can’t help it — some days your job is entirely thankless, and your mood drops so low that you feel like going home and crying. But you can’t, and you don’t want to show weakness in front of these military idiots, so all you can do is lock your jaw and go about your business the best you can.

You go back to your office, jaw and fists clenched tight, and collapse at your desk with your head in your hands. You have to take a few deep, slow breaths to try and calm yourself, but then you make the mistake of checking your reflection and your mood sinks lower again when you see that the stupid pimple on your chin has worsened.

God, this is just not your day. You have to get these stupid files updated, or it’ll fall on your head.

Eventually, you reluctantly stand up. There’s no point moping; you have a job to do, whether you like it or not, and your next victim is Captain Price.

You walk to Price’s office swiftly, your feet aching in your stupid heels. You wish you had worn something more sensible, but… well. Even subconsciously, you want to impress.

When you reach his office, you throw the door open and march inside without even bothering to knock.

Price is sitting behind his desk, and his head snaps up as soon as you walk in. His expression is set in a hard scowl, though it softens when he sees who it is. You guess you don’t exactly pose much of a threat, so he sees no use in posturing.

“I need you for a moment.” You bite out, allowing the door to slam shut behind you.

You hear Price sigh, before he leans back and settles into his chair, making himself comfortable. He’s wearing the same dark compression shirt that he usually wears for training exercises or to the gym, and he’s recently groomed his beard down too. He looks good, though it takes a colossal amount of effort for you to not notice, because you have other things you need to focus on right now.

“Hello to you too, love.” He grunts, wiping a hand over his eyes. “What’s the problem?”

You struggle not to react to that, his low voice both soothing and igniting something in your blood. You take a breath, try to calm down. You’re a professional, and you’re not here to embarrass yourself in front of the captain.

“I’m updating personnel files,” You say, and this time it comes out calm and steady, “I need to take a picture of you.”

Price’s gaze lingers on you, his stern brow softening a little. For a moment, you think that maybe this is actually going to be easy. That he’ll just stand up and take the fucking picture, so that the two of you can go back to your jobs and relax for the rest of the day.

But then–

“Jesus, kid.” He sighs, already shaking his head. “I’m up to my eyes right now. Leave it ‘till tomorrow.”

For a moment, you don’t react at all. You just stare at him, letting those dismissive words settle over you. He’s already looking back at his paperwork, mission briefings and maps littering the desk, and you feel so effectively dismissed. You feel small, so silly and stupid standing in front of him in a way that you haven’t felt since you first started working with the task force. You had thought that you were past this, that you had earned some meagre sort of respect from him.

“I need it done today.” You say, and your voice comes out a little hollow to your own ears.

You don’t need male validation. You don’t. But damn, you’ve had a rough day and the fact that your captain isn’t even bothering to look at you makes you want to cry.

Price sighs, and rubs at the crease between his eyes. He looks just as tired as you feel.

“Yeah, well. I don’t have time. Tomorrow.”

You swallow, pursing your lips. He’s so effortlessly dominant, which means that his careless dismissal stings all the more.

“I have to get the whole team done,” You say, struggling to keep your voice firm. “Soap wouldn’t stop smiling for the camera, I couldn’t find Farah anywhere, and Ghost–”

Price gives a sharp, derisive snort. “Forget Ghost.”

You scowl. “I need to do the whole squad.”

“Not Ghost.” Price repeats, this time slower and with more emphasis. “Simon doesn’t do photos.”

You take a deep breath, trying to stay calm. You’ve been working alongside the task force for a while now, and you’re familiar with Lieutenant Riley’s penchant for covering his face. It’s not something you have a problem with – usually.

“There’s no reason for him to be the exception to personnel photos, Captain.” You say through gritted teeth. “Everyone else is being photographed. The task force might be covert, but Lieutenant Riley is no more–”

“Christ, enough.” Price snaps, his voice a deep boom that has your mouth closing with a click. “The One Four One is my squad, in case you’ve forgotten. I know these lads, and I’m telling you to leave it out.”

You stare, a little taken aback by the harshness in his voice. He hasn’t been this sharp with you in months, not since you had started to prove yourself competent, useful. Now, you can see the warning signs of his bad mood; the circles under his eyes are pronounced, his skin dull in the ugly fluorescent lights of his office. He looks exhausted, his skin lined and dry like he hasn’t been drinking enough water.

You realise, a little too late, that you might have been pushing your luck by insisting on something as silly as personnel file photos. TF 141 had only returned from deployment at the beginning of the week, and Price has no doubt been drowning in reports since.

“This is why I told Laswell you weren’t necessary,” His snarl is entirely unlike him, and he rubs his face furiously, his palms rasping through his beard. “I don’t need someone coming in here and making demands of my squad for– for fucking photographs.”

You inhale shakily through your nose; to your utter horror, you can feel your eyes burn with hot wet tears. It’s stupid – you’ve dealt with far crueller words from far harsher men. The nature of your job often puts you in the firing line for frustration, and when it bubbles over it’s frequently directed at you.

But this… this feels different, for some reason. You’ve been working your ass off to try and earn some recognition from Price, to show him that you’re a valuable asset to the team, and so his sharp, frustrated dismissal of you cuts deeper than it should.

You hate that your eyes are burning like this. You don’t want Price to think of you as useless, or as the silly little girl who was put on the team by the brass who can’t even do her job right. He was just starting to think of you as competent, and it hurts your ego to have to go to him for help with something that you should be more than capable of handling yourself in the first place.

“Right,” You say, and even you’re startled by the sharpness in your tone. “Fine. Forget the file updates, then.”

You step forward, jaw clenched hard, and toss the files you’ve been carrying around all day onto his desk. They hit the surface with a smack that feels uncomfortably loud in the tense silence that’s fallen over the room.

“I’ll tell the higher-ups that you’re handling it.” You continue, your voice coming out brattier than you’d like. “Since obviously I have no idea what I’m doing–”

“Oh, don’t do that.” Price sighs, as though you’re the one being unreasonable. “What I’m saying is, if you’re going to work with the team, you have to understand the team–”

That, you think, might just push you over the edge.

“Do you think I’m stupid?” You snap out, and Price’s mouth closes. “D’you think I’m– that I’m some kind of idiot?”

Price blinks. It seems like you’ve managed to take him by surprise, as though your bad mood rivals his just enough to pull him out of his own grumpy form entirely. He opens his mouth again, but you’re not ready to hear him speak again just yet.

“I’m here because Laswell put in a request for me to work with you and your squad, Captain. I’m considered an asset to the teams that I work with,” You’re scowling thunderously, all the tension and frustration that’s been mounting all day spilling over. “And I don’t have to put up with being dismissed and unappreciated when I know that I would be respected in other squads for the work that I do.”

Price raises his hands, a frown creasing his brow. “Kid, that’s not–”

Usually, being called ‘kid’ by Price has a warm glow settling in your stomach that you’re absolutely not interested in examining, but this time it only lights an infuriated fire in your belly.

“Don’t!” You snap, your breath juddering unsteadily. “God, you think I enjoy being treated like an idiot? You think I haven’t had to deal with this from men my whole career? My whole life? Even my father–”

To your abject horror, a lump forms in your throat and you can’t finish that sentence. Your eyes are hot with unshed tears, and you’re pretty sure your lip is trembling.

Price stands, his stern expression slackening into something like uncomfortable surprise as he moves to step around the desk.

“Hey,” He soothes, lifting his hands. “I’m not your father.”

“I know that!” You snap, irate. You’re frustrated with yourself, embarrassed at what you’ve unintentionally given away. “I wouldn’t want you to be!”

Price’s expression flickers, as though he can’t decide quite how to react to you. You’re more than aware that you’re being childish, but you find yourself unable to temper your overreactions. In the face of your tears and your frustrated anger, Price looks like he’s at a loss.

“All I’ve done is work hard, and tried to take the burden off you to make your job a little easier.” You continue before he can interrupt again. “And all I get in return is stress, and my chocolate biscuits eaten, and breakouts, and– and–”

“Kid–”

“The only person who wasn’t an absolute dickhead to me today was Garrick,” You rage, on a roll now. “Everyone else has just been so– and look how bad my skin has gotten from the stress of having to deal with men who want to act like children–”

Price watches you with an expression that is plainly bewildered as you gesture at the stupid pimple that’s been throbbing on your chin all day. You don’t even think you’re making sense, too lost in your frustration and humiliation to be properly aware of what you’re saying.

“Your… skin.” He repeats, a little disbelieving.

You whirl away, agitated. You’re not getting your point across well, and Price must think you’re simply demented.

“Hey,” He says slowly, approaching from around the side of his desk. “I didn’t mean to suggest that you weren’t doing a decent job–”

“Whatever.” You mutter, running your hands over your skirt in an attempt to straighten out the creases. “Whatever.”

It’s too little, too late. He’s always been a bit of a hardass, and you’ve always tried so hard to please him, to impress him. But you can’t bear to make a fool of yourself like this any longer.

“I’ll leave the paperwork to you. Update it, or don’t. It doesn’t matter.” You say shortly, turning on your heel and marching towards the door.

“Wait,” Price calls out. His voice is firm, echoing with the grim certainty of a man who is used to being obeyed.

But you’re not one of his soldiers, and his command falls on deaf ears. Your skin is still prickling with humiliation; you don’t think you’ve ever been so desperate to get away from the Captain before.

“Sweetheart, just wait a minute,” Price says, and this time you can hear the exasperation in his voice. “I understand that you’re stressed, that’s normal. Everyone gets stressed in this line of work. But you can’t just go and get your knickers in a twist because some of the lads are bein’ difficult–”

“My knickers are none of your business!” You yell. Truthfully, it’s more of a shriek, high-pitched and unsteady enough to have Price’s eyes widening and darting towards the door as though worried about someone overhearing from the corridor.

“Whoa, okay,” Price says with the air of trying to soothe a spooked horse. “You're right. Your... knickers... ain't my concern. But helping keep this squad running smoothly is, and that can't happen if my admin is on edge."

“Oh, give me a break!” You’re beyond on-edge now, sailing right into fury. “You ignore me most of the time when you're not on deployment, you dismiss me when I’m just trying to do my job, but now you’re telling me you need me to not be on edge?”

You’ve reached the door now, your hand clenched tight around the doorhandle as you take one last moment to turn and look at him. He’s stepping towards you, no doubt with the intent to stop you before you can leave, but you don’t plan on giving him the chance.

“Kid, just hang on a damn minute–”

“Sort the files yourself, or do whatever you want.” You bite out, yanking the door open but pausing in the doorway. “I don’t even care anymore. It’s your squad, you do it.”

Price takes a breath, visibly fighting for patience. Truthfully, you don’t know how he hasn’t lost his head with you already. He was already exhausted and in an obviously bad mood when you had stormed in here, and it couldn’t be more obvious that you’ve just made it worse with all of your frenzied anger and borderline hysteria.

The fact that Price is staying calm and level even in the face of your stress-induced meltdown only makes you feel all the more ridiculous. You wish he would get angry, that he would snap at you like he had when you had first walked in – at least that way you could pretend that you don’t notice the way his stressed scowl had melted into a look of concern as soon as he had seen the tears welling up in your stinging eyes.

“And you don’t have to wear that stupid hat, we’re indoors!” You yell, your voice teetering on the edge of hysteria.

You just have enough time to see his hand reach up to touch the brim of his boonie hat before you hurriedly bolt out of the room, escaping into the corridor before he can stop you.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ

“— just thinking that maybe I’d be better suited with another team, that’s all. I heard Kortac’s liaison is approaching maternity leave—”

“That position is going to be filled internally,” Laswell’s voice is calm over the secure phoneline, a stark contrast to the shaky undertone of stress in your own. “Besides, organising a transfer like that is more trouble than it’s worth.” There’s a pause, then a sigh crackles over the phone. “You still haven’t explained what happened. As far as I can see, you were doing good work there.”

Yeah, you think sourly, because all you see is the paperwork end of it.

“... Internal conflict.” You mutter, playing with the fraying edge of your sweater sleeve.

There’s a long pause, protracted enough that it makes you squirm. You know what she’s thinking – in your line of work, it’s impossible to avoid clashing with some of the big dominant personalities who are used to getting away with whatever they want. But you’ve always been able to handle it, well-versed enough in diplomacy to know when to stand your ground and when to bow out to avoid unnecessary strife.

“Internal conflict.” Laswell repeats, her voice as bland as you’ve ever heard it. “Meaning?”

God, it feels like you’re disappointing your mom or something. You scrub a hand over your face, pacing in the living room of your small apartment.

“I know how it sounds,” You say, “But– they don’t want to work with me. There’s only so much I can do if I’m being met with resistance at every corner–”

“You’ve worked with resistant squads before,” Laswell interrupts. “It’s part of the job.”

“Yes, but…” You start, before trailing off.

She has a point, of course. It is part of the job. There’s no way to professionally explain to your superior that the reason this assignment is so difficult is because you have a mortifying crush on the Captain of the Task Force. It’s making you stupid, making all the stupid bullshit that you’re usually able to look past feel so much worse, especially because all you’ve ever wanted was Price’s approval.

Another sigh. This one, at least, sounds a little more sympathetic.

“Look,” Laswell says, and this time her voice is a little gentler. “I’ve never given you an assignment that I didn’t think you could handle. Whatever is going on, you need to sort it. You’re a capable girl, and the One Four One is far from the most difficult team you’ve had to deal with. There might be some big personalities there, but nothing that you shouldn’t be able to tackle.”

“Mhm.” You grunt noncommittally.

“Sort out whatever’s going on with you.” Laswell’s tone leaves no room for argument, her suggestion falling just short of a command. “If whatever issues you’re experiencing continue, I’ll talk to John–”

“No!” You blurt.

God, you can’t think of anything worse. You’ve already made a show of yourself in front of him, the last thing you need is for him to learn that you’ve gone crying to Laswell about the whole thing. You don’t want him to think of you as any more of a useless little girl than he doubtlessly already does.

“No,” You repeat, calmer this time as you clear your throat. “I’ll… sort it. Sorry to bother you with this, ma’am.”

Laswell hums, and you can imagine her eyes narrowing. Judging by the wind whistling in the background of the call, she’s not anywhere near her cushy office. You’ve interrupted her on whatever assignment she’s on, and she’s been kind enough to listen to your silly little complaints for at least fifteen minutes of her valuable time. You feel more ridiculous than ever, and you pinch at the bridge of your nose.

“... Right.” She says. “Fine. Keep me updated on the situation. I want a sitrep by the end of the week, understood?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

You understand what’s not being said. Laswell expects you to work your own shit out, but you can hear the concern in her voice when she demands an update. All you can do is agree. Laswell has been by your side throughout your whole career, always having a hand in your assignments and your progression, and she’s always been an advocate for you and what you’re capable of. Now, after this conversation, you feel silly for getting so overwhelmed in the face of what is a relatively minor obstacle.

“Good. I’ll speak to you then.”

You hum, wish her goodbye and good luck, and hang up the phone.

For a long moment afterwards, you sit in silence in your living room. God, how did all of this spiral into such a mess?

For the last few days, you’ve been avoiding the base entirely. You have a few PTO days built up, and you’ve taken the opportunity to just chill out. It’s the first chance you’ve had to relax properly in months, since you had started working with the task force. The space is good, and it’s needed.

You get out of the headspace of work, and reports, and files and requisitions and debriefs, and instead treat yourself with full body self-care. You exfoliate, you moisturise, you use a hair mask, you take bubble baths. You even catch up on the trashy Netflix romance series that you had put on hold for ages, just waiting for some free time to indulge.

And you almost, almost, forget about why you’re hiding away in your little flat in the first place.

But your third day off creeps around, and you can’t help but feel as though your little bubble of isolation is about to pop. There’s only so much time away from the office that you’re able to swing, and the longer away the more you feel that your position on the team is untenable. No matter how you currently feel about the task force and your place with them, you’re not willing to let your hard work go down the drain just because you’re too cowardly to face them again after your little meltdown.

So, you go back to work after your little break away.

You manage to slink into your office mostly unseen, other than polite hello’s from other admin staff as you slip through the halls. Your office is far from prime real estate when it comes to office space on base – it’s well out of the way, down several corridors that no one ever goes down, and once you get past the main thoroughfares you don’t come across anyone. Even still, it feels a little like you’re doing a walk of shame, but you walk with your head held high before you finally get your office door closed behind you.

To your surprise, your desk is clear. Typically, any slight break away from your desk results in work piling up on it, just waiting for your attention once you get back. You don’t know what to make of the absence of work; you can’t help but wonder, somewhat uncomfortably, if Price had taken your words to heart and dealt with all of the paperwork himself.

You check the drawers of your desk too, just in case, and come up empty yet again.

Well. Okay, then.

You sign into your desktop, waiting for the encryption program to load before accessing your emails. There’s a lot to catch up on, so you spend the next hour or so organising your to-do list in order of urgency.

You get lost in making your little lists, allowing yourself to relax into finding order in your schedule. You barely even look up until there’s a soft knock on your office door, and by the time you’ve raised your head the door has opened and Farah has slipped inside.

“Oh,” You straighten up in surprise. “Commander. What can I do for you?”

It’s a surprise to see her, especially since you hadn’t received any email correspondence. Your office is tucked away down a remote corridor, and soldier’s usually prefer to just email you their requests rather than make the trek down.

Farah offers a polite smile, approaching your desk. “I hear you are taking photographs.”

Your smile slips a little. “Oh. No, actually, I wasn’t–”

“Captain Price said I was to be photographed,” She says, pulling the chair out opposite you and watching you expectantly. “I tried to find you yesterday, and the day before, but I believe you weren't on base.”

You shift, feeling abruptly rather awkward. “Right. I was– Price said that to you?”

“Mhm.” Farah leans back in the chair, her dark eyes alert as they track over your face. “He said that you have been stressed.”

You feel your face heat, mortified. Oh, god. How embarrassing. Has Price given the team a goddamn debrief on your little meltdown? Farah tilts her head as though she knows what you’re thinking, and a tiny smile quirks at the corner of her lips.

“That’s all he said,” She says. “That, and that we should try to make your job a little easier.”

“Oh.” You shift, embarrassed and awkward. “I– Listen, I had a… rough day at work a few days ago, that’s all. I’m not– things are fine.”

Farah just nods as though that’s perfectly convincing, and you find yourself wildly appreciative of her for a moment.

“So, then,” She says, and raises her eyebrows. “The picture?”

You can’t find a way to explain that you had thrown that particular responsibility right back at Price in a fit of pique, but it turns out you don’t have to. Farah produces a slim folder that you hadn’t noticed her holding, and you realise with another flush of embarrassment that it’s her personnel file.

“There wasn’t much to update, just a recent blood work test.” She says as she lays it on your desk.

“That’s… thanks.” You say weakly, taking the file in hand. You flick through it briefly, feeling something in your stomach squirm at the sight of Farah’s details all filled in – Price’s handwriting is unmistakable, the small neat blocky letters standing out amongst the messy scrawl of Farah’s medical report.

You dig out your camera, still a little flustered, and direct Farah to stand against your plain white-painted wall. She’s an easy subject to photograph; she stands perfectly still, unsmiling, and you get the perfect picture after only a couple of attempts.

“Lovely,” You murmur, flicking through the pictures. “Thank you.”

Farah hums. You’re expecting her to dismiss herself, and it takes a moment for you to realise that she’s still lingering. You glance up, blinking, only to find that she’s standing with her lips pursed, obviously considering something.

“The Captain is worried about you.” She says, as though it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Is everything alright?”

You gape at her like a moron, camera still hanging loosely from your hands. You feel uncomfortably seen; there’s no way that Farah could know what happened, but she’s looking at you with an awful lot of sympathy right now.

“What?” You squeak.

“You fought?” Farah speaks slowly, obviously conscious of overstepping her boundaries. “I don’t mean to pry, it’s just…”

“No, that’s okay.” You say hastily. “We didn’t– there was no fighting, exactly.”

She just nods, as if you’re making perfect sense, then smiles politely. She gathers herself up and steps towards the door, and you feel your head spinning as she turns to go.

“You look tired,” Farah murmurs, low enough that you almost miss it. “When Price wants to fix things, let him.”

“Mhm.” You nod quickly without really hearing her. You’re pretty sure you’d agree to anything right now just to escape the knowing intensity of Farah’s gaze. “Yeah, of course.”

After Farah leaves, you feel like you need another day off. It’s all you can do to just sit in your comfortably padded office chair and groan like a moron, because Jesus Christ you’ve made such a mess of things.

It was bad enough when you were pining like an idiot from afar; you’ve had crushes before, and you know that you would have outgrown it eventually. But then you had your stupid little meltdown in front of Price, and revealed more than you intended, and all of a sudden you’ve made yourself into a fool in front of the squad you’ve tried so hard to impress these last few months.

You have to try hard not to spiral. In fact, it’s a challenge not to cave and grab your phone to call Laswell all over again to demand a reassignment right this second. You have a pretty good idea of what she’d say to you in response, but still, the impulse remains.

All you can do is put it from your mind. You potter about, printing Farah’s photograph so you can tuck it neatly into her file with a paperclip, and then decide to start replying to the many emails that have built up in your absence.

The emails vary in tone, from polite enquiries to not-so-polite demands for you to solve some administrative issues, and you sigh quietly as you respond to some of the more snotty messages from upper management. And if you’re a little bit passive aggressive, then you don’t think anyone can blame you.

Your mind has finally quietened, focusing on your work as the buzz of your thoughts settle down, when another knock sounds out from your door. This one is firmer than Farah’s soft knock from earlier, and a little louder, though this time you don’t look up from your screen.

“Come in.” You call, chewing at your lip as you struggle to keep the wording of your email civil.

You’re half-expecting it to be Soap this time around, or maybe one of the recruits hoping to get you to sign off on their leave. So when you finally glance up only to catch sight of the broad, thick-shouldered figure of Captain Price stepping into your office, you think you might go into cardiac arrest.

Email abandoned, you half jolt to your feet before changing your mind mid-movement and attempting to sit back down. It ends up being a humiliating sort of jerky motion, and you pray that he somehow missed it entirely.

“Captain.” You wheeze, your voice coming out a little weak.

Price’s cool blue eyes dart over your face and then down the length of your body, and you become suddenly, mortifyingly aware of the state you’re in. You might not want to admit it, but your wardrobe definitely changes when the Captain isn’t on deployment. Instead of professional trousers, you wear your tight knee-length pencil skirts and fitted shirts, and totter around in your heels. And it’s silly, but… well, you can’t help but notice the way Price’s eyes follow you when you dress like that, and you like his attention on you.

Except today, you hadn’t been planning on running into Price. You hadn’t planned on seeing anyone, so you had dressed for comfort — you’re wearing a pair of frumpy grey wool trousers and a super over-sized soft purple sweater that practically swallows you whole. You haven’t even done your hair nicely, and you curse yourself. This has to be the least sexy you’ve looked in months.

“D’you’ve a moment, love?”

His voice seems loud in the quiet of your office, even though realistically you know he’s only speaking in a murmur. In the quiet days you’ve spent alone in your apartment, you’d almost forgotten how lovely and low and gruff his voice is, and you feel your toes curl in your shoes at the sound of it.

It’s not as though you can refuse him, though you’re already embarrassingly aware of the way in which you had stormed off the last time you had seen him.

“Yeah.” You swallow thickly in an attempt to strengthen your voice, but it still comes out high and thready. “Sure.”

As if he had just been waiting for permission, Price steps into the room properly and closes the door behind him. All of a sudden, the room feels a little claustrophobic. Price is a big man, broad-shouldered and thickly built with a soft layer of fat cushioning those hard muscles, and you can’t help but feel as though his presence is sucking all of the air out of the room.

But still, he approaches slowly, like you’re some kind of feral cat. Those sharp eyes of his are still tracking over you; he never misses a beat, and you know that he’s taking stock of you in the same way he would for an enemy out on the field. You feel raw, uncomfortably vulnerable. You find yourself wishing wildly and ridiculously that you had worn your usual fitted shirt and pencil skirt, or at least put on a bit of makeup.

“You look rested.” He notes, coming to a slow stop just in front of your desk.

You suddenly curse your last minute choice to stay seated, because now Price’s big body is towering over you in a way that’s honestly making your head swim a little.

“Yeah.” Your voice is a little hoarse. “I guess.”

Price nods, inhales through his nose. A moment passes before he clears his throat and reaches out to place a handful of files on your desk. Despite the plain manila envelopes, you recognise them for what they are almost immediately; the personnel files for 141.

“Finished ‘em off for you while you were gone.” He says gruffly, as though it were no big deal. “Nearly had to nail Soap down to a chair for that damn photo.”

You stare at the files for a long moment, making no move to open them. You find yourself totally, utterly lost for words.

“This is–” You start to say, and truthfully you’re not sure where you’re going with that. You think you’re about to thank him, but he doesn’t really give you the chance to.

“Why don’t we talk?” He says, and motions to the dinky little couch in the corner of the room as if he owns it.

You hesitate a moment, a little peeved about the effortless way he takes command in your own office, but relent and push yourself up from the desk. You don’t make eye contact with Price as you step around him, walking to the corner, but you can feel his eyes on you all the same.

The couch had come with the office, and you don’t even really want to think about how old it is, but you sink down awkwardly onto it anyway. The cushions are worn and threadbare and the springs creak gratingly when you settle your weight onto it, but it’s fine. It does the job.

You’re half-expecting Price to drag the spare chair at your desk over so he can sit opposite you – you’re not expecting him to step right up next to you before he drops down next to you, sighing as his thick thighs spread wide.

You barely bite back a squeak, a little bewildered. You’re not surprised that he’s asked to talk to you. Your behaviour had been wildly inappropriate, and you couldn’t exactly protest if he’s decided to caution you or something.

But you had expected it to be a more formal affair; sitting together on the pathetic, dingy little couch in your office feels entirely too casual for the dressing down you’re sure you’re about to receive.

“Think we’re due a discussion about the other day.” He says, gentler than you had been expecting.

You avoid his eyes, though you can feel his stare boring into the side of your face. Ugh. Time to eat humble pie, you think miserably.

“I’m sorry, sir.” You keep your voice as dispassionate and prim as possible. “My behaviour was unprofessional and entirely unacceptable, and I have no excuse. It won’t happen again, I assure you.”

It’s as professional an apology as you can manage, and you chance a quick side glance at him to see his reaction. Your stomach sinks when you see that his brow is creased in a frown, and you panic a little at the realisation that your apology hasn’t helped matters at all.

“Well,” His voice is gruff enough to elicit a little shiver from you. “I wasn’t–” He clears his throat. “I wasn’t looking for an apology.”

That finally makes you turn properly, your eyes darting nervously over his face. He’s already watching you, his blue eyes searing under the brim of his stupid hat. He’s trimmed his beard since the last time you saw him; the salt and pepper bristles of his moustache and chops are neat and shortened. He looks good, though you try not to notice. He doesn’t look as dehydrated or drained as he did a few days ago either, though he still leans into the couch with an air of quiet exhaustion.

“Paperwork has never been my favourite thing in the world,” He confesses with an air of chagrin that’s painfully endearing to you. “Always found it a pain, to be honest. Puts me right out of sorts. I was… short with you, the other day.”

You frown, making yourself small on the couch. “You said I wasn’t necessary.”

Price winces, then reaches up and pulls his boonie hat off his head so that he can drag a hand over his short-cropped hair. Though you had insulted it only the other day, it strikes you as odd to see him with a bare head.

“Shouldn’t have said that.” He mumbles, resting his elbows on his knees and letting his hat hang from his hands. “You’ve been great these last few months. Don’t know what I’d have done without you, sometimes.”

You’re stupid. It’s the only reason you can think of to explain the way blood rushes to your head and turns your face hot, your whole body going hot and prickly in response to his low praise. You fidget, glance away, and pray he doesn’t notice.

“You know I’m no good at deskwork,” He says, and leans in a little closer like he thinks you’re not listening properly. “Don’t have the head for it. I think you’re the reason the team runs so smoothly in the first place, love.”

The flattery is being laid on a little too thick, but it works. You fall for it entirely, a warm glow settling over you like a blanket, wrapping around you tight and soothing the jagged edges of your anger and anxiety. You hate that you’re so easy to appease, a couple of sweet compliments and assurances falling from your Captain’s lips assuaging all that upset that you’ve been carrying around with you for days now.

But still, part of you isn’t quite willing to let go of the sting, the hurt that his words and his harsh tone had caused.

“Is this you apologising, then?” You ask, watching him from the corner of your eye.

He smiles, close-mouthed. “Yeah. It is. Not doin’ too good, am I?”

“You’re doing okay.” You murmur, before deciding to try to be a bit cheeky. “But you can keep going, if you’d like.”

Price laughs, rich and warm and low. You don’t think you’ve ever actually heard him laugh in all the months you’ve been working with the task force, and the sound of it rumbles right into your bones, settling something inside of you and finally allowing you to relax. No longer tense with stress, you melt a little into the corner of the couch.

“Shouldn’t have snapped at you,” He says slowly. “You do good work. Great work. You shouldn’t feel like you’re not a valued member of the team.”

You swallow thickly. You feel too warm, your head swimming a little. His attention feels too heavy, heating your blood and going straight to your head.

“I overreacted,” You mumble reluctantly. “I shouldn’t… your hat isn’t stupid.”

That gets another bark of laughter out of Price, and he slaps a hand down onto your knee. The contact makes you jolt, eyes widening, but Price’s hand doesn’t shift. His palm is so large, spread across your thigh as his fingers curl over your knee. The touch feels almost scorching even through the thick fabric of your trousers.

All of a sudden, your tongue feels very thick in your mouth. The hand on your knee is not in any way suggestive; it’s chaste, innocent, just resting there like a reminder that he wants your attention on him (as if it could be anywhere else). But your nerves are jangling all of a sudden, every one of your senses straining towards him as you hold your breath.

“The hat isn’t the problem,” Price mutters, though you barely hear him. “I wanted to ask you about something else you said, love. Something you said about your father.”

That has some of the heat in your veins cooling, your eyes blowing wide. “I– what?”

To your bewilderment, Price’s cheeks have reddened beneath the whiskers of his beard and moustache. Despite his clear chagrin, he doesn’t break eye contact with you, his thick fingers squeezing cautiously around your knee.

“Don’t mean to overstep,” He assures you quietly. “And– and don’t mind me if I’m talkin’ nonsense. But I know that you’ve been working so hard, and you’ve got a tough job. Can’t be easy. And I just wanted to say that if you'd like some… guidance – someone to steer you on the right path, that is– well, that I’m here if you ever want to talk."

Oh god. You feel your mouth go dry.

It’s funny, because even though Price isn’t even yet forty, he’s always seemed so much older. Maybe it’s the weight of the responsibility that he carries on his shoulders, or the battle-hardened icy blue eyes, or the paternal sense of protectiveness that he shows over his team. He’s always been like an almost father figure for the squad, regardless of age; you’ve seen the way he’s so protective over Ghost, the way he claps Soap on the back or shoulders in praise to boost him up, the way he beams with pride when Farah excels, the way he always makes time to guide or give advice to Gaz.

It’s sweet. He’s always been sweet, so aware of the personalities on his team, even when he’s acting like that typical military authority figure.

"Sounds like you want to be my daddy." You mean to say it in a derogatory fashion, laughing as though it's ridiculous, though when it comes out you can hear that it’s missing some of the sarcasm you had intended.

Price reacts instantly. He reels back, eyes widening, the pink in his cheeks flares into a deep red flush, and you see his chest heave as his breath catches. You hadn’t been expecting a reaction like this; Price looks as though the words have hit him like a physical slap.

“Jesus. That’s not–” He says, and the gravelly hoarseness in his voice is a shock. “That’s not what I meant.”

There’s a moment of charged silence. Fuck, what have you done? Why would you say that? Why would you say that, to the captain of your task force? Hadn’t you embarrassed yourself enough in front of him the day you had had your silly little meltdown? It’s like you just can’t keep your damn mouth shut around him, like your brain turns to mush the second he looks at you and you just lose the run of yourself.

“I’m sorry.” You blurt. “I shouldn’t have said that. I don’t know what– I didn’t mean it.”

The next silence is even worse than the last, tension humming between you like a live wire. He’s so close to you that his scent fills your nose – a blend of sweet cigar smoke, sharp gunpowder, and a heady masculine musk. You feel so fucking stupid, and more than a little panicked. You don’t think you could survive the humiliation of having to call Laswell and beg for a reassignment twice in one day just because you’ve completely humiliated yourself in front of the Captain again.

Price swallows, the sound painfully loud in the silence.

“Right.” He says slowly, before coughing roughly to clear his throat. “Mm. ‘Course. I didn’t mean to– perhaps I overstepped. Since you mentioned your father–”

“I don’t want to talk about my father.” You say swiftly.

God, you feel like your issues are out on display with a big damn spotlight. You feel so pathetic, so damn pitiful, as though your desperate need for approval and affection from an older male authority figure is written across your forehead.

But if your issues are on display, then so are Price’s, because you can’t help but notice that the vibrant red flush on his cheeks hasn’t faded. If anything, that deep flush has spread down his throat and over his chest; you can see how the skin that’s stretched over his pectoral muscles is glowing crimson beneath his shirt.

A niggling boldness begins to creep in, and you find yourself straightening on the couch. You turn, bring one of your legs up on the couch so that you can turn your whole body towards him, one of your elbows resting on the back cushion of the couch.

Price’s eyes sharpen when your body turns towards him, and his body draws tense. Those cool blue eyes dart over you, and you’re surprised to see heat in them despite your oversized purple jumper and unflattering wool trousers. The whisper of his fatigues brushing against the fabric of your own trousers is both a distraction and an invitation, your thighs sliding surreptitiously against each other.

“What if I did mean it?” You blurt out before your courage can flee you.

Price goes so still it looks preternatural, even the breaths in his chest slowing.

“Kid.” He says, and it sounds like a warning.

You don’t heed it, adjusting yourself so that you’re shuffling closer yet again. You don’t think you’ve ever been so close to him, his scent and his body and his heated gaze filling up your consciousness until he’s all that you’re aware of.

“What if I meant it?” You ask again, the whisper coming out low but charged.

Price takes a breath that sounds like a groan, and it surprises you. You hadn’t expected that reaction; it sends a trickle of heated desire running down your spine, and you’re startled by how much you want him in this moment.

“D’you know what you’re asking for?” He asks, the gravel in his voice flooding wet heat between your legs.

His carefully laced words linger in the space between you, daring you to accept, to shred the formal boundary that looms between the two of you. You get the sense that you’re walking a fine line here, that you’re getting close to the point of no return.

“Yes.” You breathe, although you’re not entirely sure that you do know what you’re asking for. All you know is that he’s so close, and he’s staring at you with an expression of such hunger that it’s making you feel weak.

Price moves fast for such a big man, and all you can do is let out a soft sound of surprise when one of his big hands wraps around the back of your neck to pull you in. A deep, guttural sound escapes him when his lips crash into yours, his mouth demanding and greedy.

It feels like you go both lax and rigid simultaneously, before you positively light up. The hand that Price has wrapped around the back of your neck keeps you grounded, and before you can stop yourself you’re burrowing closer. It feels like the tension, your childish argument, the sexual friction – everything has culminated to this electrifying moment, where Price’s full lips are consuming yours, the hair of his beard rubbing over your cheeks and chin and keeping your nerves straining towards him.

The kiss doesn’t start out slow; it skips straight to hungry, fast and dirty, with Price’s big hands on your hip and the back of your neck, holding and guiding you. Overwhelming.

Price’s big fucking body is leaning in, caging you against the couch. The wide shoulders and barrel-chested mass of him pressing you into the cushions is just short of breath-taking, but it’s not enough. You want to be right up against him, under his skin.

You swing your leg over Price’s, and climb up into his lap. His thighs are thick beneath you, wide and muscled, but you’re still hesitant to fully settle your weight against him. You just want to be closer, to feel the heat of him pressed against you, but the second you start moving Price grabs at your hips and pulls you down properly, uncaring of your weight.

“I’ve been–” You manage to say in between kisses, your words muffled and a little wet. “I’ve been working my ass off, for the squad, for you, and you never say or do anything–”

Price grunts, grappling with his sudden lapful of you. His eyes meet yours, and in them, you think you might see the spark of admiration, for your brave stupidity if nothing else.

“Sh, I know,” He says as he grips at your hips under your oversized jumper, encouraging you to settle down your full weight on his thighs. “I know, love, you’ve been working so hard. What would I do without you, huh?”

And the thing is, you’re a very capable woman. You’ve had to be, in order to survive in your line of work. You know that you’re capable, you know that you do good work, you know that you help keep the wheels greased and everything moving behind the scenes for the 141, but even still, Price’s praise sinks into you like warm honey.

“Watching you walk around in those tight little skirts, Christ.” He hums, and his big palms land on your ass and squeeze there suggestively. “And those heels– completely impractical for a military base like this.”

You wheeze a laugh, clutching at his shoulders. It feels completely surreal that you’re currently perched in your Captain’s lap, with his big shovel-like hands groping your bum as he nips at your lips and confesses that he’s been watching you. It goes straight to your head, makes you dizzy, makes you wish wildly that you had worn one of those skirts for him today.

Oh, you could get used to this. Realistically you know the size difference between you two isn’t that immense, but Price is built like a man whose reality is all war, and when he shifts beneath you his muscles roll, unwittingly showing off his physique. You think you could stay here forever, feeling safe in a big man’s lap, cushioned by his body as he tells you that you’re valuable, and important.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Price groans, nipping at your lower lip before capturing your mouth wholly again. “You’re a handful.”

You’d love to argue that – you like to think that you’re perfectly measured and sensible, after all – but you’re already squirming in his lap, your legs spread wide over his thighs. Arousal pools in your stomach, makes you slick your knickers, and you can’t stop the slow grind your hips trace against his thigh.

Price’s breath shudders out of his chest, and his hands clench tight around your hips. “Hang on a sec,” He breathes, “Hold on. I’m still– I’m still your Captain–”

You think that it’s meant to be a warning, or at least a word of caution about the precarious situation you’re in regarding professionalism and inappropriate workplace relationships. What you’re doing right now is ridiculous, after all. You’re still on base, you’re in your office, and if the two of you get caught you don’t even want to think about the consequences. The fraternisation rule shouldn’t apply here, since you’re only considered part of the team by a mere technicality, but even in your lust-hazed mind you can still recognise that sitting on his lap and kissing like this at your workplace is wildly inappropriate.

But if it is a warning, it doesn’t work. The reminder of his authority only inflames you further, and a quiet whimper is torn from your throat when you rock against his lap.

He swears, and beneath you his cock stirs in his fatigues. You can feel the way it fills out where it’s pressed against the seam of your trousers, right between your legs. You reflexively squish your thighs together, tightening them around his hips.

“Christ,” He grits out like a curse. “Alright, then.”

He moves quickly, his hands secure on your back as he lunges forward, flipping you over so that you’re laying on your back on the shoddy, worn-down couch. You go so easily –

you’re soft now, pliable and eager to please, and he could direct you anywhere he wanted.

He’s too large to be climbing on top of you on a couch like this, but somehow it doesn’t even matter. Now that he’s above you, holding himself up with those strong arms on either side of your head, he looks down on you with an expression that you don’t know what to make of. His eyes are still intense, but the lines around them are softened as he stares down, his gaze tracing your face.

“You think I haven’t been looking?” He asks, and his voice isn’t as harsh or gritty as you’d been expecting. It’s softer now, fond, almost. “How could I fuckin’ miss you? Always so pretty, always workin’ so hard. ‘Course I noticed.”

When his fingers creep beneath your big purple jumper, you launch into helping him remove it, eagerly stripping it off so you’re laying in your bra. It’s one of your simple utilitarian ones, and you curse yourself for not wearing a sexier one.

But Price groans at the sight of your simple white cotton as though it’s premium lace. His palms are rough as they trace up your sides, the callouses on his fingers coarse against the soft squishy flesh of your belly. He leans forward and nuzzles at your ear, kissing behind your lobe before scraping his teeth along your jaw until he’s kissing messily at your mouth all over again.

“So gorgeous.” He says, his voice a low rumble that has your nerves buzzing. “I was too mean to you before, wasn’t I? Too harsh, when all you were trying to do was help.”

“Yes.” You whisper, though you feel a little bit petulant for it.

“Let me make up for it, darling,” He whispers back, and it sounds like a plea. “Hm? I’ll show you how good you’ve been.”

You’re nodding before he even finishes, desperate. God, yes. You’re not even sure what it is that he’s offering, but you know that you’ll take anything that he has to give you.

He’s looming over you, so large, as his hands fall to the closure on your work trousers. His fingers are so thick that he fumbles with the delicate button and little zip, and it takes him a couple of tries to pull it open and down. When he’s got it, he shucks your trousers off easily and tosses them aside, then stares down at you in your ugly shapeless underwear as though you’re wearing something else entirely.

Even though you’re laying unclothed and vulnerable, squirming and wanting, Price is so slow to get moving. He doesn’t grab at you, or grope greedily, or take impatiently. He acts as though he’s got all the time in the world, leisurely looking you over as though he’s committing you to memory.

“Need you to say it,” He says, strained like he’s trying to hold himself back. “Need you to say it out loud.”

“Want you to show me how good I’ve been.” You say immediately, your desire leaving no room for shame. “Want you to look after me.”

The request comes out a little bit plaintive, and Price sighs out before ducking his head and kissing you again. He’s so much more affectionate than you had ever imagined, and you feel as though you’re drowning in it. His attention is like a warm blanket, settling every craving you’ve ever had.

“I will,” He breathes like it’s a promise. “Oh, I will.”

His palms are rough and hot as they drag over your skin, deceptively gentle as he reaches your tits and pushes your bra up so that he can knead at the soft flesh there. He doesn’t even bother to unclasp it, impatient enough that shoving the cups up so to free your breasts is enough for him.

He bends his head down, and licks a stripe over your nipple. His tongue feels scorching against you, like you’re hypersensitive to his touch, and he groans against your skin as though he’s tasting something incredible.

You writhe, hips arching up in search of some kind of friction, but Price doesn’t give it to you. He’s too distracted, peppering dozens of kisses over your tits as though they’re something precious even as his hands coast down your back to grope at your ass again where your plain cotton underwear is riding up.

“So pretty, ain’tcha?” He groans against your chest. “Fuck, even when you were walkin’ around with a face on you like a slapped arse, I thought you were the sweetest fuckin’ thing I’d ever seen.”

“Charming.” You snap, but there’s no anger in your tone anymore. In fact, you don’t think there’s a lick of anger anywhere in your whole body anymore, like Price’s hands and mouth on you have washed it all away.

All the brattiness, and the prickliness of your bad mood, is entirely forgotten now that you’re laid out and squirming beneath him. You can hardly even remember what you had been so stressed and angry with him for.

He finally reaches around to unclasp your bra, then tosses it to the side to let it slump sadly to the floor. His next target is your underwear, pulled from you roughly enough that you think the fabric might tear even as his hands cradle the plush flesh of your ass like it’s a treasure.

“Mm, so gorgeous, princess,” It seems like the name just slips out of his mouth, and you feel your whole body draw tense and hot. “So lovely, and I bet you taste even better than you look… like sugar, my sweet girl.”

Jesus Christ. You think your whole fucking body throbs, blood pounding and nerves straining as you wish so desperately for him to touch you. You can’t handle him talking to you like that, so fondly, as if you haven’t just acted like the biggest brat in the world for several days straight.

You can hardly even reconcile this man with the usual stern, gruff man that acts as your Captain, and you let out a choked whine of bewilderment as he slides down your body.

Your thighs are clamped together, shy under his gaze despite how desperately eager you are. You want this, you want him, but you can’t help but feel so mortified by the vulnerability of being nude beneath him on the couch while his big formidable body is still entirely clothed.

Price’s fingers stroke against your hip, his tone low and rich as his lips find your throat again. You can feel his tongue darting out against your skin, his hunger so palpable now that it’s infectious.

“Let daddy see you,” He croaks against the hollow of your throat. “Spread your legs, sweetheart.”

It’s not like you could ever say no to that. The request sends liquid heat shooting straight to your cunt, making you hot and sticky. You spread your thighs, and feel embarrassment flare when there’s a squelch as your cunt unsticks. And– Jesus, Price’s eyes fucking light up, and you realise that he’s clocked your reaction to his honeyed words, the way he calls himself daddy.

The kiss he gives you is claiming and hungry, consuming your lips with a fervour that leaves no room for doubt about his intentions. It’s a taste of both command and reverence — in equal measure. When he pulls away from your mouth you’re breathless, still gasping softly even as he pushes himself down the length of your body.

In the blink of an eye, he’s there — between your welcoming thighs, his hands resting securely on your soft hips, as much a lifeline as a promise of what’s to come. Your pussy is already sloppy, slick and wet in anticipation of him. He shoves his head between your thighs, using his thumbs to spread apart your folds and just look at you.

Your back arches at even the suggestion of his touch, feeling his breath ghost over the heated slick flesh of your cunt. Despite your obvious willingness, and his apparent eagerness, he doesn’t immediately touch you.

You crane your neck to see that he’s staring at your pussy as though the sight of it is earth-shattering. His gaze drinks you in, heated blue eyes taking in the sight of your swollen sticky folds, no doubt throbbing invitingly under his attention. You’ve never seen a man look so hungry, like he’s about to risk anything for it. A dark, groaned "fuck" escapes him as he kneels between your spread legs, head bowed as if in reverence.

"Daddy needs a taste, sweet girl," His deep voice a heavy rumble, vibrating against your soft inner thighs.

It takes a beat for you to realise that he’s holding himself back, that he’s essentially asking for permission to lay his mouth on you, but then you gasp, “Yes, fuck, yes, please–”

Price takes it as the enthusiastic invitation that it is and bursts into movement immediately, reaching out and guiding your legs wider so that he can muscle in between them properly, before leaning in and finally getting his mouth on you.

You choke, hips aching as you try to spread your legs even further. Price drags the flat of his tongue along the seam of your cunt, groaning as though he’s savouring the taste of you, before wrapping his arms around your thighs to keep you all spread open for him as his tongue rasps over your sensitive flesh.

You want to call out for him, but his name stalls on your tongue. What would you call him – Price? John? Captain? Daddy? You think you would die if you said it out loud.

Then his tongue finds your clit, and your thoughts scatter. He flicks the tip of his tongue over you, back and forth, then flattens it to grind eagerly. You had thought, given the way he had taken that moment just to look at you before he’d pressed his mouth to you, that he would start slow. But instead, he gives you everything he has.

You cry out as he devours your cunt, his bushy eyebrows pulling up in delight as you give him your first moan. While your legs had spread wide in the beginning, eager to let him in, you now close them tight around his head to keep him in place. You have a brief, hazy thought that maybe this is an asshole move of you, a little like if a man were to hold your head down while you were sucking cock, but Price doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, judging by the snarl he lets out when your thighs close around his ears, he likes it.

You toss your head back against the worn couch cushions as jolts of white-hot heat spread from where his mouth is working at you, playing with you, tongue painting long, broad strokes up and down your pussy.

Your cunt is syrupy hot, throbbing as his tongue rubs relentlessly at your clit. You’re so fucking wet, and you can’t help yourself from rolling your hips more assertively into his mouth. You’re leaking on his mouth, his tongue, your slick drenching his cheeks and his beard.

Seized by a sudden urge to watch, you clumsily raise your head so you can look down. It feels entirely illicit, watching Price’s head between your legs as he buries his face so enthusiastically into your folds. His eyes flash as he glances up, the bottom half of his face hidden entirely in your pussy as his jaw works, the soft hair of his beard tickling your sensitive inner thighs.

With a jolt, you realise that one of his hands has fallen to his lap, his trousers hastily pushed open. He’s fisting at his dripping cock, red and angry and still begging for release against the thick dark hair of his stomach. Sticky pre-cum leaks from his flushed head, pooling into his skin and clothes as his cock bobs and twitches at the sounds of your moans.

The sudden realisation that Price is getting off on this, on the taste of you and the smell of you and the way you’re whining, sets you aflame. He grunts, one of his big hand’s wrapping around his throbbing skin to pump his length to the rhythm of his tongue inside of you.

“Oh, oh fuck,” You press your lips together, stomach pulling tight as his tongue thrusts up inside of you, “Fuck, fuck, fuck that’s so good, oh god, Captain–”

“Yeah,” Price grunts, his words all wetly muffled, his arms wrapped tight around your thighs to keep you in place as he feasts on you, sucking on your clit like it’s a sweet. “I know, baby, I know.”

He’s so accommodating, so nice to you. You tilt your hips up and grind your cunt into his mouth, sighing in satisfaction as his tongue drags along your clit before dipping to lick inside of you. He barely even shifts when you hump your pussy into his face; he only opens his mouth wider, licks at you more enthusiastically as though your desperation is contagious.

Your belly goes hot and tight, and a high-pitched whimper is torn from your throat. It feels as though you’ve been strung high and taut for months now, and your breath catches at your imminent orgasm. You’ve just been so stressed, and having Price hunched over you on the couch like this with your legs thrown up around his shoulders as he licks and sucks at you so eagerly that it has your eyes rolling in your head feels like it’s curing you.

You think, somewhat madly, that an orgasm like this, with Price’s mouth sealed over your cunt, will solve every damn problem you have right now.

“Wanna come, wanna come, Jesus fucking Christ, please please–” Your chest heaves as you scramble, one of your hands reaching down to cup Price’s head to keep him in place, face buried in your cunt. “Oh god, please make me come–”

Maybe it’s not fair to be so demanding of him, but to his credit Price responds with restless enthusiasm. You double over in pleasure as he heeds your broken little pleas, your nails scraping into the couch as you cling on for dear life. His tongue swirls over your clit quickly and with fervour, tight circles to make your vision go blurry.

You’re lost in the sensation of his hot, wet mouth in your cunt, the way he licks into you like a starving man tasting his first meal. It feels like a sensation overload, as though you’re just completely lost to your own desire, but you just want more of what he is offering.

You grab his hair again and pull him closer, greedy with need, and he hums in affirmation as he allows you to guide his mouth to exactly where you need it. Arching your hips up, you grind into his mouth, chasing your orgasm. You groan, eyelids fluttering as you wrap your other leg around Price’s shoulders, up around his neck, and his hand snakes around your thigh to anchor you there.

Price’s fingers are gripping at your hips, surely hard enough to leave bruises there. You smile, almost deliriously; you could live with some souvenirs from tonight.

Your feeble gasps start to spiral into whimpers as that hot coil begins to tighten in your belly, and your toes start to curl. When your climax finally hits, it does so with a sense of relief that almost knocks you flat. Your body winds tight then releases, and you convulse in a wave of shudders that has you sobbing out loud.

Your chest heaves as you sob, squirming as Price licks at your clit insistently. It feels like your breath has caught in your chest, your toes curling so hard that your feet cramp. You’re panting like a damn dog as your orgasm rocks through you, until the waves of it subside and you can finally get a full breath again.

From one second to the next your nerves turn red-hot and oversensitive, and you clamp your thighs shut around Price’s ears and whimper-whine pathetically. Mercifully, he gets your unspoken message easily, and finally pulls back, chuckling breathlessly to himself as he pushes your legs apart in order to retreat.

“Fuck,” He says, and his voice comes out as harsh and gravelly as you’ve ever heard it. “Jesus Christ. Knew you’d taste sweet, knew that you’d come so pretty.”

The praise practically slams into you, ripping through you like a forest fire. It feels like you’ve lost your breath all over again, and ridiculously you suddenly feel shy.

“I–That–” You start to say, but you still feel a little fuzzy-headed from your orgasm and your thoughts fizz away like TV static.

“Mhm, I know, sweet girl.” He murmurs hoarsely as though you had said something coherent.

When Price finally sits up, you blink hazily. He had been all hunched over you, crammed into the corner of the couch in order to squeeze himself between your thighs like that, but now that he’s straightening back up again you’re reminded with a tired jolt just how big and broad and strong he is.

A small, self-conscious part of your brain screams at you to close your legs. Your thighs are still spread wide, your cunt on display; you’re still all sloppy and wet, spit-slick and dripping, all puffy from the attention Price had lavished on you with his mouth.

But instead of closing your legs, you let your thighs fall open a little wider and shift restlessly under his intense gaze. Your desire makes you stupid – how could you ever experience anything as mundane as self-consciousness when he’s staring at you like that? He’s looking at you like he wants to fall atop you all over again, and you feel yourself throb – you feel so empty, your body craving something to fill you.

And Price notices the way you keep yourself all spread for him, the way you don’t make any move to cover yourself. Beneath his beard, his face splits into a wide smile, the apples of his cheeks practically glowing with pride.

“Oh, my girl, you're so pretty. Just the loveliest girl in the world with your beautiful face and your hair all wild like that.” He leans in then, and presses a hungry kiss to your mouth. He tastes salty-sweet, the iron tang of yourself lingering on his lips. His beard is wet too, practically soaked through.

You gasp when he pulls back, overwhelmed by the kiss and the praise and the electric aftershocks of your orgasm. “Your beard is wet.” You observe dumbly.

He chuckles, as though you’ve said something terribly endearing. “Of course it is, sweetheart. That’s all you.”

You mumble a little incoherently, mostly because you’ve just spotted the way his trousers are still unbuttoned and his hard, swollen cock is jutting out from the band of his boxers. It’s angry looking, the head of it so red it looks a little painful, and you feel a sudden urge to return the favour seize you.

But when you reach out, Price is quick to grab your wrist. He transfers his grip to your hand swiftly so you don’t feel as though you’re being held down, his wide palm and thick fingers winding around yours.

“Don’t have to do that, love.” He grunts, shifting. He’s looming over you, hips tilted towards you and his wide shoulders blocking out your view of the office. “D’you think you could take me?”

It takes you a moment for your slow, stupid brain to catch up and process what he’s asking you. Then you nod swiftly, eyes widening. You're wet and sticky and so so empty, and you have no doubt your body is so ready to take him inside.

You’re still a little limp and drained from the satisfaction of your orgasm, but you keep your thighs spread and wait eagerly for him to touch you again. He doesn’t keep you waiting long; he coos softly at you as he adjusts himself, kissing your tummy then up your sternum and back to your throat. The soft, sweet kisses distract you as he presses his hips between your thighs.

You gasp softly, your clit sensitive enough that when his cock rubs against it, you jolt. Despite the overload of sensation, you find yourself grinding back against him, so desperate for something. As if he can sense what you need, he presses a kiss to your jaw and dips a hand between your thighs. Two thick, calloused fingers circle your clit for a moment and make you whimper, only to dip lower and press inside you.

His fingers are larger than yours, but they still slip into you so damn easily that it’s embarrassing. You barely even feel a stretch, your body so eager for him that your cunt practically sucks his fingers up.

The worst part is the way Price laughs, all soft and breathy as he rubs his callous-roughened fingers into the spongey walls of your cunt.

“Oh, fuck,” He murmurs, his lips dragging over your overheated skin. “Yeah, you’ll take me just fine.”

You burn with embarrassment, but you still don’t close your legs. It’s silly, but there’s still an element of pride as his fingers rub against the soft inside of your pussy; you want him to see how much you want him, how well you’ll take him. It’s obvious how wet you are, and you hope he’s imagining how good you’ll feel on the inside.

“Need you to turn over for me, love.” He murmurs, gripping at your hips and easing you over so that you’re on your belly beneath him. “That’s it, arse up. My knees aren’t what they used to be. Make it easy for me.”

You usually would make a joke about that, some sort of jab about being old before his time, but you simply don’t have the mental capacity for it. You’re too busy dropping to rest your weight on your elbows as you stick your ass up towards him, arching your back and hoping you look pretty.

He doesn’t waste any more time, much to your relief. Your mouth drops open with a sigh as you feel the blunt head of his cock glide between your slick folds, tapping once against your clit just to watch the way your legs jerk, then finally lining up with your entrance and pressing lightly in. His cock notches, catches, then slides in so slowly that it makes you want to scream.

“Gotta let me in, petal.” He says, using his grip on your hips to pull you back onto his cock in increments. “Relax, relax.”

You had wanted this, you’re more eager than you think you’ve ever been for anyone in your life, and yet Price is a big man and the stretch makes your breath stall in your lungs. Your cunt is sucking his cock in further with a hunger that’s almost embarrassing, even as you wince a little at the feeling of being stretched out to your limits. Though you’re wet and eager and ready, two of Price’s fingers briefly testing inside weren’t quite enough to prepare you for how fat his cock is.

Your head is spinning. You’ve never taken a cock this big with so little stretching, but neither you nor Price are patient enough to wait. But the stretch feels good, and you find yourself wheezing like a moron as he presses inside inch by inch.

“Fuck… you alright, love?” Price breathes, adjusting his knees on the couch behind you and wrapping his hands around your hips. The motion only succeeds in shifting him far enough away to make you aware of the feeling of him sliding into you again. You both groan, and you feel Price twitch, deep inside you.

“Fuck,” You moan, breath gasping out of you. “You’re fucking huge.”

It feels like you’re learning for the very first time what it really means to be full. For a few seconds, it feels like you can’t even breathe. It feels like his cock is lodged somewhere in your belly, forcing the breath from your lungs as he nestles his way deeper into the eager clutch of your body.

“Am I– s’it too much, honey?” He asks, his voice rough and low as his hands squeeze at the flesh at your hips. “Need me to take it out?”

“No!” You blurt, and your body clenches up hard as though you’re trying to lock him in and keep him from escaping. “Don’t you dare!”

His cock still feels so big, and when you tighten up as hard as you do it almost feels as though he’s fucking impaling you. Price groans as though he’s been shot, and his head lowers so that he’s burying his face into the space between your shoulderblades. His body lowers too until his chest is pressed to your back, joined at the hips as he rocks inside of you.

“Okay,” He grunts, and you can feel his chest expand as he takes a breath. “Okay, love, but you need to relax. You’re going to squeeze my cock right off.”

“Sorry.” You try to do as he asks, taking a deep breath and allowing your body to go limp and pliant. He grunts in appreciation, and you feel his whiskery beard rasp against your throat as he presses a kiss to your neck as if to reward you.

Your spine is still taut from the pressure of being all stretched out around his cock, and you reach back clumsily to grasp at his belly, the soft fabric of his shirt rucking up between your fingers. Price reaches back and grabs at the neck of his own shirt, tearing it over his head then tossing it aside. Your eyes are all hazy and a little blurred from your overwhelmed tears, but you look back over your shoulder and blink frantically in an attempt to get a proper look at him.

God, he’s so big and strong, his chest furred with a layer of brown hair curling in whorls over his nipples and down over his belly. You feel yourself pulse in response, your mouth dropping open in a thoughtless gasp of desire. He’s exactly the kind of man you think of when you think of masculinity, and your belly tightens in anticipation when he presses all up against you, heavy and hot.

When he begins to pull out and press back in, the noise you make is utterly pathetic. It feels like he cleaving you in two, carving out a space for his cock every time he fucks back into you. He’s cautious at first, conscious of hurting you, but when your thighs close around his hips he grunts and begins to pick his pace up.

“Christ, you’re tight,” Price says, his voice all rough and muffled against your shoulder. “And you're all mine, love, my own sweet girl, ain’t that right? And daddy's gonna love you so good, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” You gasp stupidly, pressing your face into the couch cushions.

Typically, you find that doggy style can be a position that’s a little detached – usually, you like seeing the face of the person you’re fucking. But right now, with Price plastering his whole hairy body against your back as he ruts into you and the sweet filthy words he’s murmuring to you, this position feels so far from detached that it has your head spinning. It feels like he’s blanketing you, the heat from his skin igniting what feels like an inferno between the two of you. Sweat beads at your forehead, and you moan softly as Price begins to fuck you properly.

You’re bouncing against the couch, clutching at the cushions as your body moves under the weight of Price’s powerful thrusts. The sound of it is sloppy and wet, your bodies smacking together quick and hard. And fuck, it feels good. His cock is hitting that perfect spot deep inside of you, and your entire body jolts with pleasure every time he pounds back in.

It’s enough to make you squeal, your nails scrabbling desperately for purchase on the threadbare couch cushions in an attempt to stabilise yourself. Your nipples are sensitive from Price’s licking at sucking at them, and your toes curl as your tits are pressed into the rough-textured cushions, electrifying your nerves to the point of almost too-much.

The noises you make are entirely undignified, and you struggle to muffle them into the couch. Little burbling ah ah ah’s are being torn from your throat every time Price fucks into you, the sensation of his furred balls slapping against you with every thrust has your eyes rolling.

Your body is all loose and pliant from your earlier orgasm, and you whimper as though you’re being fucked absolutely stupid. It’s not that he’s fucking you all that hard, but he’s filling you up so deliciously and knowing that it’s him, your Captain, the man that you’ve worked so damn hard to impress and to please, makes you feel like you’re going to explode. Even through the haze of desire and pleasure, a little part of you is still so aware of making him happy. You keep your back arched, practically waving your ass up in the air as he fucks into you.

“Tell me how you like it, sweetheart. Tell me how it feels.” Price says in a low, rough purr. His chest is still pressed to your back even as the two of you pant and sweat as you rock together. “Tell daddy how good he's making you feel.”

Jesus Christ, Price feels like a fucking furnace against you. It feels almost as though you’ve been glued together, your skin sweat slick as he ruts into you like an animal. Your lungs are burning, and your mind is completely scattered. Getting fucked like this feels feels primal, an exchange of power through pleasure; you’re aware that he’s asked you a question, but you can hardly string two thoughts together. All you can do is squirm and whimper in below him as his weight pins you in place.

“Good,” You groan, vaguely aware that tears are leaking from your eyes and soaking the couch beneath you. Your vision is blurred, and you can’t even see straight. “I just– it’s so much–”

“I know,” He rumbles. “But you can take it, can’t you? You’ve been so good, sweetheart.”

The praise does exactly what he’s hoping for; you practically melt into a puddle beneath him. Your thoughts are slow and sluggish, and your jaw hangs open as you fucking drool. Even still, you manage to nod your head clumsily. You can take him – it feels like a point of pride to prove it now, to show off how good you can be.

Price’s rhythm is practically machine-like, and you make a quiet sound of pure appreciation when his cock slams into that gummy spot inside of you that makes you lose your breath. It’s as though he takes note of it, because from that point on he stays absolutely jackhammering into that little spot, making you see stars and have to bite your lip to stifle your moans. His balls would slam against your clit in a repeated motion that made your underbelly tighten like a coil so close to snapping.

He groans every time he sinks into you, his growls rumbling into your back and ratcheting up the intensity another notch. You feel lost in a sea of sensation, moored only by the places of contact between you and Price. Your hips are humping back against Price’s cock unconsciously, unable to help yourself and unable to get enough of him.

“I wanna come again,” You say, and it comes out in a demanding sort of whine. It’s a little humbling to hear yourself and realise that you sound so honest to god bratty, but you can’t bring yourself to care when Price is apparently in such a giving mood today.

“You’re gonna come, love.” He promises. His voice has that tone to it, the one you’ve always tried to ignore during work because it makes you so horny. The authoritative one, when it drops just a bit in pitch, when it sounds just a little like a threat.

But despite his promise, he doesn’t change his steady pace. You’re just this side of overwhelmed, but you still need more to push you over the edge into the second orgasm that’s simmering in your lower stomach.

“Please, daddy,” You let the name pass your lips on a whimper, finally giving in and calling him by the title he’s so clearly craving. He’s fucked all the shame out of your body at this point, leaving you with nothing but white hot desperation. “Please, please make me come again–”

“Fuckin’ Christ–”

Price’s arm reaches around your front, and you’re startled when his big palm wraps around your throat. You think for a moment that you’re about to get choked, but no pressure follows. He just grips you there, gentle and secure, before using his hold on you to pull you back against him so that he’s rutting up into you at a speed that’s overwhelming in the best way. His other arm reaches around your belly so that he can rub at your clit as he rails you into the couch. His soft grip on your throat ensures that no matter how much you try to squirm your way back into meeting his thrusts, you’re forced into stillness.

It’s exactly what you wanted, and it has you wheezing and hiccuping out moans on every stroke. It’s better than you ever could have hoped for, and you’re nearly sobbing from the sheer sensation of it all. You feel your abdomen drawing tight, heat beginning to build rapidly in the bottom of your belly as he strokes at your clit hard and fast at a pace that matches his fucking.

You know that you’re already starting to shake, trembling from head to toe. You can’t even keep your back arched anymore, though you don’t think Price gives a shit because he just nuzzles at the base of your shoulder as he fucks into you. Between his cock and his fingers, everything just feels too much but your body is strung taut as you proverbially climb higher and higher.

“Oh god, I’m– yes, yes, yes–” You chant, your voice high and reedy and so damn needy.

Then the world falls out from under you. With one last whimpering moan, your body convulses beneath the heavy weight of your captain’s big body. Your vision practically wipes out, and you squeeze down around Price’s dick and pulse. Your whole body rocks with the flood of pleasure, the warm fuzzy feeling that makes you feel as though you’re losing your mind. You know that your hips are twitching madly, simultaneously trying to get more and less as you get overwhelmed by the feeling of him fucking you through it all.

You’re still coming down from the sweet release of your orgasm when Price practically tears himself away from you, leaving you cruelly empty and clenching around nothing. You let out a sharp sound of loss, startled that he’s pulled away so suddenly, and you find yourself slumping bonelessly against the couch now that his hands are no longer supporting you.

The wet shlurping sounds from behind you prompt you to glance lazily over your shoulder from where your face is smushed against the cushions, and you’re blessed with the sight of Price tugging his cock furiously behind you. His cheeks are bright red as he stares at the mess he’s made of you, his jaw soft and his mouth open as he pants.

He sees you looking, and whatever expression is on your face seems to be his undoing. He takes in your tear-clumped eyelashes and your dazed expression, and you can practically see the moment he hurtles over the edge. He practically snarls, his nose scrunching in a way that’s unexpectedly adorable right as his cock gives one fat pump of thick white come, then several smaller sputterings that collect in a creamy puddle right at the base of your spine, just over the swell of your ass.

You sigh, your eyelids fluttering lazily shut as you relish the feeling of his hot come hitting your skin. You still can’t manage to pull yourself together, feeling loose and floaty like you’re on another fucking planet entirely. You’re only distantly aware of his big palm rubbing gentle circles on the small of his back; you think for a second that he’s just trying to soothe you, until your fucked out brain catches up and you realise that he’s rubbing his come into you like it’s goddamn lotion. Your cunt gives a tired throb at the realisation, fluttering as though it’s sad that he didn’t come inside.

“Fuck…” You hear him rumble from behind you, then a hot heavy weight settling over you yet again. This time, he pulls you back into his arms to hold you tight against his chest.

You go perfectly limp, curling into him and nuzzling into his sweaty hairy chest. Despite yourself, you’re reminded of cuddling with a massive teddy bear. All you can do is hum, basking in the affection and hardly able to think at this point after he’s turned your brain into a slurry of feelings without thoughts.

“You okay, love?” Price asks. You can feel his nose nuzzling against your temple, though you can’t quite summon the energy to open your eyes again. “Did I go too hard on you?”

Your legs are still shaky, your hamstrings aching and your back throbbing a little from the pounding you’ve just taken. But Price is being so lovely and soft, so gentle with you right now. His hands coast over your hips, your back, your waist, squeezing a little bit just because he seems to like the way you feel in his hands.

“Shhh,” You drawl shakily. “Don’t make me think right now.”

A low chuckle, and you feel his broad chest rumble with it where your head is laying atop him. His fingers run up the length of your spine, the touch making you shiver. He touches you like you’re delicate, a stark contrast to the way he’d just fucked you into your sad little office couch. It makes something in your belly squirm.

“Alright. My girl just needed to switch off for a while, hm?” He murmurs, and you can hear the clear undertone of amusement in his voice. “How are you going to finish out work today if you’re all sleepy like this, huh?”

That wakes you up a little, and you finally blink your eyes open again in order to look up at him. An edge of panic is beginning to creep in as awareness comes back to you, and you take a deep breath as your hands curl against his chest.

“Oh my god.” You blurt, eyes growing wide. “I– we’re at work!”

“Sharp as ever, darling.”

Not even Price’s lazy wryness can distract you now. You try to wiggle off the couch, already craning your head around in search of your clothes, but Price’s thick arm locks tight around your middle and keeps you pressed to him.

“We have to– oh my god, we have to get dressed, what if someone walks in–”

“Shh, shhh, I locked the door when I came in,” Price grumbles. He doesn’t appear too impressed with the way you’re attempting to wiggle away, but it doesn’t matter so much; even with one arm he’s perfectly capable of keeping you pinned in place against his chest. “Lie back down, love.”

Slowly, you let yourself relax back into him. It’s hard to hold onto your panic when he’s so obviously unbothered, so you end up hesitantly snuggling back up against his chest as his arms come up to close around you. Despite his encouragement, you’re unsure whether or not you’re allowed to be touching him like this. But his hands don’t stray from you, not even once, and gradually you return to your previous state of being a puddle of limbs and pliant muscle.

“That’s it, relax.” He coaxes, clearly pleased now that you’re melting back into him.

“I have so much work to catch up on.” You grumble, though you have no intention of actually going anywhere now that he’s given you the greenlight to stay like this.

His chest vibrates beneath your cheek, and you realise he’s chuckling again. It feels good, and you sigh softly as your fingers stroke lightly over the defined shape of his soft pecs.

“You think I wasn’t capable of keeping the ship afloat for the couple of days you were gone?” He asks, one hand stroking over your flank then dipping lower to flatten his palm over your left asscheek. “I finished out those little files you were stressin’ over. No picture of Ghost for his, but like I said, that’s standard.”

You had known that he had finished updating the files for you when you had seen Farah’s, but hearing it straight from his mouth is something else entirely. You purse your lips and lower your eyes, still embarrassed about your little freak out despite his apologies.

“Thank you.” You mumble.

You try to hide your face in his chest again, but a large hand on your jaw stops you by tilting your head back and forcing you to look at him. A thumb strokes over your cheek, and then he’s leaning in and pressing a sweet kiss to your mouth. You respond tiredly but eagerly, still hardly able to believe that your boss that you’ve been mooning after for months is being so affectionate and intimate with you.

Price pulls back slightly so that your lips are just barely touching, breathing each other’s air for a moment.

“Ask for help when you need it, sweetheart.” He murmurs, his lips dragging over yours. “That’s what I’m here for. We help each other with the workload, alright?”

“Yeah,” You breathe, leaning in eagerly in the hopes of getting another kiss. “Alright.”

Price smiles, his cheeks going all full and round as his eyes crinkle, and you feel your heart throb so violently it feels as though it jumps right up into your throat. He leans in and kisses you again, soft and sweet as his beard rasps against your chin.

You want to stay like this forever, wrapped up so warm and cosy and safe in his arms. He makes you feel so safe, like you’re valued and appreciated, and you can’t even feel bad about being lazy because he so clearly doesn’t want to move either.

“Let me come home with you tonight,” He says suddenly, and you feel his bicep contract as he squeezes you closer. “You have an apartment off base, don’t you? I’ll… why don’t I cook you dinner, hm? Want to show you how much I appreciate all the work you do.”

There’s a pause, then he adds cautiously, “If I’m not being presumptuous, that is.”

You can’t stop the shy smile from overtaking your face. He’s so sweet, and being on the receiving end of this kind of attention from him is more than you ever could have expected. Ridiculously, he seems a little nervous as well, and you come to the slow realisation that he had been vulnerable with you as well when it came to his interests when he had fucked you.

“I thought this was you appreciating the work I do.” You say coyly, glancing pointedly at all of your bare skin pressed up against his.

“Mm. You do a lot of work, and I’m very appreciative.” Price murmurs, squeezing teasingly at your ass.

You giggle despite yourself, relishing the light-hearted air between the two of you. At the sound of your laugh, Price’s expression brightens further; it’s strange, seeing your usually stern, stressed captain being so sweet with you. You’re so used to seeing him with that flinty determined look in his eyes, or barking orders, or with his eyes sagging with exhaustion after a long deployment only to return to a pile of mission reports. Seeing him like this, with those soft eyes and a fond smile, makes your heart feel as though it’s beating out of rhythm.

“I said I’d look after you, sweetheart.” He murmurs, and this time his voice is missing that teasing undertone from before. He sounds so earnest now, almost painfully so. “You just need to let me.”

Yeah, you think to yourself as you let yourself succumb to the drowsy haze that’s been tugging at you, allowing your eyes to slide shut as you nuzzle into Price’s bare chest. You think letting John Price look after you might just be the easiest thing you’ve ever done.

#john price x reader #captain john price x reader

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pricegouge · 2 days ago

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John's fiddling with his sleeves again, trying to make sure the folds set just right. "You look fine," you assure him before turning back to the overhead mirror and concentrating on not poking your eyeball out with your eyeliner. He's a smooth driver, but the winding, potholed roads make things much more difficult for you.

John smiles, forced, but still wide enough you can see his cheeks scrunch up even from the corner of your eye. "Thanks, love. But I'm not underdressed?"

You fight the urge to motion illustratively to your own plain floral skirt, or the messy bun hiding the frizzy state your work PPE had left your hair in. Your sister's ceremony was a laid back kind of thing, hosted by a small community college attended almost exclusively by adult students with kids and busy schedules, as you'd learned after showing up to her LPN pinning far too overdressed yourself. This time you'd known better, insisting it would be efficient and fine if you just changed right at work and had John pick you up there. Unfortunately, the second you'd climbed into the car you'd realized your mistake: letting John get ready alone.

John was not a poor dresser so it had never once occurred to you in your developing relationship to ever oversee his wardrobe. Indeed, he looks handsome as hell even now and you would never fault him for the dapper look he's chosen for the evening. Except he's already on pins and needles about meeting your family, and you just know he's going to look at the dusty assembled lot of them and grow pale when he realizes the score: He is criminally overdressed.

It's your own fault, really. You should have known a man like him had a certain expectation of the words 'pinning ceremony' - ball gowns and dress blues, most like; crystal stemware and Majors Mover and Shaker giving speeches. But it was duck season in a sleepy town here, and he was gonna get shit-kickers and cargo shorts at best, fresh-off-a-spread field hand attire at worst.

Your pause draws too long and John thumps his hand on the steering wheel. "Need a jacket, don't I? Damn I'm such a -."

"John, stop. You look great, it's just…" you trail off, unsure if it's best to tell him now so he has a heads up, or later so he doesn't stew in anxiety the whole drive up.

He decides for you when he turns his wide, terrified baby blues on you.

"Okay, this isn't, like, a problem. So don't freak out. But I just want you to be prepared for the fact that most of the other men there are gonna be in like… ratty T-shirts and mud covered jeans. And so many baseball caps."

John looks mortified for all of two seconds before furrowing his brow in distaste. "This is meant to honor the graduates."

"Yep, but out here we try to avoid getting fancy at all cost," you snipe, self-mocking accent perfectly describing how you feel about the habit. "It's up in the mountains on a Wednesday night. Most everyone will just be getting off work, like me. But unlike me, not everyone has a job they can clean up from with relative ease."

"Then they should've left early," he says indignantly.

You hold up your hands in mock surrender. "Not fighting you there. Just giving you a heads up cause I know you're nervous and I don't want you feeling out of place."

He huffs, settles into his seat a little more confidently, if irritated. "Won't feel out of place respecting your sister, " he grumbles and you smile, leaning across the console to plant a kiss on his whiskery cheek.

"Thanks honey," you say, squeezing his bicep appreciatively before turning back to your make up. "But don't say that in front of her, okay? Don't want her trying to steal my arm candy."

#clearing out my drafts ignore me #never posted cause in my head theres a version of this where we see him dealing with reader's rowdy family #and being all sweet and soft with the nieces #but ill probably never get around to writing it so #price x reader #john price x reader #captain john price x reader

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midnight-shadow-cafe · 3 days ago

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Night Owl

Pairing:Task Force 141 x Wife!Reader

Warnings: Fluff, sleep-deprived soldiers, excessive love and affection, soft Task Force 141 boys, poly if you really squint

Author's Note: I had so much fun writing this (I work nights and this is what my family stumbles upon when it comes to me lol) also, you’re Simon’s Wife🙂‍↕️

Masterlist

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

The house was quiet, save for the low hum of the television in the living room. It wasn’t late for you—not by your standards—but for your husband, it was the dead of night. The world outside was silent, the sky a deep navy, and the only light in the room came from the glow of your laptop screen and a few dim lamps you had turned on to avoid waking anyone.

You had been working the night shift for months now, your internal clock flipped completely. While your husband, Simon, along with his team—who you had definitely fallen head over heels for—was used to unpredictable schedules, it still threw them off when they came home and found you awake, fully immersed in some new project at ungodly hours.

Tonight was no different.

John was the first to stir. His years in the military made him a light sleeper, so the faint rustling of paper and the quiet muttering to yourself pulled him from sleep. Blinking blearily, he glanced at the clock. 2:47 AM. He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face before sitting up.

Padding into the living room, he found you hunched over the coffee table, a pile of colorful yarn in front of you, fingers fumbling with a crochet hook. Your brow was furrowed in concentration, tongue peeking out slightly as you tried to master the intricate loops.

“…What are you doing, love?” he asked, voice gruff with sleep but laced with affection.

You looked up, grinning. “Learning how to crochet. Figured I’d make a blanket for the couch.”

John stared at you for a long moment, then exhaled a soft chuckle as he ran a hand through his disheveled hair. “Of course you are.” His eyes softened, admiring how adorable you looked bathed in the warm glow of the lamp.

Just as he was about to sit down beside you, another presence shuffled into the room. Simon, still half-asleep, padded in wearing a pair of grey sweatpants and an old hoodie, his familiar skull mask nowhere in sight. His messy blond hair stuck out in different directions, and his eyes, though heavy with sleep, immediately found you.

He blinked slowly, taking in the scene—the pile of yarn, John sitting nearby, and you in the middle of it all.

“…Why?” he asked simply, his voice low and raspy.

You shrugged, giving him a playful smile. “Keeps my hands busy. Besides, the couch could use a cozy touch.”

Simon stared for a second longer before shaking his head with a soft, fond sigh. “Thought I was dreaming when I smelled coffee. ‘S too late for this, luvie. You’re mad.”

You rolled your eyes as he made his way into the kitchen, grabbing a glass of water. Moments later, he slumped onto the couch beside you, his large frame sinking into the cushions. Without a word, he pulled you closer, one arm wrapped lazily around your waist, his head resting against your shoulder.

You smiled, feeling the warmth of his affection despite his sleepy state. Picking up the half-finished crochet piece, you shoved it into his hands.

“You wanna learn?” you asked, eyes twinkling with mischief.

Simon sighed deeply but didn’t push it away. “You’re lucky I love you,” he murmured, his thumb brushing over your hand.

A quiet laugh escaped your lips as you replied, “More like I’m lucky I married you.”

Before Simon could retort, footsteps echoed from down the hall. Johnny and Kyle had apparently heard the commotion, neither willing to be left out. Johnny, with his hair a complete mess, rubbed at his face as he stumbled in, while Kyle trailed behind, wrapped in a blanket, his eyes barely open.

“Are we having a bloody crochet party at three in the morning?” Kyle mumbled, voice thick with sleep but tinged with amusement.

You grinned. “Technically, yes.”

Johnny plopped onto the floor next to you, peeking at the tutorial on your laptop. “Ah, hell, might as well learn somethin’ while I’m up.”

“Think you mean, fail to learn something,” Kyle quipped with a smirk, earning a shove from Johnny.

The room filled with soft laughter, the kind that warmed your chest. Simon’s hand absentmindedly traced slow circles on your back, while John settled beside you with a steaming cup of tea he’d made. Kyle and Johnny wrestled briefly over who got the bigger ball of yarn before ultimately giving up and sharing.

Hours passed, filled with quiet chatter, failed crochet attempts, and laughter. You showed them how to make loops and chains, guiding their hands when they struggled. Johnny’s project ended up looking more like a tangled mess than anything coherent, but he was proud nonetheless. Kyle managed to make a lopsided square, grinning when you praised him.

Simon, surprisingly, picked it up quickly, though he pretended not to care. Every now and then, he’d glance at you, watching how your face lit up when explaining something. John, meanwhile, stuck to sipping his tea, occasionally offering words of encouragement but mostly enjoying the peaceful chaos.

By the time the first rays of sunlight began to creep through the curtains, the living room looked like a cozy disaster zone. Balls of yarn were scattered everywhere, half-finished projects lay abandoned, and the boys were slumped in various positions.

John had given up and was leaning against the arm of the couch, his head tilted back, the infamous beanie covering his face. Simon was nestled against your side, his fingers still loosely curled around a tangled ball of yarn, soft snores escaping him. Johnny and Kyle were sprawled out on the floor, half-asleep, their attempted crochet projects tossed aside as they cuddled under a shared blanket.

You smiled, heart full, and pressed a gentle kiss to Simon’s temple. Setting your own project aside, you stood, grabbing pillows and extra blankets. Carefully, you placed them around your boys, tucking them in. You made sure Johnny and Kyle were cozy, pulling the blanket up to their chins. John, half-awake, murmured a soft, “Thanks, love,” as you placed a pillow behind his head.

Finally, you curled back onto the couch beside Simon, his arms instinctively wrapping around you. His face, even in sleep, was peaceful, the usual hard lines softened. You buried your face in his chest, feeling his heartbeat steady and calm.

“This is perfect,” you whispered, though no one was awake to hear it.

Even if it meant crocheting at three in the morning, it was moments like these that made everything worth it—surrounded by the men you loved, feeling safe, cherished, and utterly at peace.

Hope you enjoyed! Please consider liking and reposting! -Midnight💜

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bunny-jpeg · 1 day ago

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hibernation

capt. john price

tags: smut/pwp, bear!price, size difference/kink, breeding kink, hibernation, shifter au, established relationship, living room sex, doggy style, rough sex, pregnancy

hefty lover, that was the only way you could describe your lover. the bear shifter known as john price. and you were his lovingly perfect mate.

price's paws were big, he was well over a head taller than you and when he showed you how strong he was, it made your knees wobble a little. "c'mere, lovie. come to your big bear." and like a moth to a flame, you got into your lover's arms. you held onto his hairy, strong forearms and felt protected by your grizzly lover.

you knew when the leaves started to change colours that your mate was going to get ready for the hibernation months. it meant being out in the woods more and acquiring a healthy diet of salmon and berries. fatty foods to bulk up during the long sleep.

you had your own food from the grocery store in town, you couldn't live off the diet of a bear. but, your mate happily fished and made sure he could make it through the winter. as a result of the bulking and the heart diet, your mate got much heavier and harrier. that didn't help your sexual attraction to him.

he started to notice your neediness when he kept catching the scent of your wet pussy. it only made him need you more. the attraction was mutual.

he knew soon he was going to be in a deep sleep, and he wanted you as much as he could get before the hibernation started. it all came to a head a week before his sleep started when he needed his mate more than anything.

"c'mere, lovie. come to your big bear." he palmed himself through his sweatpants. he was in a tank top and flannel bottoms. you could see the bulge in them and how hairy he was all over.

he looked like a protector, a provider. your big bear.

price soon had you over the solid wood coffee table that was your mate's project over the summer. he was painfully hard as he carefully took off your own sweatpants and your panties (they had little bears printed on them) and he admired your cunt.

he like his mate's pussy, a little fuzzy like him. he didn't need you plucked, shaven or waxed. he needed you the way nature intended. he cooed, "there she is, the showstopper." he cupped your warm cunt for a moment before he went to pull down his bottoms and get out his cock.

his briefs were under his heavy balls. he stroked his cock, he knew he was big. he could scare any man and make any woman drool with what was between his legs. but you weren't scared of anything, and only you were allowed to touch his cock.

you took your mate perfectly.

he rubbed his length up against your slit and chuckled, "ah, they're kissing, petal." he smeared his precum up against your needy sex.

you moaned, "please, honey." you felt the pleasure race up and down your body. his lust was infectious. his love was addictive.

only a wild woman could love a bear, and you were more in love with price than anyone else could be.

"mmm, you feel amazing and i'm not even in, beautiful." he licked his lips, he was hungry for you. his darling missus. when he sank into you, you felt heaven splash over you.

you gripped the edge of the table for support, some kind of support to hold onto while your larger lover moved against you with heavy thrusts.

price had been holding out on breeding you. it was wasn't easy for a human to carry a shifter baby, especially a bear one. and keeping up with price along was a task in itself.

but with you bent over the table, he couldn't help himself. he wanted a reminder of him as you got through the winter. he continued to thrust up inside of you. he was encouraged by your sweet moans, it made him hungry for you. he moved you up and down his cock, he needed you with a heated want.

you were a perfect little thing, his little human. his delicate little mate that he needed to protect. to love. to breed.

"that's it, love. you take me so fuckin' well. made perfect for me, you have the most beautiful cunt i've ever had the pleasure to fuck. you're heaven sent, a gift from mother nature herself. my personal goddess." he groaned while his mouth ran like a motor.

you whined in response as you felt your mate press his hairy chest against your back. he got his shirt off because he really pressed you up against the table. no wonder he spent the summer making sure it was strudy enough. a good place to lay out his mate and fuck her until she saw stars.

"that's my beautiful, girl." He said, "you look great under me. next time, i take you, we'll be face to face so i can watch you as you cum. my fuckin' angel, all mine." he continued to fuck you. he watched your ass bounce with each of his movements.

"please, john! ah! fuck, your cock feels so good." your eyes squeezed shut from the rush of pleasure in your core. he knew exactly how to make you feel good.

no other man ever made you cum before you met john price. on his first try he made your back arch and your toes curl.

your pulse quickened as the pleasure continued to build in your core. you loved being price's mate. to love him was a journey that you enjoyed. your pussy wetness drenched your thighs as price continued to fuck you from behind.

price knew how to be gentle, but where was the fun in that? not when he could bounce you on his hard cock at a feverish pace. pleasure bubbled in your soul as you felt on cloud nine.

such a rough lover, using size, experience and age to his advantage. he had you under his mercy. but that didn't matter to you, not when the shocks of pleasure bloomed in your head. not when you found the ache for your lover being filled. the bear shifter knew how to make heaven on earth. you held on tightly to the edge of the table as the movements grew faster. his cock hit against the softest parts of you.

"I love you."

"i love you too."

you whined a little and your feet dug into the patterned rug under the table. you bit your bottom lip to try and not be too loud. but price loved it when you were loud.

he wanted to hear every noise you made, it only turned him on further. price loved everything about you. you made him feel more wild than anything else, including turning into a bear. your allure had him on his knees begging for more. with you he could always be greedy, he was a possessive bear with you. territorial.

you didn't last much longer. not with such a heat pumping through your body. you were gasping with an insatiable want as he made sure you came before he did. you held onto the table tightly as you came. the clench in your body as you felt the inferno of lust around you.

price maintained his pace and fucked you through your orgasm. your heightened noises only sent him over the edge as his pace started to stagger. with a few heavy thrusts he finished inside of you. he held your hips up with his large hands to make sure it got all the way into your womb.

when he stropped, he wasn't finished. he had less than a week to make sure you didn't forget your mate over the long winter months.

price made a gruff noise and turned over onto his back. his eyes open, it wasn't quite spring yet. he raised his head and scratched his beard. he looked around the quiet bedroom with bleary eyes and noticed you not in the bed next to him.

even though you couldn't hibernate, you had been away from the nest for too long. he heard a small crash from the kitchen and he was up on his feet. he lumbered over and saw you by the oven with a tray of brownies in your hand.

you looked almost guilty at the sight of your mate standing there. you said, "sorry, big bear."

price smiled sleepily, "it's alright. you eat up for you and the cub." he came over and gave your soft bump a nice rub, "come back to bed soon. can't sleep without you." and gave you a kiss on the top of your head before he lumbered back to bed. back to sleep until the snow melted <3

#bunny writes #reader insert #call of duty #call of duty x reader #bear!price #john price smut #captain john price x you #captain john price x reader #john price x reader #john price cod #john price call of duty #captain john price #john price #capt john price smut #captain john price smut #captain price x reader #captain price #captain johnathan price #shifter au

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autumnheartsprice · 2 days ago

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MY DREAM

I've been thinking abt a poly!tf141 with a fem!reader who like is from the country side AND I'M CRACKING, OH LAWD!!!

Task Force 141 had seen you kill a man from 700 meters away. They had seen you tear through enemy lines with the precision of a seasoned warrior, your movements deadly and efficient. But what they hadn't seen—what they couldn’t wrap their heads around—was the life you returned to after every mission.

Because while Ghost, Soap, Price, and Gaz spent their leave in safe houses, military bases, or the occasional urban apartment, you?

You went home.

To the countryside.

To your massive, luxurious farmhouse nestled in the hills of a quiet village, where the air smelled of fresh hay, wildflowers, and the occasional whiff of cow.

And when TF141 finally visited, they were not prepared.

The First Time They Saw the Farm : "What the fuck—" Ghost had been the first to say it when you pulled up to your estate in an old pickup truck, the gravel crunching beneath the tires as you parked in front of a sprawling wooden house with a red-tiled roof.

There were animals everywhere.

A massive black and white cow lazily chewed its cud near the wooden fence. Chickens and roosters strutted about like they owned the place. A gray donkey stared at them with judgmental eyes. Two ducks waddled past as if they were on a mission. Dogs barked excitedly at the sight of you, tails wagging. A cat lounged on the porch, stretching in the warm sun.

And then—a fucking horse trotted up to you, nuzzling into your palm like a puppy.

"Price," Gaz whispered. "She has a fucking farm."

"A fancy one at that," Soap muttered, still stunned.

"You lot gonna stand there all day?" You grinned, tossing your duffel bag over your shoulder. "Come on in. Dinner’s almost ready."

They were bewildered. They had spent years with you, fighting side by side, seeing you covered in blood, sweat, and gunpowder—and now you were leading them up the front porch of your cozy countryside mansion like a perfect little housewife.

And the worst part? They liked it.

You, The Deadly Soldier and The Perfect Housewife

Soap had expected you to relax on your leave. Maybe sleep in, drink some tea, read a book.

But no.

You were up at the crack of dawn, slipping out of bed before any of them could pull you back in, dressed in overalls and a white tank top, heading out to feed the animals like it was just another mission.

"Morning, sweetheart," Price murmured, leaning against the doorway as he watched you toss hay to the horses.

"Morning, Captain," you teased, kissing his scruffy cheek before moving on to collect eggs from the hens.

Ghost watched in silence, arms crossed, as you scolded a particularly feisty rooster. "You peck me one more time, and I swear to God, I’m making soup outta you."

Gaz almost choked on his coffee when you turned around and gave them the sweetest, most innocent smile.

"You boys want breakfast?"

Fifteen minutes later, they were sitting at a massive wooden table in your warm, sunlit kitchen, eating fresh farm eggs, homemade bread, and smoked bacon.

And Soap was ready to propose.

Domesticity With a Side of Chaos

Price: Loves sitting on the porch with a cigar, watching you work. He helps with repairs, fixes fences, and absolutely adores the peacefulness of your home.

Ghost: The animals are terrified of him at first (except the donkey—the donkey hates him). But the barn cats adopt him, curling up in his lap whenever he sits down.

Soap: Thinks farm life is the best thing ever. He learns how to milk a cow, names every single chicken, and gets way too attached to a piglet.

Gaz: "Babe, I love you, but this rooster is evil." (He got chased one too many times.)

And at night?

After a long day of farm work, you slip into something soft and lacy, curl up in their arms, and remind them that you’re not just a soldier, not just a farmer—you’re theirs.

They Never Want to Leave

By the end of their stay, not a single one of them wants to go back.

"You sure we have to leave?" Soap pouts, feeding the ducks.

"Darlin’," Price murmurs against your neck one night, arms wrapped around you in bed, "Ever thought about retirin’ here? With us?"

Ghost doesn’t say it out loud, but when he watches you laugh, your hands covered in flour as you bake bread, he knows he never wants to be anywhere else.

And Gaz?

He just sighs, watching the sunset over the hills. "I never thought I’d say this, but…I think I’m in love with farm life."

They were all in love. With you. With this. With the life they could have, if only they stayed.

Maybe one day.

For now, they’d enjoy every stolen moment in their countsyde paradise. But what if we make thing spicy ? A little bit, at least.

Ghost Was The First To Break

Ghost had held strong. Longer than the others.

While Soap got weak-kneed watching you bend over to pick up hay, and while Gaz couldn’t stop staring at your thighs in those tiny denim shorts, Ghost had kept his cool.

Until that damn sundress.

White. Light. Flowy. Just enough fabric to tempt, but never satisfy—clinging to your curves, slipping off your shoulders as you carried a bucket of water to the horses.

He had been cleaning his rifle on the porch, but his grip tightened the moment he saw the fabric sway with your every step.

And then?

You had the audacity to look over your shoulder and wink at him.

He dropped the rifle.

Soap Lost It In The Barn

Soap had always been shameless about his attraction to you.

But you?

You were even worse.

It was an accident—(was it?)—when you walked into the barn one night, looking for something. The others were inside, drinking whiskey in the house, but Soap had been alone, brushing down one of your horses.

And then he saw you.

Wet.

Covered in rain.

Your thin white blouse clung to you, completely see-through, nipples pebbled against the fabric.

"Lass," he had rasped, watching as you closed the barn door behind you, stepping forward, voice all honeyed and sweet.

"Johnny," you had purred, voice dripping with something that wasn’t innocence, "I’m cold."

He snapped.

The horse had seen things that night.

Price Was The Most Dangerous

Price was a man of control.

A man of restraint.

A man who knew how to bide his time.

But you?

You tested him.

You liked to push. You liked to see how far you could go before he gave in.

And God help you—you found his limit.

It was late. The others were asleep. You were making tea in the kitchen, standing on your tiptoes to reach a mug from the top shelf.

Price had walked in just as your nightgown slipped up your thighs.

It wasn’t fair.

The soft, white cotton. The little lace trim. The way your bare legs looked so smooth, so inviting—and the sleepy way you turned, so unaware of what you were doing to him.

You looked up at him, mug in hand, and smiled. "You want some tea, Cap?"

And then—his hands were on your hips.

Voice rough.

"You know damn well what I want, sweetheart."

Gaz Had It The Worst

Gaz?

Gaz was a goner the first time he saw you in nothing but boots and his shirt.

You had come in from the field soaked in sweat, hair messy, thighs speckled with dirt. You had tossed your muddy clothes into the laundry room, grabbed his green tactical shirt, and walked around the house like it wasn’t driving him insane.

"Babe," he groaned, rubbing a hand down his face, watching you stretch, the hem of his shirt riding up to dangerous levels.

You blinked. All innocent. "What’s wrong?"

Gaz was a patient man. A respectful man. A man who was about to lose his goddamn mind.

"Come here."

You smirked, walking over slowly, pressing your hands to his chest.

"You’re so easy to rile up," you giggled.

His hand wrapped around your throat.

"And you’re about to learn what happens when you push too far."

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fireya-x · 3 hours ago

Note

I’m obsessed with the idea of divorced Price who gets you to fall in love with him again. Like, I have forty chapters planned out in my head. Is this just me?? Am I crazy?

Cali!! bestie!! ❤️ Omg. Not sure this is like the forty chapters you have in mind, but I hope you'll like this!

chamomile

【 AO3 Link (full tag list) || masterlist 】 ✦ John Price x Reader ✦ After a painful divorce and unexpected reunion, you and John rediscover a love that never truly faded. ✦ 8.4k words ✦ tags/cw: angst, divorce, feelings, hurt/comfort, reunion, eventual smut, reunion sex, piv sex, oral sex

The silence in your flat was a heavy, suffocating presence. Some days, it pressed in you from all sides, amplifying the absence, the emptiness, where he used to be. It wasn’t merely the absence of another person, but the absence of him in particular.

John.

His rumbling laughter, often accompanied by the clinking of ice in his whiskey glass. The quiet humming when he lost himself in a well-worn novel by the fire. The concentrated sighs that escaped his lips when he was hunched over his office desk, wrestling with mission reports, the scent of tobacco clinging to the air. The comforting rhythm of his breathing next to yours in the night, now replaced by the oppressive weight of solitude and the cold emptiness of the other side of the bed.

Some days, the silence turned into a constant, dull ache in your chest, a wound that refused to heal. It was a constant reminder of what once was.

You often caught yourself staring at the shelf on the wall, the one you’d desperately tried to fill with an assortment of meaningless decorations, a futile attempt to fill the empty spaces where his belongings had once resided. Each object, carefully chosen and meticulously placed, felt like a small betrayal, a silent admission of defeat. Vases with dried flowers, their faded colors a pale imitation of the vibrant blooms he used to bring you; cheap trinkets that held no emotional value, their manufactured perfection a stark contrast to the unique, imperfect treasures he'd collected on his travels; some mass-produced artworks in frames that replaced the vibrant, personal photographs. Pictures of your sun-drenched vacations on the beach that now felt like a distant dream, a photograph of your faces on your wedding day, smeared with cake, eyes sparkling with laughter. A small porcelain figurine, a handmade and heartfelt gift from his grandmother, a woman who had welcomed you into her family with open arms – it was all tucked away in a box somewhere, hidden from view, wrapped in tissue paper, memories cherished but not yet ready to be confronted, like shards of glass that could cut you if you handled them too carelessly.

But nothing, none of the forced replacements, could truly ever fill the space, this gaping void that he left behind when your lives went separate ways.

This had been your shared flat once, a sanctuary nestled in the heart of Manchester, a carefully chosen haven, not far from either of your workplaces – a two-bedroom flat with large windows that overlooked a bustling street below, the sounds of the city a constant hum; a small balcony where you would share a bottle of wine on warm summer evenings and a cozy fireplace where you would curl up together on cold winter nights.

The location had seemed perfect then, a place where you had envisioned building a life together, a life filled with the comfort of shared routines, stolen kisses, the warmth of shared laughter that echoed through the rooms, filling every corner with the vibrancy of your love.

He had insisted you keep the flat after the divorce; “It’s yours,” he’d said, his gaze avoiding yours, his words clipped, his tone betraying nothing of the turmoil that raged within him. “I won't be here much anyway.”

The words, meant to be a gesture of generosity, a final act of kindness, a parting gift offered with a heavy heart, had instead become a constant, agonizing reminder of his absence, leaving behind the bitter taste of regret and the faint, lingering taste of what might have been.

You missed him.

Not the shadow he had become in the final years of your marriage, the distant, preoccupied figure who appeared infrequently, a ghost in his own home, his mind miles away. You missed the man he had been, the man you had fallen in love with – the man whose laughter could fill a room, whose touch could chase away the darkest shadows, whose love had once been your sanctuary, your safe haven in a world that often felt chaotic and uncertain. You missed the easy, effortless shared laughter over inside jokes that no one else understood, the comforting weight of his arm around your shoulders. The way he could make you feel safe, cherished, loved, with a single glance.

It wasn’t a sudden break, a dramatic fight, an explosion of anger and resentment, but a gradual erosion; a slow and agonizing fading, like a rot that set in, consuming your love, choking the joy, and suffocating the life you had once believed would last forever.

It started with small things, seemingly insignificant, but it was those small cracks in the foundation that triggered the fall. Cracks turning into widening fissures with each passing day. Unanswered texts, missed calls, forgotten birthdays, forgotten anniversaries, the growing distance between you in the same bed, the warmth of his touch replaced by the cold emptiness of the sheets, the silence stretching between you like a vast, empty expanse.

You had known, from the very beginning, from that first stolen glance across a crowded pub where you’d met, that his life would never be ordinary, that the long, dark shadows of his profession would always be a part of your shared existence, an uninvited guest at the table. And you had embraced that, welcomed it, believing, with some naivety that now made you wince, that your love and the connection you shared was strong enough to withstand the sacrifices his job asked of him, the toll it would inevitably take on your shared life. Sometimes, you wondered if there was even a place left for you at his side in this demanding, all-consuming world he inhabited. A world of coded conversations, hushed phone calls in the middle of the night, and the ever-present fear that gnawed at your insides, the fear that one day, he wouldn't come home.

You had always admired his devotion and his commitment to his work. You had seen him transform from a raw recruit into a seasoned soldier, a respected leader, a man who carried the weight of responsibility on his broad shoulders with a grace that both awed and inspired you. The way he could lose himself in the intricacies of strategy and tactics, the intensity with which he approached every challenge, every mission. You had been proud of his dedication and his commitment to a cause greater than himself.

He came home one evening, his eyes shining with pride and exhaustion, bringing with him the news of his promotion to Captain. You celebrated, of course. You opened a bottle of champagne, hugged and kissed, and told him how proud you were. You toasted his success, your words genuine, heartfelt, your joy for him masking the growing sense of dread that gnawed at the edges of your happiness. You knew how much this meant to him, this hard-won victory in the ongoing battle of his career, how many sleepless nights, how many missed birthdays, how many silent goodbyes whispered in the early mornings, had led to this moment, this achievement.

You wanted, more than anything, to be happy for him, to share the joy of his accomplishment.

And for a brief, fleeting moment, you did.

But later that night, the realization of what this promotion truly meant hit you, like a punch to the gut.

More responsibility.

More missions.

More deployments to the other end of the globe.

More sleepless nights spent waiting for his return.

More secrets whispered on the phone.

More clipped words you didn’t understand.

More distance between you.

More fuel for the slow, insidious rot that had already begun to consume your shared life.

Your joy at his success curdled into bitter disappointment, a mixture of pride and profound loneliness, a premonition of the long, empty nights and goodbyes that would soon become your reality. You lay beside him, yet you felt more alone, than you ever had before.

The Christmas you had planned so meticulously, the one where he had promised, sworn on his life, that he would be home – the Christmas tree shimmering with twinkling lights, the table set for a feast he never attended, the silence of his absence deafening amid the cheery Christmas carols on the radio. He hadn't even called, hadn't offered an explanation, hadn't bothered to invent an excuse — just a hasty, impersonal message left from a number you didn’t recognize, a clipped, emotionless voice relaying his apologies, the only sign of life you’d receive.

The pattern continued. The weight of his absences, the suffocating silence of his secrets, became an unbearable burden, a constant, oppressive presence that threatened to crush you beneath its weight.

The secrets grew deeper, the missions more frequent, more dangerous, his disappearances announced with nothing more than a hastily scribbled note left on the kitchen counter.

“Gone. Back soon.” “Don't wait up. Got called in.” “Love you.”

His words, once so full of affection, now felt hollow, crushed by the ever-present shadow of his profession, the weight of unspoken anxieties, the gnawing fear that each goodbye might be the last.

The rot spread and spread, its tendrils reaching into every corner of your life, tainting the once vibrant colors of your memories with a dull, grayish hue until only the empty shell remained, a hollow, brittle husk of a love lost and its future uncertain.

You tried to talk to him, to express your fears, your anxieties, your growing resentment. You remembered the way your voice trembled as you spoke, the words catching in your throat, threatening to choke you. And he listened. He truly listened, his eyes holding yours, his gaze filled with a mixture of weariness and regret. You saw the fatigue etched into the lines around his eyes, the tension in his jaw, the way his shoulders slumped with the weight of unspoken burdens. He understood. He understood the pain he was causing, the toll his profession was taking on your relationship, the slow, agonizing erosion of the love you had once shared.

He asked you to understand, to accept the life he had chosen, a life that demanded his complete and utter devotion, a life that left little room for the ordinary joys of love and companionship. He spoke of the importance of his work, the lives that depended on him, the sacrifices he was willing to make for the greater good. He spoke of the secrets he couldn't share, the dangers he couldn’t reveal, the constant threat that hung over him, you, and your shared life.

There was a raw honesty in his words, a vulnerability that you hadn't seen in a long time, a glimpse of the man you had fallen in love with, the man who was now trapped in the shadowy world he inhabited, a world where emotions were a liability, where vulnerability was a weakness, where love was a luxury he could no longer afford.

And so, when you finally uttered the words, “I can’t do this anymore, John,” the words a painful admission of defeat, a surrender to the inevitable – he didn’t argue, didn’t protest, didn't try to change your mind. He simply nodded, his eyes filled with a deep sadness, a silent acknowledgement of the truth you had both been avoiding for so long, the truth that your marriage was dying a slow, agonizing death.

“If I can’t have my husband back, I at least need my life back,” you had said, your voice trembling. “Not this… this constant waiting, this constant fear.”

“I can’t live like this anymore, John. I can’t keep waiting for you to come home, wondering if this time will be the last. I can’t keep wondering what you’re doing, who you’re with, what secrets you’re keeping from me.” Your voice cracked, the tears threatening to spill over, but you blinked them back, determined to maintain your composure.

You watched as his face crumpled, his carefully constructed mask of control momentarily shattering, revealing the raw pain, the regret, the love he still held for you, a love that was now slipping through his fingers like fine grains of sand.

He reached for you, his hand outstretched, his fingers brushing against yours, a fleeting touch, a desperate attempt to hold onto you, to grasp for something, anything, to prevent the inevitable. But his grip wasn’t strong enough against the cold, hard reality of your decision and your words’ finality.

You pulled away, your heart aching, knowing that this was the only way, the only path towards healing, towards reclaiming your life, your own narrative, your own future, a future that no longer included him. The pain of this separation, though sharp, like a knife twisting in your gut, was a clean break, a necessary amputation, infinitely preferable to the slow, agonizing decay of a love unfulfilled.

You threw yourself into your career, seeking solace in the familiar world of analysis, a world of logic and order, a world far removed from the unpredictable chaos and ever-present danger of John's life. You found a new rhythm, a new sense of purpose, building an existence outside of the shadows, a future you had once envisioned intertwined with his, now carefully, meticulously, constructed on your own. You excelled in your field, your passion and dedication earning you accolades and recognition.

Then one day, there was a call. From a woman called Kate Laswell, a name you’d heard several times in passing conversations with John. You’d met her once, briefly, during a social function at the base, a fleeting exchange of hellos, a polite, impersonal conversation amidst the clinking glasses and forced smiles. But you remembered her – a strong, intelligent woman, her eyes sharp, her gaze assessing, a woman who carved her way out in that male-dominated world of work that still felt so alien and impenetrable to you.

She had witnessed the change in John, the gradual withdrawal, the growing distance, the slow change of the man he had once been. She had seen him throw himself into his work, mission after mission, his dedication bordering on obsession, a desperate attempt to fill the void you had left behind. She had seen the emptiness in his eyes, the silent suffering that had settled over him.

And now, years later, she had reached out, her voice warm and professional on the other end of the line, offering you a position at her side, a chance to use your skills and expertise in a new capacity, a chance to step back into the world you had once abandoned, a world you had once vowed to never return to. “I’ve been following your work,” she said, her voice betraying a hint of admiration, “and I’m impressed. I think you have a lot to offer our team. I’d like to offer you a position as a forensic analyst. It's a unique opportunity, and I think you'd be a valuable asset.”

You were overwhelmed, flattered by the offer, intrigued by the opportunity. It was a chance to take your career to the next level, to work alongside one of the most respected figures in the field, a chance to challenge yourself. You accepted, of course, your heart pounding with excitement, blind to the fact that this wasn’t just a lucky encounter but a carefully orchestrated reunion, a second chance engineered by the woman who had witnessed the slow, agonizing demise of your love. A woman who believed, perhaps more than you did yourself, that it wasn't too late to rebuild the bridge that had been broken.

She took you under her wing, showed you the ropes, and introduced you to the team. She shared her knowledge, expertise, and insights, empowering you to navigate the complexities of your new role with confidence. You quickly found a liking to her, her strength and intelligence inspiring you, her confidence reassuring you. And it didn’t take long before she offered to take you along to your first real job, your first opportunity to put your newly acquired skills to the test in the field.

This wasn’t the first time you had been on a base. You had accompanied John several times during your marriage, social functions and official events, but never more than a few fleeting glimpses. But this was different. You weren't here as a spouse, a plus-one, a silent observer. You were here to work and to contribute.

The operations room buzzed with energy, murmured conversations, papers crinkling, keyboards clicking, screens buzzing. You were nervous. You’d done this work in a lab, in the sterile, controlled environment of a crime scene, but never within a military setting, never in the heart of the operation, never with the weight of lives hanging in the balance.

You clutched the folders you held tightly, your knuckles white, your heart pounding. Kate, her expression casually neutral, as if this was just another day at the office, cleared her throat. “Follow me,” she said, her voice low, just loud enough for you to hear above the noise. You straightened your shoulders, lifted your chin, and stepped behind her, your heels clicking against the polished floor, the sound sharp against the background noise.

“This is Captain John Price,” Kate said, stopping at the front of the room, her voice cutting through the noise, commanding attention. She gestured towards a figure standing with his back to you, his broad shoulders silhouetted against the flickering screens, his posture radiating strength and authority. “He’ll be leading the operation. I expect full cooperation from everyone.”

John.

Even before he turned, the name, spoken aloud in this sterile, impersonal environment, sent a jolt of electricity through you. It was a name that held a thousand memories, a lifetime of whispered secrets and stolen kisses, of shared laughter and unspoken fears, of a love that had once burned so brightly, so fiercely, that it had illuminated every corner of your existence. As he turned, his gaze sweeping across the room, taking in the assembled team with a practiced eye, assessing, calculating, your breath hitched in your throat, a sudden intake of air that caught somewhere between your lungs and your heart. Time seemed to stop, the noise of the operations room fading into a dull roar, the faces around you blurring, dissolving into an indistinct mass, replaced by the single, overwhelming image of him . You hadn't seen him in over two years. Had it been that long?

You held your breath, taking in his features; he was older, harder around the edges, the lines etched deeper into the corners of his eyes, the telltale marks of time and experience, of a life lived on the edge, in the shadows. His beard was longer, scruffier, his hair slightly unkempt, as if he hadn't bothered to style it, a small detail that spoke volumes about the changes in his life, the shift in priorities. But his eyes, those stormy sea-blue eyes that had once drawn you in with their intensity, warmth, and unspoken promises, were still the same, unchanged by time, the color as vivid and captivating as the first time you had met.

His gaze met yours and locked, and for a heart-stopping moment, the world seemed to fall away, the room, the people, the very mission itself, dissolving into nothingness, leaving just the two of you suspended in a bubble of shared history, of unspoken regrets, of what-ifs and might-have-beens. He didn’t smile. His expression softened for a fraction of a second before it returned to be carefully neutral, a mask of professional detachment. But neither did he look away.

“We’ve met,” you said, injecting just the right amount of professional distance in your voice, your pulse hammering in your veins as if wanting to breach your throat. “Captain.” You added, the word, a formal acknowledgment of his rank, his authority, feeling strange, foreign, on your tongue – as it was the uncomfortable, almost painful reminder of the distance that had grown between you.

But a slight, almost imperceptible tremor in your voice, the fleeting catch in your breath, betrayed the carefully constructed facade of indifference, a subtle, unconscious signal of the powerful emotional undercurrent that flowed beneath the surface.

The slight shift in the atmosphere wasn't lost on Kate. Her lips curved into a knowing smile, acknowledging the unspoken tension, the rekindled connection she had anticipated. Her gaze flickered between you and John, a silent assessment of the situation, a calculation of the potential risks and rewards of this unexpected reunion, before she smoothly turned back to the task at hand, addressing the rest of the team, her voice regaining its crisp, professional tone, her words bringing the focus back to the mission.

The days that followed were a blur of intense preparation, long hours spent poring over intelligence reports, analyzing data, strategizing, and coordinating with various teams across the globe. The familiar rhythm of the work, the adrenaline-fueled pressure of the impending mission, both soothed and unsettled you. It was a reminder of the life you had once shared with John, the life you had walked away from, the life that was now, in a strange twist of fate, within your reach once more.

You found yourself working alongside John, your professional collaboration a carefully choreographed dance around the unspoken emotions that simmered beneath the surface. You were both meticulous in maintaining a professional demeanor, your interactions crisp, efficient, devoid of any hint of the shared past. The lingering connection still pulsed between you like a live wire, a current that threatened to short-circuit the carefully constructed walls of your composure. You avoided his gaze, focusing intently on the task at hand, your mind racing with calculations, your fingers flying across the keyboard, your every action a carefully constructed shield against the emotional onslaught of his presence.

He watched you, silently, intently, observing the way you spoke, your voice clear and confident, your insights incisive and insightful, the way you dissected complex data with an almost surgical precision, the way you held your own with the hardened soldiers and seasoned intelligence officers – a world you had once shunned, now embraced with a newfound sense of purpose.

He saw the woman you had become, the strong, independent woman who had emerged from the shadows of their failed marriage, a woman he both admired and desired, a woman he had almost lost to the relentless demands of his profession, a woman he was now determined to win back, piece by carefully chosen piece.

He hadn’t tried to speak to you about your shared past, not once. And though it broke your heart, a dull, persistent ache in the hollow spaces where his love had once resided, it was precisely this respect, this professionalism, this acknowledgment of your independence, that made you see him in a new light. He didn't cross any lines, didn't attempt to rekindle the intimacy you had once shared, didn't presume upon your shared history. The mission, the success of the operation, was his primary focus, and in his unwavering dedication to his duty, you saw a glimpse of the man you had fallen in love with, the man of integrity and unwavering principle.

It was as if the rot that had consumed your shared life had, in its destructive path, cleared the way for new growth, a new beginning, a second chance you hadn't dared to hope for.

And yet, amidst the professional work, he began, slowly, subtly, to chip away at the walls you had built around your heart.

The steaming cup of tea on your desk in the morning.

Chamomile.

No coffee, no black tea, just plain simple chamomile tea. He’d teased you about it once, only sick people drink that , he’d said, his eyes twinkling with amusement. But he'd remembered. He'd remembered a small, insignificant detail, a personal preference you hadn't indulged in since your separation. Did they even have chamomile tea on base? Had he gone out of his way to procure it, just for you?

You hadn't touched chamomile tea since the divorce. The taste, once so comforting, so intimately associated with shared mornings and whispered love confessions, had turned sour, a bitter reminder of broken promises and a love gone cold. You had banished it from your cupboards, your life, a symbolic purging of the past, a desperate attempt to erase the memories.

You stared at the mug, the steam swirling before your eyes, a hazy veil that separated you from the present, transporting you back to a time when the world had felt brighter, simpler, when the scent of chamomile had been a comforting constant in your life. You remembered lazy mornings, waking to the sound of him humming in the kitchen, the aroma of chamomile tea mingling with the scent of freshly brewed coffee, a shared breakfast, a stolen kiss, a whispered “I love you” before he disappeared into the shadows of his work.

You lifted the mug to your lips, the ceramic warm against your skin, the steam caressing your face, the scent of chamomile filling your senses, a sudden, unexpected rush of emotion catching you off guard. You took a sip, the warm liquid flowing down your throat, and the familiar taste shocked your system.

It wasn’t the bitter, tainted taste you had remembered, but the sweet, slightly floral flavor you had once loved, a taste that evoked memories of shared laughter and the quiet comfort of a love that had once felt invincible.

And at that moment, as the warmth of the tea spread through you, chasing away the lingering chill of loneliness and regret, you knew that you hadn't forgotten either. It was as if the years of separation had all dissolved in that single sip, leaving you exposed, vulnerable, raw. The feelings, the memories, and the love you had once shared were still there, buried beneath the surface, waiting to be reawakened.

He left a carefully chosen book on your desk, a first edition of your favorite author, he accidentally brushed your hand during a briefing, his touch sending a jolt of electricity through you. Your gun permit, which had been inexplicably delayed for weeks, suddenly appeared on your desk the next morning, stamped and approved. He offered you a ride home one evening, the silence in the car filled with unspoken words, the tension between you thick enough to cut with a knife. He began to share small details about his life, his work, and his team, offering you glimpses into the world he had once kept so carefully hidden, a silent invitation to bridge the chasm that had separated you for so long. One afternoon, you found your schedule cleared and a scribbled note on your desk: “Take a break. You deserve it.”

You began to question your initial assumptions about John's priorities, the narrative you had constructed to explain the demise of your marriage. You had blamed his work, absences, secrets, and dedication to a world you couldn't comprehend, a world that demanded his complete and utter devotion, leaving no room for you, for the life you had envisioned together.

But now, as you observed him in the operations room, his authority commanding the respect of everyone in the room, his strategic mind dissecting complex problems with ease, his commitment to his team evident in every carefully chosen word, every decisive action – you realized that his work wasn’t just a job, a career, a means to an end, but a part of who he was, a calling that demanded his complete and utter devotion.

Perhaps he hadn't made a conscious decision to prioritize his career over your love, but had felt incapable, unworthy, of juggling the demands of both, of being the husband he wanted to be, the husband he believed you deserved.

Perhaps he hadn't chosen his work over you, as you had once so bitterly believed.

Perhaps he was his work, just as he was the man who left chamomile tea and thoughtful notes on your desk, the man whose love, despite the years of separation, had somehow managed to endure, a stubborn ember glowing beneath the ashes of your shared past, waiting for the breath of forgiveness to fan it back into a flame.

And in that realization, something within you shifted. The resentment, the bitterness, began to dissolve, replaced by a newfound understanding and respect, and a flicker of hope that perhaps, just perhaps, it wasn't too late.

The evening before the mission, as he handed you another steaming mug of chamomile tea, a small routine that had formed, he confessed his regret, his voice low, husky, his words a carefully measured confession. “Listen,” he said, his gaze holding yours, “when we leave for this mission tomorrow, I at least wanted to have said this... I was an idiot letting you go.” The words hung between you, heavy with unspoken regret, the weight of years gone by.

You simply nodded, your voice failing you, the sudden rush of emotions threatening to overwhelm you. “Thank you, John,” you managed to whisper, your voice barely audible above the hum of the computers. You turned away, retreating to the safety of your work, your heart pounding, your mind racing.

You couldn't rest. His confession, his admission of regret, acted as a catalyst, a spark that ignited the embers of your own emotions. A sudden, unexpected revelation that shook you to your core. You realized that your feelings for him were still there, stronger, perhaps, than ever before, buried beneath the surface, waiting, patiently, persistently, for this moment.

The next morning, he was gone. The days that followed were a blur of anxiety and anticipation. You found yourself constantly checking for updates, scanning the news feeds for any hint of what was happening on the ground, your heart pounding with each notification, each report. Then, finally, the news arrived. The mission was a success. Kate informed you that John’s team had returned, that he was back, safe and sound.

You had to see him. You needed to see him.

You drove to his flat, your heart pounding, a chaotic mix of hope and fear, anticipation and dread, warring within you. As you stood before his door, your hand hovering over the buzzer, you took a deep breath, steeling yourself for the encounter, for the potential rejection. You pressed the buzzer, the sound echoing in the quiet hallway, each second stretching into an eternity as you waited for his response. He opened the door, his expression a mixture of surprise and concern.

“Hey,” he said, his voice rough with sleep, his hair tousled, his clothes rumpled. “What’s wrong? Did some – ”

He didn't get to finish his question. You threw yourself into his arms, your body colliding with his, your arms wrapping around him, holding him tight, as if you could physically merge with him and erase the years of separation. He stiffened momentarily, surprised by the suddenness of your embrace. Then his arms closed around you, his touch tentative at first, then tightening.

He held you tight, his hands stroking your hair, his touch gentle, reassuring, a silent apology for the pain caused, the distance created, the years he had been absent from your life. He didn’t speak, didn’t ask for explanations, didn’t question the sudden outpouring of emotions.

You stood there for a long moment, locked in a silent embrace, the world outside fading away, replaced by the comforting warmth of his body, the steady rhythm of his heart against yours, the familiar, comforting scent of his skin. It was a sensory symphony that evoked a flood of memories, both sweet and bittersweet.

Finally, you pulled back slightly, your eyes searching his. “I…” you began, your voice trembling slightly, the words catching in your throat.

He looked at you, his eyes filled with concern. “Tell me,” he said, his voice soft and gentle, an invitation to share what was on your mind.

You took a deep breath. “When you said… when you said you were an idiot for letting me go…” you began, your voice trembling, your gaze locking with his, searching for any flicker of judgment, of rejection, “It… it made me realize something. Something I should have realized a long time ago.”

He waited patiently for you to continue, his silence a comforting presence, an unspoken promise that he would listen.

“It made me realize that… that maybe I was the idiot, too,” you confessed. “For… for giving up on us. For asking you to choose when I knew, deep down, that this life, this work… it’s a part of you. It’s who you are.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but you stopped him, your hand gently covering his, a silent plea for him to let you finish. “Seeing you back there, in the operations room, commanding, leading… I realized how much of this life is a part of you, how much you thrive in this world. Asking you to leave it… it would have been like asking you to give up a part of yourself. And that’s not what love is, John. Love isn’t about changing someone, it’s about accepting them, flaws and all.” Tears welled in your eyes, blurring your vision, but you blinked them back, determined to meet his gaze.

He didn’t answer, just pulled you closer, closing the door behind you, shutting out the world. He led you inside, took your jacket, carefully hung it up, and then offered you a drink. “Whiskey?” he asked, his voice a low rumble that sent a familiar shiver down your spine. You nodded.

The familiar sound of ice clinking against glass filled the quiet of his flat, a comforting counterpoint to the frantic beating of your heart. Your throat suddenly felt dry, the anticipation coating your tongue like the first sip of cheap booze. As he poured the drinks, your gaze traced the familiar lines of his body, the subtle play of muscle beneath the worn fabric of his t-shirt, the scars that mapped the hidden landscape of his past. He handed you your glass, his fingers brushing yours, the contact sparking a flicker of warmth that spread quickly through your veins. You took a sip, the heat of the whiskey a welcome counterpoint to the nervous chill in your stomach. He raised his glass in a silent toast, his eyes locking with yours, the intensity of his gaze a palpable force that stole your breath away.

He set his glass down, the sound sharp in the sudden quiet. He reached for you, his hand cupping your cheek, his thumb gently stroking the skin beneath your eye. The rough texture of his calloused fingers against your skin was a stark reminder of the life he led and the dangers he faced, but you found it strangely reassuring at that moment of rekindled intimacy.

“I missed you,” he murmured, holding your gaze.

“I missed you too,” you whispered back, the words a release, a surrender to the yearning that had been a constant ache in your chest for far too long. Tears welled in your eyes, blurring your vision, hot against your skin. You hadn't realized how much you had needed to hear those words, how much you had needed to say them, until they hung in the air between you, fragile and precious.

He leaned in, his lips brushing against yours, a feather-light touch that sent tremors through your body, awakening nerve endings that had lain dormant for far too long. You closed your eyes, savoring the sensation. Then, his lips pressed against yours with increased force, the kiss deepening, growing more urgent, more demanding.

His hands moved to your waist, pulling you closer, molding your body against his. The sensation of his familiar touch, the way he held you, sent a wave of heat through you, mingled with a deep sense of belonging, of coming home.

He lifted you into his arms, carrying you towards the bedroom. The world outside faded away, replaced by the feel of his arms around you, the steady beat of his heart against yours, the warmth of his breath on your skin. He laid you gently on the bed, the soft sheets cool against your heated skin. His body hovered over yours, his gaze holding yours, his eyes, once clouded with guilt and regret, now filled with a love so deep, so intense, that it stole your breath away. He kissed you again, his lips moving against yours with a hunger that mirrored your own.

He undressed you slowly, deliberately, reverently, his hands mapping the familiar landscape of your body with a newfound appreciation, a rediscovered sense of wonder, as though he were tracing the contours of a cherished map, each curve and hollow a familiar landmark on a journey he had almost forgotten.

He reached for the clasp of your bra, his fingers fumbling slightly with the fastening, the momentary clumsiness a endearing reminder of his nervousness. The cool air against your newly exposed skin sent a shiver down your spine, a frisson of anticipation that mingled with the warmth of his gaze. He looked at you, his eyes dark with desire, his gaze lingering on the swell of your breasts, the rosy peaks of your nipples hardening under his scrutiny. He lowered his head, his lips brushing against your skin, his tongue tracing a slow, wet path from the base of your throat to the valley between your breasts, sending shivers of pleasure radiating outwards, a symphony of sensation that had you arching towards him, your body humming with anticipation. He took one nipple into his mouth, sucking gently, then harder, drawing a soft moan from deep within your throat. His hand cupped your other breast, his thumb circling your nipple, mimicking the motion of his mouth, the dual stimulation sending waves of pleasure crashing through you.

You reached for him, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer, your nails lightly scratching his scalp, eliciting a low groan of pleasure from deep within his chest. You wanted him closer, needed him closer, the years of separation, the ache of loneliness, melting away in the heat of his touch, the warmth of his body against yours.

He moved lower, his lips trailing a path of fire down your stomach, his tongue dipping into your navel, sending a shiver of anticipation through you. He kissed the soft skin of your inner thighs, his breath warm against your most sensitive flesh, his touch igniting a fire in your core. He reached for the waistband of your panties, his fingers hooking beneath the fabric, his gaze meeting yours, seeking permission. You nodded, your breath catching in your throat, the anticipation almost unbearable.

He pulled your panties down, his touch slow, deliberate, his gaze lingering on the delicate folds of your flesh, now exposed to his hungry gaze. He moved lower still, his tongue parting your folds and brushing against your clit, sending a jolt of electricity through you, your body arching involuntarily towards his touch. He kissed you there, gently at first, then with growing intensity, his tongue flicking across your swollen nub, drawing out a sharp gasp of pleasure from deep within your throat. You reached down, your fingers tangling in his hair again, anchoring you to the present moment, the exquisite reality of his touch, his warmth, the intoxicating scent of his skin mingling with yours.

“John,” you moaned, his name a plea, a prayer, escaping your lips on a wave of pure, unadulterated pleasure.

He continued to lavish attention on your clit, his tongue circling, teasing, stroking, building the pressure, the pleasure, until you were writhing beneath him, your body arching towards his, your moans growing louder, more insistent. He hummed against you, the vibration a low, guttural sound that resonated deep within your core, amplifying the pleasure that coursed through you. He inserted a finger into you, slowly, deliberately, stretching you, filling you, the sensation both exquisite and familiar, a reminder of the intimacy you had once shared, an intimacy you had almost forgotten, an intimacy you now craved with a desperate hunger. You cried out, a mixture of pleasure and a sharp pang of need. He added another finger, then another, scissoring them inside you, mimicking the rhythm of his tongue on your clit, building the pressure, the pleasure, until you were on the verge of shattering, your body humming with anticipation, your senses overwhelmed by the exquisite torture of his touch.

“Please,” you begged, your voice thick with longing, your body aching for release. “John, please…”

He looked up at you then, his eyes filled with a raw hunger that mirrored your own, a flame that had been rekindled, now burning brighter, hotter, than ever before. He withdrew his fingers, his touch lingering on your swollen clit, sending a final jolt of pleasure through you that had you gasping. He rose then and began to shed his clothes. You watched him, mesmerized, as he shrugged off his shirt, revealing the broad expanse of his chest, the muscles rippling beneath his skin, the familiar scattering of dark hair across his chest and stomach. The familiar crisscross pattern of scars, some new, some old, resembling a map of his battles fought. Your gaze lingered on the planes of his stomach, the defined line of his V, the way his muscles flexed with each movement. He unbuckled his belt, the sound loud in the quiet room, then unzipped his trousers, pushing them down his legs, revealing his cock, hard and throbbing, already glistening. He stepped out of his pants, then reached down to pull off his boxers, revealing him fully to you. You admired him, the raw power and vulnerability he embodied in that moment, the man you had loved, lost, and now found again.

He positioned himself between your legs, the heat of his cock pressing against your entrance, a familiar pressure that sent a wave of longing through you. You reached down, your fingers wrapping around his shaft, stroking him gently, feeling the familiar texture of his skin against yours, the heat radiating from him. He groaned low in his throat, his hips bucking involuntarily against your touch. You arched your back, pressing yourself against him, wanting him closer, needing him inside you.

He pushed forward slowly, deliberately, the head of his cock stretching you, filling you, the sensation both exquisite and familiar, a reminder of the past and a promise of the future. You cried out, a mixture of pleasure and a sharp pang of need, your hands gripping his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin, anchoring you to the present, to the reality of his touch, his warmth, the solid weight of him inside you. A wave of heat flooded through you, centered low in your belly, spreading outward in ripples of pure sensation. It was more than just physical; it was a feeling of rightness, of completion. It was as if his cock was made to be inside you; the way it filled you so completely, so perfectly, the way it stretched you, possessed you. Each thrust reawakened a memory, a sensation, a feeling you thought you'd lost forever. You clung to him, your body molding against his, desperate to erase the distance, to bridge the gap, to become one with him again.

He paused, holding himself still inside you, allowing you to adjust to his size, his fullness. “Tell me what you want,” he whispered, his voice thick with need.

“Fuck me, John,” you moaned, your voice thick with longing, your body aching for the friction, the release, the complete and utter surrender to the moment, to him.

He obliged, moving within you, slowly at first, savoring the feeling of reconnection. He knew exactly how to touch you, where to press, how to angle his thrusts to elicit the most intense pleasure, as if he had the very skin between your thighs memorized, as if your body was a map he had charted again and again in his mind during the long years of your separation. His rhythm was slow, deliberate, each thrust a measured exploration, a rediscovery of the intimate language your bodies once spoke so fluently. Your hands found his back, your fingers digging into his skin, anchoring you to the present, to the exquisite reality of him inside you. Your faces were inches apart, your gazes locked, his eyes reflecting the same raw hunger and desperate longing that burned within you.

Lost souls, wandering in the wilderness, finally brought home to each other.

The slow burn intensified with each thrust, building a pressure that coiled tight in your belly. He groaned, a low, guttural sound that vibrated against your skin, resonating deep within your core.

“God, you feel so good,” he murmured, his breath warm against your skin. He shifted his angle slightly, his cock brushing against a particularly sensitive spot within you, sending a jolt of pure pleasure through your body. You arched against him, your hips meeting his thrusts, your moans growing louder, more insistent.

He withdrew almost completely, then plunged back inside you, the friction building with each thrust, the pleasure intensifying until it became an exquisite torment. You tangled your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, closer, wanting to merge with him completely, to erase the years of being apart, the ache of loneliness, the bitter taste of regret. Your nails dug into his back, leaving crescent-shaped marks on his skin.

“John,” you cried out, his name a desperate plea, a prayer, escaping your lips on a wave of pure pleasure. "John, yes ..."

The world narrowed, focused down to the single, overwhelming sensation of him inside you, filling you, possessing you, completing you – the pressure built, coiling tighter and tighter, until it became unbearable.

Then, with a final, powerful thrust, it broke, a wave of pure bliss washing over you, consuming you, shattering you into a million pieces. It was as if the very essence of your being dissolved, merging with his in a blinding flash of white-hot ecstasy. Your body convulsed around him, your muscles contracting, your breath coming in short, gasping sobs. You cried out his name, a wordless expression of the joy, the release, the complete and utter surrender to him.

He followed close behind, his body shuddering with the force of his orgasm, his cock throbbing inside you, spilling his seed deep within you, a tangible expression of his love, his possession, his complete and utter surrender to the overwhelming power you held over him.

It was a shared climax, a melting point where the years of separation dissolved, and the barriers between you crumbled, leaving only the raw, visceral connection of two souls intertwined, two bodies forged together in pure euphoria.

At that moment, there was nothing but you and him, your bodies intertwined, skin on skin, two halves of a whole, finally reunited.

He collapsed on top of you, his weight comforting, his breath warm against your skin. He rolled onto his side, pulling you close, his arm draped protectively over your waist, his hand resting on your hip, his fingers gently tracing the curve of your bone. You snuggled against him, your head resting on his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart, a comforting sound that lulled you into a state of blissful contentment. The silence stretched between you, now filled with a comfortable intimacy. The years before suddenly seemed like a distant nightmare.

“Come home,” you whispered, your voice barely audible above the steady rhythm of his breathing, the words escaping your lips before you could fully process their meaning, a sudden, unexpected outpouring of a need you hadn’t realized was so profound, so deeply rooted in the very core of your being. You wanted him with you, in your life. You wanted to wake up next to him in the morning, the scent of his skin mingling with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee, to share a cup of chamomile tea. You wanted him home, not as a fleeting visitor, a ghost from the past, but as a constant presence.

He shifted slightly, his gaze searching yours, a question forming in his eyes. You’d spoken without thinking, your words driven by the raw intensity of the moment, the overwhelming sense of connection and belonging that had washed over you. As the initial euphoria faded, replaced by a sudden wave of self-consciousness, you realized how forward you’d been, how presumptuous, how soon . You froze, your heart pounding in your chest, a sudden fear gripping you, the fear of rejection, of having overstepped, of having shattered the fragile, nascent hope of a future you had only just begun to envision.

“Are you sure?” he asked, his voice low and hesitant, his words gentle and probing.

“My life is so empty without you, John,” you confessed, your voice barely above a whisper, the words a simple, heartfelt truth, an admission of the loneliness that had been your constant companion for so long, the gnawing emptiness that had threatened to consume you, to erode the very core of your being. “I… I miss you. I miss us .”

You looked at him then, your eyes pleading, your gaze searching his, seeking reassurance, understanding. You reached out to touch his face, your fingers grazing the stubble on his jaw. “You should have never left in the first place.”

He smiled then, a genuine, heartfelt smile that reached his eyes, chasing away the lingering shadows of doubt and regret, illuminating his face with a warmth that melted your heart. “I know.”

You took a deep breath. “I… I was so inconsiderate,” you began, your voice trembling slightly. “To dismiss the intensity of your job. To ask you to choose. I should have understood, should have realized…”

He reached out, his hand gently covering your mouth, silencing your self-recriminations, his touch a comforting reassurance, a silent promise of forgiveness. “We both had our reasons. We both made mistakes. We both… we both went through a difficult time. I wish things could have been different. I hated being gone so much, hated knowing I was causing you pain” He paused, his thumb gently stroking your cheek. “It’s okay. We’re here now.”

“But, for better or for worse, right?” you whispered, echoing the vows you had exchanged so many years ago, vows that had been broken but not forgotten, vows that now held a newfound significance. “I… I broke that promise, John. I walked away.”

He leaned in then, his lips brushing against yours, his breath warm against your skin. “And I let you,” he whispered, “but not again. Never again.”

He kissed you then, a deep, lingering kiss that sealed the unspoken promise between you, a promise of forgiveness, of understanding, of a love reborn from the ashes of your shared past. You lay there, wrapped in each other's arms, content in the intimacy of a love that had, against all odds, refused to die.

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lologoinsolo · 1 day ago

Text

Part 3, Part 4

Cats and Their Men Masterlist.

“Sir, I’m telling you.” You sit up a little more, “you cannot get a rabies shot from the vet.” You can’t believe what you’re hearing but also, you can believe it. “If you are worried that you have rabies then you need to go to the doctor.” You’ve repeated this so much that the man finally leaves in a huff. Well not before cussing you out for being a bitch to him. “Not shopping here anymore, my ass.” Mocking how he yelled that out before he left the store.

You take a breather when you start to get worked up. Rubbing your face like one would a cat, the smock you’re wearing is slightly wet and it’s making your skin prickle. You managed to get Jessica to let you start bathing two days ago. You figured it would be easier than working the register up front. Boy… were you wrong. The dogs are great, usually, but the pet owners or “Pet Parents” as the groomers say are not great, mostly.

Your eyes flicker over to the computer, you were making a ton of cold call to entice people to take their dogs in for bath or haircut when that guy was very insistent about needing to a rabies shot. “Can’t believe this—“ you start off but something catches your eyes. A man with a beard and a dark blue beanie is walking by holding some kitten salmon bags. A cat is walking right behind him. “Uh, sir!”

You stand up and come around to greet him. He must not’ve heard you with how he still walks. “Sir!” You yell a little louder and he pauses, turns around and looks at you. “Your cat,” you point down to the cat that’s now licking their toe beans. “They need to be leashed or in a kennel. They can’t be walking around.” It’s not safe, especially with other animals. The cat could get lost or worse! You start walking towards him, you plan on offering to help at least hold his cat for him.

He looks where you pointed and then looks at you coming up to him. “That’s not mine.”

You blink at him, your hands start to land on your hip. You’ve heard a lot of dumb things today but this is taking the cake. “Really?” You squint at him when the cat starts to rub at the man’s leg. “Sir, I understand that they are doing well by staying by you but it’s not safe—“

“Miss,” he cuts you off, he moves the kitten food to one arm, “I don’t have a cat.” He leans a little on his side, his chin tucks to his chest. There’s a spark of amusement in his deep blue eyes.

You can’t believe this. He’s holding kitten food in his hands, granted that cat isn’t a kitten but still! You take a deep breath, your patience has been running from you and you try to catch it once more. “Sir, the cat—“ just as you’re about your speech a man starts running up in your peripheral.

“Ah, there you are, love!” A familiar sound comes from the side, a dashing smile as always and slightly messed up face. “Was wondering if I’d catch you again— Sir?” Kyle turns from you and then looks slightly shocked. They know each other? “What are you?” He trails off when he sees the bag, “Oh, you’re cat sitting, I thought Johnny was gonna cat sit Bailey?” His arms cross a little, the puzzled look on his face brightens when he spots the cat doing a figure eight around the bearded man’s legs.

The man’s lips thin into a line, “Johnny’s needed, he had to head out.” Sadly, he ignores the cats affection, and then the older man looks from you to Kyle and then back to you. Something must’ve clicked in his head as his heavy brows lift just the slightest “I don’t have a cat, Miss,” he says to you, “bloke probably followed me in.” Kyle comes close and crouches, squatting right in front of the man. The cat perks up and nudges right against Kyle’s waiting hand.

“Looks like you, sir.” And the cat kinda does, there’s matching brown on the cats face, almost like a beard, and deep blue eyes, same as the man’s. “Just missing a cigar and fishing hat. Or beanie.”

“Garrick.” The older man’s voice is tight and looks on the edge of sounding like authority.

“Sir?” Kyle seems either none the wiser or is purposefully playing ignorant. He looks up with a grin, “it's fate, that’s your cat now.” He laughs and the older man looks none too happy. “Cat distribution center is at it again. Johnny will not be pleased one bit.”

“I don’t want the cat.” He looks to you and you shake your head side to side, same for your hands as you shake them in front of you.

“Sir, we can’t hold animals here.”

The man sighs long suffering like and Kyle laughs a little louder. “Face it, John,” he moves his hand down the cats back, who is now purring up a storm at all the loving, “he’s yours,” he lifts the cat's leg slightly to see the gender and the cat must think Kyle’s playing. He lets out a little noise and proceeds to curl and grip Kyle’s hand. Bunny kicking and licking at Kyle’s fingers. “Playful little guy.” Wiggling his hands some more and the cat pounces.

John, now that you know his name it’s rather suiting for him, tilts his head back with a sigh. The dark blue beanie he’s wearing scrunches slightly at the top. He mutters something under his breath about needing a smoke. Kyle continues playing with the cat and you wonder if that’s how he’s gotten more cuts on his hands and face. His kitty probably plays too roughly.

But, what are the odds that 3 men are back to back finding cats? You laugh a little and John tilts his head down towards you. Your laughter does and give him a sheepish smile, “don’t laugh now, sweetheart. You’re gonna help me with him.” His beard moves slightly as he looks none too happy. His cat really does look a little like him. Grumpy. You look to the empty grooming salon and then back at the two. Kyle has long since stood with the cat now up in his arms.

“Wonder if he’s old,” Kyle muses as he stands beside you, you in the middle of the two walls of man and muscle. “Would be a real match, eh, John?” The little nudge at age merely makes the older gent huff a laugh.

“Don’t test me, Garrick.” There’s no real bite in his words save for the twinkle in his eyes. You excuse yourself to go grab a cart for the two men, the grooming salon is as empty as can be. Jess can handle it, you think with a shrug as you walk on back. Pushing the cart and when you get close, you hear that they’re discussing names. Well, Kyle is at least.

“Could call him John Jr.” he holds up the cat a little, “beard boy, cigar, wonderer.” His names get worse and worse and you finally step in with a—

“How about Louis?” Both men look at you and you shuffle under their gaze, “that’s an old man name. I don’t really think the cat’s old though. Maybe 3 or 4 years old?”

There’s a little pause and you wonder if you should have went back to the grooming salon. “Old man name, huh?” John places the salmon kitten bag in the cart and quirks a brow to you. Kyle plops the cat down in the cart and already he’s off to sniffing the contents. “Just looks old, got a good amount of years left on him though. Ain’t that right, boy?” He moves his hand slowly to the cat. Louis purrs deeply and rubs right against his dad’s hand. Kyle says something, probably a tease, but you’re too entranced at what you see. A man that oozes strict authority, is being incredibly gentle in petting.

You really do need to work on your judgement. “Speaking of names,” you cough slightly, looking to Kyle whose’s already grabbing a nice looking cat bed. 2 to exact, his cat is definitely spoiled, “What’d you name your girl after all?”

“Oh, yeah, that…” He gives a small smile making your brows turn up. You think the worst, you really hope he didn’t give her away but you don’t know his circumstance or his home life. Just before you spiral he speaks, “don’t laugh, but her name is Marina.” You breathe a sigh of relief you didn’t know your were holding in. But you start to look downright puzzled at why he think you’d laugh. “She’s,” Kyle starts, he seems a little squirmy now, “she’s named after that lady on Sinbad… you know… the one with Eris in it and Sinbad had to—“ it starts to click.

“Oh!” Your noise alerts Louis who was making biscuits on one of the beds, “I remember that movie. Very regal sounding and I think it’s very fitting considering Marina was a bit sassy.” You loved her character in that movie. “She’ll look even cuter in that pirate costume with a name like that.”

“Thank you,” he sighs in relief, “Johnny thought it was dumb. Wanted to name her Rugrat,” he scowls, “course he was taking a piss but still.”

“Well,” you pull a face at that, “this Johnny has no idea what he’s talking about. I thought you said he was good with names?”

John’s eyes squint as he scoffs. “He can’t name shit.” He’s heard all the stupid names that the Scot has given his bombs. Cannot hear about another ‘BoomBoom’ or ‘Bigbooming’ without wanting to roll his eyes. Hard.

You laugh at this Johnny’s expense. You have a feeling that with the way this has been going… you’ll probably meet him sooner rather than later. It’s a real small world that the men you’re talking to also happens to be friend. Weird coincidences…

You end up joking back and forth with Kyle the entire time you take them around the store. Kyle’s been picking up more things for his baby and Louis is snoozing on the cat bed like the “old man” that he is. You give John the full rundown just like the two men before. He takes in your information like you’re giving him instructions on how to build a ship, very laser focused. Every time you looked away he’d follow you to keep eye contact. Your cheeks have never been warmer…

Eventually you get them both back to the grooming salon. Rather than making them go up front you use the register here to start scanning their items. Even slid them some coupons and discounts much to John’s strong disagreement. You bagged all their items and passed them both their receipts, giving Louis one last rubbing that wakes the old grump up. You quietly apologized for your transgressions and wave at the men once they take their leave. John gives a nod but Kyle waves back, you barely catch what Kyle says as they start walking away.

“…m’s gonna be back this week or next, sir?”

“This week, Gaz. Now help me load my truck.”

“Yes, sir. Johnny is gonna be livid that you have a cat now.”

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random-thot-generator · 1 day ago

Text

The road violations I would be committing 😫

TICKET TO PLAY | john price

Sheriff Price has a habit of pulling you over, and you have a habit of seeing how far you can push him. It’s a game you've been playing for years—a harmless one, until he gives you exactly what you’ve been asking for.

⤿ based on this | [ AO3 ]

18+ AU, fem!reader, small town vibes, porn with minimal plot, smut, oral (m receiving), dom!john (back and forth between hard and soft), bratty—sort of pathetic reader, fingering, squirting, public sex, smidge of voyeurism, size kink if you really read the fine print, implied slight age gap [ 6.6k words ]

You weren’t going that fast.

Maybe nudging 35 in a 25, but the road was empty—just you and the soft, golden light of a July evening slipping into dusk. The cicadas hummed their lazy symphony, crickets chirping in harmony, while the air carried the scent of fresh-cut grass and summer warmth. It was the kind of night that wrapped around you like a blanket, slow and sweet, the kind that made you want to roll the windows down and let the world drift by.

But then the sirens sliced through the calm, sharp and jarring, shattering the stillness. Red and blue lights flashed in your rearview, splashing the road ahead in a chaotic swirl of color. Your hands tightened on the wheel, that familiar knot twisting in your gut. You didn’t even need to check the mirror to know who it was.

Sheriff John Price.

The small-town Sheriff (asshole) that had a sixth sense for catching you when you weren’t even doing anything wrong. The guy who’d written you up for a rolling stop at an empty intersection, or a right on red at 2 a.m. when the streets were dead silent. Sure, maybe you were five over on a straight stretch of road, but come on—did he really have nothing better to do than hassle you over that? It was starting to feel like he was just looking for excuses to pull you over.

At this point, you figured you were practically on a first-name basis. Hell, you were probably the most frequent flyer on his ticket roster. But that was the trade-off for living in a town where the sheriff knew everyone’s business—and apparently, yours most of all.

You eased the rickety old Nissan Skyline to a crawl, tires screeching softly as you pulled onto the shoulder and shifted into park. Your fingers moved on autopilot, fishing the registration out of the center console before he even asked. If John Price had one talent, it was knowing where you were before you did—and you’d learned the hard way to keep things within arm’s reach.

The music blared for a second longer before you killed the volume, the sudden silence pressing down on the summer night like a weight. You rolled down the window, letting the warm, sticky air flood the cabin, thick with the scent of grass and distant rain. Leaning back in your seat, one hand resting lazily on the wheel, you waited. Same old song and dance.

First came the slam of his cruiser door, sharp and final, like he was already annoyed at the prospect of dealing with you. Then the crunch of his boots on the asphalt—slow, deliberate, each step dragging out the inevitable. It was almost comical, the way he took his time, like he wasn’t the one who’d flipped on the lights and sirens.

The window hissed as it rolled down, the sound jarring in the quiet, and before you could stop yourself, a smirk tugged at the corner of your mouth. You didn’t bother hiding it this time. If you were walking away thirty dollars lighter, you might as well make it entertaining.

"Evenin’, John," you drawl, letting the words hang in the air with a playful edge that makes his jaw tighten.

He leans in, his arms braced against the window frame like he owns the whole damn road. His face is all sharp lines and shadows in the fading light, the faint scent of cigarettes and worn leather wrapping around you, mingling with the heavy, humid air of the summer night.

“Don’t call me John,” he grumbles, his voice rougher than usual, like gravel under tires.

You raise an eyebrow, your lips curling into a grin. “Why not?” you tease, letting your fingers trail lazily along the steering wheel. “Thought we were friends, John.” You bat your lashes, adding a pout for good measure, laying it on thick just to see how far you can push him this time

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t even blink. His eyes narrow, the muscles in his jaw twitching as he leans in closer, his presence crowding you. “We aren’t ‘friends,’” he says, his voice low, almost a growl. “You know why I pulled you over?”

It’s not really a question—it’s a challenge, and you can’t help but rise to it. You tilt your head, letting your gaze linger on him, your smirk widening. “Hmm… maybe ‘cause you’re a sucker for a pretty car?” you suggest, your tone dripping with sarcasm, sweet enough to sting.

John’s lips press into a thin line, but the subtle shift in his posture tells you everything you need to know. His gaze is unrelenting, sharp enough to cut through the cool facade you’re trying so hard to maintain. Internally, he’s fighting not to laugh—you can see it in the way his shoulders tense, like he’s holding back a cackle.

“If this—” he steps back, his eyes sweeping over the exterior of your car with deliberate slowness before landing back on you, “—is your idea of a ‘pretty car,’ I might have to issue you a ticket for driving without glasses.”

You lean back in your seat, arms crossing over your chest, your mouth hanging open in mock offense. Just because Fergie was old didn’t mean she was ugly. “Has anyone ever told you you’re an ass?”

He stands there for a moment, just watching you, his expression unreadable. It’s like he’s weighing how much more of this he’s willing to put up with. Finally, he tilts his head, his voice dry as dust. “Has anyone ever told you you’re a brat?”

“Touché.”

You two had been here before. Over and over again. Ever since you’d come back home from college, he’d been hot on your trail—always showing up at the worst possible moments, right when you thought you might’ve gotten away with it.

This was your town. You’d grown up here, knew every road, every corner, every face. It was small, sure, but it was yours. And then John Price showed up. Sparkling, brand new hot-shot sheriff, fresh off the Mayflower. Sworn in by all the touch-starved wives and swooned over by every teenage girl in a fifty-mile radius. Ever since he’d arrived, it was like Elvis all over again

You figured he didn’t have the right to boss the locals around like he owned the place. No shiny badge or gun on his hip was going to earn him any respect from you. This wasn’t some big city where the badge meant everything. Out here? You could be just as stubborn as he was.

Still, he had a knack for showing up when you least expected it, always lurking in the background, keeping an eye on you for reasons you couldn’t quite figure out. No one could explain it, but there he was, always hovering like you were some kind of problem. But you never did anything wrong. Not really.

“I bet you 50 bucks there’s about five disgruntled teens smoking pot under the high school bleachers as we speak,” you say, leaning back in your seat with a grin tugging at your lips. “Surely, they deserve your devotion and attention more than little ol’ me.”

He pauses, clearly weighing your words, and you can see the flicker of recognition in his eyes. “I don’t want your money,” he mutters, his tone dry but with a hint of amusement—and something else you can’t quite place. “Besides, I doubt you’ve got 50 dollars to spare, considering how often you’re in the precinct paying off tickets.” He leans in just a little, his gaze sharp, like he’s daring you to argue.

You shrug, playing the part, even though you know he’s right. “Hey, I’m just saying. You’re wasting your time with me. I’m practically a model citizen. Those kids under the bleachers, though? They could be causing all kinds of trouble.”

You give him a sidelong glance, letting the playful challenge hang in the air between you. “I’m just trying to help you out here, Sheriff.”

Your tone is sweet—too sweet—and you can almost see the gears turning in his head as he tries to figure out whether you’re messing with him or just being your usual self.

He takes a slow breath, clearly trying to keep his composure. His hand pinches the bridge of his nose before he exhales, the sound heavy with exasperation. “Oh, I’m sure you are,” he says, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Big help, givin’ me that advice.”

You raise an eyebrow, leaning forward just enough to close the distance between you, your voice dripping with mock sincerity. “What can I say, Sheriff? Someone’s gotta make your job worthwhile.”

For a moment, the world seems to narrow to just the two of you. The air grows heavy, charged with something you can’t quite name, and the silence stretches taut between you. But then the faint hum of a car engine cuts through the stillness, tires rolling past on the asphalt—a sharp reminder that you’re not alone out here.

“Step out of the car.” His voice is calm, steady, but there’s a flicker of something darker beneath the surface, a low undercurrent that sends a shiver down your spine.

Your jaw tightens, anger flaring hot and sudden in your chest. He’s never asked you to step out of the car before, and the demand catches you off guard. You can’t afford to be arrested—not with a shift at the diner at 6 a.m. tomorrow morning, not with the way your life is already balanced on a knife’s edge. The thought of cuffs, of being hauled into the precinct, makes your stomach churn.

But you don’t move. Not yet. Instead, you meet his gaze, your own sharp and defiant, and for a heartbeat, the two of you are locked in a silent standoff.

You don’t say a word, just reach down to unclick your seatbelt with an indignant sigh, movements slow—like dragging out the inevitable might change the outcome. The latch pops, the sound too loud in the quiet, and you open the door, letting the evening air rush in, cool against the heat prickling at your skin.

You step out, tugging your shorts down where they’ve ridden up, keeping your gaze on the ground, on the cracks in the pavement, anywhere but at him. You try to keep your breathing steady, try to act like this is just another bullshit stop, just another way for him to waste your time and break your wallet. But your heart’s already racing, faster than you want it to.

Then his hand is on your hip.

Firm. Unmoving. Not quite guiding, not quite restraining. Just there. A weight that lingers, like a silent reminder that he’s the one in control here, no matter how much you want to believe otherwise.

For a second, you freeze.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, just watches you. The silence stretches, thick and heavy, charged with something you don’t want to name.

You swallow, still refusing to look at him. “Gonna write me a bullshit ticket, John?” Your voice is casual, flippant—too much so. You know it, and so does he.

He doesn’t answer right away, and that makes it worse.

Because the truth is, you’d rather he just do it. Write the damn ticket, hand you the fine, and send you on your merry way. That would be easy. It’d be normal.

But nothing about him has ever been easy. And this? Whatever this is? It sure as hell isn’t normal.

His fingers tighten—just slightly—but it’s enough. Enough for you to catch it, that flicker of something dark and barely restrained. His jaw tightens, his nostrils flare, and you realize he’s at his limit.

Like he’s weighing his options. Like he’s wondering if he should just give you the damn ticket and walk away.

You tilt your chin up, finally meeting his gaze, like a challenge. Would he?

His voice is tight when he finally speaks, low and strained, every word biting through the air.

"You think this is a game?"

You pause, letting the question linger as you ponder. Is it a game? Is that what this has always been? This back-and-forth, this constant chase—where you go about your life, minding your business, and he shows up, lurking, watching, like he’s got nothing better to do than make you his personal problem.

Would he really arrest you? Pin you against his cruiser and throw you in the back? Take you downtown like you’re some criminal? The thought sends a slow, involuntary shiver down your spine, but the more you think about it, the more ridiculous it sounds. If he was going to do it, it would’ve happened already.

He’s just a big softie. A stubborn, gruff, self-righteous pain in the ass who acts like he’s got the whole town in a chokehold but has spent too many years shadowing you for it to be a coincidence.

And deep down, you reckon he must have some sick, weird crush if the only way he can muster up the courage to see you is by stuffing a white slip of paper under your windshield wiper, like he can’t even be bothered to have a conversation without the safety of bureaucracy to hide behind.

You don’t even have to think about it anymore.

This is a game.

You keep your gaze steady, watching him. Watching the way he’s fighting to maintain that authority, to keep control. And through the harsh headlights from his car, it’s almost cute—the way his jaw tightens, the way his nostrils flare ever so slightly, the way his fingers twitch against your hip like he’s waging a war with himself. Like he thinks he can win.

But he can’t.

Not really.

His grip on you tightens, fingers pressing deeper, slipping beneath soft flesh to squeeze the bone. Like he’s trying to ground himself. Like he thinks if he just holds on tight enough, he can remind himself who’s in charge here.

But you see it—the shift in his expression, the cracks forming right in front of you. His eyes are darker now, narrowed with something he’s still pretending isn’t there, and his teeth grit like it physically pains him to keep standing here.

You just can’t resist.

You lean in just enough, close enough that your breath tickles his cheek, and with a slow, knowing smirk, you whisper, “You’ve been dying to get your hands on me, haven’t you, John?”

The words hang between you, sharp and saccharine, and for a moment, it’s like the world holds its breath.

His eyes go dark, that flicker of anger flashing through them like a warning. But it’s not just anger anymore. It’s something else, something raw. For a split second, you’re certain he’s off the deep end.

Before you can even blink, his hand moves. It’s fast, and suddenly, he’s grabbing you by the arm, yanking you toward him with a force that steals the breath from your lungs.

“Get over here,” he growls.

The words are rough, guttural, scraping against his throat like he’s been holding them back for too long.

The next thing you know, he’s dragging you to the hood of his cruiser, his grip tight and bruising as his fingers wrap around your wrist, effortlessly dwarfing it. The cold metal of the hood bites against your skin as he shoves you down, bending you over the car.

And then he’s on you.

His chest is solid heat against your back, his weight pressing you into the hood like he’s making sure you stay there. Your breath catches, chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven movements as you try to process just how quickly the shift between you has turned into this.

“Talk so fuckin’ much,” he mutters through clenched teeth, his voice a growl of frustration and something deeper, something rougher. His breath fans against your ear, hot and unsteady, sending a shiver down your spine.

One hand clamps over your wrists, holding them firm against the small of your back, while the other tangles in your hair, yanking your head back just enough to expose the vulnerable line of your throat.

The grip is possessive. Unforgiving, like he’s staking a claim.

“You think you can just keep pushing me? Keep fuckin’ with me like this, hmm?”

A soft whimper tumbles from your lips, and you bite down hard on your bottom lip, the rest of the sound dying in your throat. His hand pulls on your hair, making your neck arch back, and the sharp tug sends a jolt straight to your cunt. You try to choke back the reaction, but it’s impossible—the way he’s holding you, the way he’s pressing into you with every word, every move.

His body presses into yours, the intensity of it all making your pulse race. Despite everything, despite the situation, a shiver runs down your spine. You can tell he’s holding back by the way his teeth grit, the sharpness in his voice.

You smirk, tilting your head slightly to meet his gaze from the side. “By the way John Jr’s more sprung than a rainy day in April, I’d say you like it,” he groans and you chuckle, “You do like it, don’t you, John?”

The words slip from your lips, taunting him, and you can feel the shift in his posture before he even moves. His grip on your hair tightens, pulling you back further, forcing you to arch your neck more as he leans in, his breath hot and heavy against your skin, each exhale brushing over you like a warning.

“Think you’ve got me figured out?” he growls, teeth grazing the curve of your ear, his words a promise and a threat all at once. “Since you’re so fuckin’ knowledgeable, tell me something…”

Your pulse quickens, the anticipation like the loaded gun in his waistband. “Tell you what?” you ask, your voice quiet, almost breathless, but your eyes never leave his.

“Tell me what I do t’dumb girls that don’t know how t’speak only when spoken to,” he murmurs, his grip shifting, pulling you in closer, his body pressing against yours in a way that makes it impossible to ignore the growing bulge in his pants.

You can feel his cock twitch with interest in his jeans, and instinctively, you roll your hips back into his. The firm bulge presses against your pulsating cunt, offering just the smallest bit of reprieve from the ache in your clit and you can’t help but whimper. “You give them a ticket and send them on their way?”

“Nice try, love,” he says, the words dripping with disappointment, like he’s genuinely let down by your guess.

Before you can even react, his hand leaves your hair, and you hear the cold click of the cuffs snapping around your wrists.

You jerk against the restraint, but it’s useless. You turn to look up at him, but the look on his face—hands on his hips, blue eyes locked on you—makes you stop.

No smirk, no joke. Just intensity.

“Get on your knees,” he says, voice low, rough, without hesitation.

You bite your lip, the urge to snap back hitting you. But instead, you swallow it down and push yourself up, kneeling before him on the pavement. The roughness of it bites into your skin, the cuffs digging into your wrists, each pull reminding you of just how much control he has in this situation.

His boot taps lightly against your thigh, the sound sharp in the quiet air, a silent demand for your attention. You glance up, meeting his gaze, and the intensity in his eyes makes your breath catch. It’s a look that makes your pulse quicken, as if he can see right through you, into everything you’re trying to shovel deep..

“Sit,” he commands, the word simple, authoritative.

It takes you a second to realize what he means, but when his boot nudges against your clothed cunt, you get it.

You lift your hips slow, like you’re not sure but can’t help it, settling atop his boot. The sensation makes a shiver run up your spine. His fingers find your hair again, firm, enough to tilt your head back and make you look up at him.

“This’s been a long time coming, hasn’t it, dove?” His voice is quiet, almost a whisper, like he’s savoring the sight of you—knees to the ground, wrists bound, eyes wide as you stare up at him. He can’t help but palm himself at the sight.

Your heart pounds against your ribs, heat simmering in your cheeks with anticipation. “I’m not gonna beg,” you sneer, defiant like your cunt isn’t already drooling for him. The lie sits thick on your tongue, heavy enough to choke on.

He smirks—slow like he’s amused, but there’s something else there, like he’s already decided how he’ll play with you.

“That’s cute,” his fingers tighten in your hair, tilting your head back just a little further. Your lips part on instinct, a quiet, pained mewl slipping out before you can stop it.

“but you will,” he hums with a smile so saccharine, it makes you want to smack it off his face. His free hand reaches for his belt, fumbling with the leather as he pulls it out of the buckle. You can feel your body buzzing with anticipation, the tension building in every nerve of your body. Everything in your mind is screaming at you, telling you how wrong this is, how this can’t happen. But deep down, you know he’s right. This has been a long time coming.

But fuck, he’s a literal cop, the Sheriff. This has to fall under some public indecency law.

But despite everything, despite all the warnings your mind throws at you, the pull is stronger, too real to ignore. And you can’t stop yourself from leaning into it.

He peels down the zipper of his blue slacks and the sound echoes in your ears. You’re on your knees on the shoulder of a road, the last vestiges of daylight fading, and God help you, your mouth waters when you see the outline of his solid cock through his boxers.

He doesn't break eye contact, his other hand still tight in your hair, daring you to even try to look away. The recklessness, the sheer audacity of him whipping out his cock in the middle of a traffic stop. It’s all so palpable, like a stack of weights on your chest. He tugs down his boxers in one fluid movement, his cock springing free, and you can’t help but try to back away at the sight.

He's massive in every sense of the word. Dark curls trail from his navel to the base of him, thick but neatly kept. His cock hangs low and heavy between his legs, thick and long with a few veins and just the softest blush of pink at his tip. There’s no way you can take him all, let alone in your mouth.

He could see the shift in your eyes, the sudden apprehension in your demeanor, and the hand in your hair loosened. He trailed his fingers from your scalp to your cheek, his thumb wandering to the plump flesh of your parted lips.

“You can say no, dove. I won’t hold it against you,” he says softly, giving you an out. His blue eyes soften as they meet yours, and you know he wouldn’t force you. But the way the hard leather of his boot presses through your shorts, firm against your clit, has you fighting the urge to grind against him. You want—No, need him. Badly.

You bow your head to meet his cock, tongue darting out, hungrily swiping up the drop of precum dangling from his tip. He automatically groans and his hands find their way back to your scalp, feeding his cock into your mouth. Your lips tighten around him immediately, suckling as he presses in and stretches you out.

“Fuck— that’s it, love, so fuckin’ tight,” he babbles as he watches his length disappear in your mouth over and over. His eyes flutter shut as he tips his head back—he knew if he looked at you any longer he’d blow his load too soon. Your tongue is just so hot. He hadn’t expected it to be ice, but God you were sweltering. He nestled himself in the back of your throat so nicely, tickling and toying with your gag reflex each time you bobbed your head. You coat his length with slick spit, the sounds of your gags subconsciously making him push your head down even further.

You focus on steady breaths through your nose as his grip tightens. Your hands strain against the cuffs, aching to touch, to feel, to at least stroke where your mouth can’t reach. So pretty like this, he thinks. The way you look up at him, defiant yet desperate. The way your breath catches and your throat flutters around his mushroomed tip.

It drives him crazy—how much he wants to break that control, to make you lose it completely. His groans only spur you on further, your tongue moving with purpose, tracing the prominent vein along his underside.

Your hips jerk against his boot as spit gathers at the corners of your mouth, knees grinding into the asphalt, but you barely notice the sting. All you can think about is the way it makes heat pool in your cunt—sends sparks up your spine.

You can’t help it—your hips keep moving, grinding against his boot, the rough leather driving you wild, and you’re sure you’re leaving a wet spot. The friction is delicious, and you’re so lost in it that you almost miss when he speaks.

“Look at you,” he says, smirking despite how badly he needs to cum. “Can’t even help yourself, can you? Just a needy little mutt, humpin’ my boot.”

His hand tugs your strands, not rough but firm, just enough to make you gasp. “Just need your pretty pussy touched, that right?” he tuts softly, pulling you off him, a thin strand of saliva connecting your glistening lips to the tip of his cock. “On your feet, come on.” He guides you up, your legs shaky and chest heaving but his grip steadies you. “There you go, sweetheart.”

The sky’s a deep blue now, the sun long gone, the cruiser’s headlights casting faint shadows. He shoves you back against the hood, the metal cool against the backs of your thighs. His hands are on you immediately, rough and demanding, squeezing your thighs, your tits, like he’s marking his territory.

You bite your lip, trying to steady your breathing, but it’s useless. His fingers dig into your flesh, and your hips jerk instinctively, craving more. “So quiet now, hm?” he hums, his face centimeters from yours. “What happened to that smart little mouth of yours?”

The way he switches from caring to being so dominant, it makes your head spin. You glare at him, but he doesn’t care. His hand slides under the waistband of your shorts, fingers dancing over your soaked panties, and you can’t stop the way your hips roll into his hand, desperate for any touch he’ll give. “All this for me, sweet girl?” he mutters, middle finger slowly circling your sensitive clit, “All wound up, yeah? Need me to set you straight?”

“Fuck—,” you whine, your hips bucking into his hand, you can feel his breath against your lips as he chuckles. He deftly pulls your panties to the side, groaning when his fingers slide through your folds. His lips find your neck and he mouths at the sensitive patch of skin above your pulse, sucking a dark, red splotch into your skin as if you’re his.

You instinctively toss your head back, letting him lick hot, wet stripes from your clavicle to your jaw. He slips a single finger into you and your cunt squelches embarrassingly.

“Feels so good, John—,” you whine into the evening breeze as he pumps his finger in you, curling to hit your g-spot with precision you’ve never experienced. He smiles against your skin before enveloping your lips with his.

It’s hungry, messy, and desperate. His tongue crowds your mouth trying to drink you whole, like he’s been parched, waiting for you to quench his thirst since he first met you. He swallows your whines and pleas for more as he works you open, grinning when he slips in his ring finger alongside the middle and you gasp.

It’s a pathetic attempt, really, to kiss him back—to try to match his fervor. He has you at his mercy and you’re near collapsing into him as he finger fucks you, low heat pooling in your belly as the coil tightens, as you claw at the hood of the car, wishing the cuffs weren’t there—wishing you could claw at him instead.

“Feel you gettin’ all tight ‘round me, dove. Gonna cum? Gonna soak my fingers, doll?” He questions against your lips. Your walls are squeezing him so tight, sucking him in and keeping them there. So greedy, he thinks.

You nod vehemently, biting your lip so you don’t scream—or sob, you aren’t sure how to feel—into the air. He grinds the heel of his palm against your clit, and that’s all you need to finally break. You near black out when you cum, sparks shooting up your spine and making your vision go black for a moment, his fingers lazily working you through your orgasm as your legs shake and your walls damn near break his fingers.

“That’s my girl, knew you could do it,” he hums against your temple, wiping away tears you hadn’t known fallen.

You hadn’t cum that hard in your life. Not by yourself, and most certainly not by any of the lame frat boys you fucked in your college days.

But John isn’t in a frat.

And he certainly isn’t just a boy.

He gently slips his hand out of your pants, bringing his fingers up to his lips before popping them into his mouth. The way his eyes flutter shut, eyebrows pulling together softly as he groans at the taste of you on his tongue, it’s all fucking sinful. You watch him, mesmerized as he pulls the glistening digits out of his mouth with a pop.

He dips his head to yours, kissing you again, but much softer this time, less hungry, more savoring. You can taste the subtle tang of your own juices on his tongue, and you’d be a liar if you said it didn’t turn you on further.

John subtly tugs your shorts and panties down, the fabric whispering against your skin. He fishes for a small key in his pocket, before using them on the cuffs. They open, releasing your raw wrists with a near-silent snick. You feel the moment the cuffs fall away, and your hands move as if drawn by an invisible force, reaching for him, clutching at his jaw, pulling him closer with urgency. Your fingers roam his shoulders, his neck, tracing the hard lines of his body as he spreads your legs, tossing your discarded shorts aside. He settles between them, lazily pumping his cock with his free hand.

“You want this, love?” he whispers against your lips.

You nod almost imperceptibly before crashing your lips back to his, like you just can’t get enough.

He kisses you back like a magnet, but just as quickly, he pulls away again.

“Words,” he says sternly.

You huff, ever the impatient brat. “Put your fucking cock in me or I swear to God, I'll get in my car and drive right out of here.”

“That right?” he scoffs, "You gonna drive off?" He brings his angry red tip to your sodden folds, teasing your sensitive clit with each brush, making you jolt, “You want t’act like a brat,” he whispers, his breath warm against your ear. “Then we can do this the hard way.” He leans in, his lips brushing against yours. “Unless,” he murmurs, ghosting the head of his cock into your hole, “you'd like to ask nicely.”

You bite your lip as you watch him tease you, fighting a groan at the way your cunt squelches and stretches around just his tip.

“She’s so greedy, already tryin’ to suck me in,” he coos, “don’t want to deprive her, now do we?”

You whine as he notches just the head in. He pauses, waiting for you to speak before he moves any further. You open your mouth and your voice just breaks as you leak and drip around him and onto the hood of the car.

“Please, John, Please, I need you—Please, I’ll be so good,” You break and claw at his shoulders and back, desperate to pull him closer to you, to have you flush against him, chest to chest and full of his cock.

“See how gorgeous you sound when you’re nice? See where that gets you, love?” He coos as he inches his cock into you. Your walls are already fluttering, still all worked up from your last orgasm. He has to fight the urge to cum right then and there, gritting his teeth as his grip tightens on your thighs, fingers dimpling the fat as he spears you open.

You’re slack jawed, eyes glassy as he bottoms out. You’ve never been so full and stretched in your life. You can feel him in every orifice of your body, you feel him in the pits of your stomach, in the hollows of your lungs, in the cavern of your throat. His tip nudges against your cervix and all you can manage is a strangled sob.

“Oh none of that, lovie, none of that,” he hums, pecking your lips and wiping the tears from your eyes with the pads of his thumbs.

“Gonna fuck you real nice,” the thumb he used to wipe your tears away travels south, finding your clit and drawing soft, slow circles that have you gushing and relaxing around him, “Just be a good pet and take it.”

You nod as he cradles your head in his hand. He gently moves his hips, inching his cock out of your cunt before sliding back in, squeezing the air out of you like a fucking balloon.

Gasps fall from your lips with each stroke, not entirely from discomfort, but from the sheer intensity of the feeling. He repeats the motion, a slow, deliberate push and pull that sends shivers down your spine. He keeps his thumb on your clit steady, making your legs shake, a burning heat already blossoming low in your belly. You grip his shoulders, your nails digging into his clothed frame as you try to anchor yourself against the rising tide of sensation.

He continues, his movements becoming more insistent, more demanding. Each thrust is deeper, faster, steady plaps from where his hips repeatedly meet yours. He knocks the breath out of you, each stroke forcing a soft mewl from your lips, your body trembling with anticipation. The world narrows, focusing on the rhythmic movements of his hips, the feel of his skin against yours, the sound of your ragged breaths mingling with his.

He leans, his lips brushing against your own. “That's it, doll,” he murmurs, his voice low and husky. “Take it all.”

His words ignite a fire within you, a raw, primal need that surges through your veins. You arch your back, meeting his thrusts with a ferocity that surprises even yourself. His pace quickens, his movements becoming more urgent, more erratic, and you know he’s getting close. The burning in your abdomen intensifies, spreading outwards, and throughout your body.

His name falls from your lips in a litany—John, John, John, john—a prayer, both a plea and a demand as his cock plows into you with staggering precision. Your cunt clenches around him, milking every ounce of pleasure from each stroke. He groans, cursing as his grip tightens on your hips, until you wail, toes curling and clawing at his back, your voice hoarse as you squirt all over him. He continues to move, his rhythm relentless, until he too reaches his peak, groaning as his body shudders, as he spurts hot ropes of cum deep inside your cunt.

You’re breathless, spent, your limbs heavy and relaxed. The dampness of sweat cooled on your skin, a pleasant contrast to the lingering heat between your legs. The world slowly comes back into focus and a soft smile plays on your lips as you trace the line of his jaw with your fingertips.

“That was…” you murmur, your voice still rough.

He nuzzles your neck, his breath warm against your skin. “A lot,” he finishes for you, his voice low.

You hum in agreement, tightening your grip on his jaw just slightly. You don't need to say more. The silence that settles between you is comfortable. He shifts slightly, and it reminds you he's still there, sheathed inside you.

You close your eyes, savoring the warmth of his body against yours, a comforting heat that seeps into your skin. Every nerve ending still fires, buzzing with aftershocks.

Slowly, he inches out of you. It feels weird to not be full of him, a sudden emptiness that makes you instinctively clench. He's out, and the cool air against your skin is a stark reminder of the reality of the situation. Of the fact that you’re literally on the side of the road. John reaches for your discarded clothes, picking them up with a casualness that borders on audacious.

He starts with your panties, briefly bending down in front of you as you step into them. He pulls them up your legs, snapping the elastic against your hip. “Sheriff’s discretion,” he murmurs, his eyes glinting with amusement as he fastens your shorts too. “Wouldn't want you getting a ticket for indecent exposure.” Fucking knew it.

You raise an eyebrow, a smirk playing on your lips. “You were just as indecent as I was, if I recall.”

He shrugs as he tugs up his own pants, a picture of nonchalant authority. “Evidence suggests otherwise, doll,” he counters, his gaze dropping to your lips. “Besides,” he adds, his voice dropping to a low rumble, “I'm the one writing the tickets.” He finishes buttoning your shorts, his fingers lingering against your skin.

The world sways for a moment, your legs still a little shaky. He steadies you, his arm around your waist. He walks you back to your car, the silence between you comfortable, filled with unspoken understanding. He stops just short of the driver's side door, his hand resting comfortably on your back.

“Drive safe,” he says, his voice softer than you've ever heard it.

You nod, your eyes meeting his. You stand on your tip toes and kiss him, a soft, lingering peck on his lips that’s got him feeling like a teenager again.. He responds in kind, other hand moving to cup your cheek. Judging by how he holds you close, he’s reluctant to pull away.

But he does, and he turns and walks back to his cruiser. Eventually, You watch his car fade away, a strange mix of emotions swirling within you. Then, with a deep breath, you turn and get into your car. The door shuts and you just exhale, replaying everything that just happened.

You reach to crank the keys sitting in the ignition and your eyes fall on a small white rectangle tucked under the windshield wiper. You get back out of the car and pull it free.

It's a ticket. For speeding.

Asshole.

#captain john price #john price #john price smut #captain john price x reader #john price x reader #sheriff price #the cuffs 🥵#insanely hot

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ryuzakemo128 · 2 days ago

Text

Can the Living Haunt You?

Pairing: Poly141 x Loser! Welsh! Female Reader

Content Warnings: Swearing, Cussing, Female Reader is a loser, not relatively known, a tomboy. John Price, John 'Soap' MacTavish, Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick, Simon 'Ghost' Riley are popular, well known, well liked, and did I say popular? Well they are. College au!, polyamorous relationship. Female reader in this is an artist in college with sex work defined as a broad defined 'side hustle' (If you don't like this topic I suggest you read something else). Graphic descriptions of injuries and traumatising events.

Note: Female reader has defining traits like: Tomboy, height of six foot ten (to make it clear she is a giant in this), gothic, heavy metal, & punk mixture of an aesthetic. I also like to this she's plus sized with a large chest in my own personal headcanon. Female reader also has body pircings and piercings in general.

Note 2: If you don't like how this female reader looks. Please turn around and leave. There are many, many writers out there that can cater to your tastes I am sure of it.

Masterlist

Word Count: 7,311

Divider Credit: @Cafekitsune

Summary: You always bid on yourself, so you didn’t have to suffer through the awkward conversations between you and another person.

The college charity auction wasn’t something you had interest. You donated money to it. But you never did it to bid on the popular guys or women there. No. You always bid on yourself, so you didn’t have to suffer through the awkward conversations between you and another person.

You were more than happy to decorate both the canteen and the auditorium. To leave at that and that alone. You didn’t have someone to ‘talk’ you into attending. It was through your own curiosity and to see what kind of chaos you could weave in. The brand of chaos you were known for, that is.

You didn’t account for Nikolai attending one of these. You hoped you could find something inside your closet to wear that radiated ‘Don’t come near me’ vibes. You hoped you could go there and still have people mind their own business like they have in the past.

You knew your roommate would be staying at her boyfriend’s apartment. You would have the place to yourself for the night at least. Or at least until the couple decided to change plans again.

As you were about to get settled for a longish night of being alone and getting drunk from your homebrew cocktails. You didn’t account for the five hundred pounds you would spend on welsh gin, mixers and other things.

Nikolai finally saw you in person, you were four cocktails deep and three burgers eaten. You were enjoying yourself at the college auction, a rare event where the most popular guys went up for a date. You didn’t know why you were here; you were the kind of person that didn’t get noticed, didn’t get picked, and certainly didn’t get asked out. But here you were, in the middle of it all, a sea of glammed-up girls and guys dressed to the teeth. And you?

Black Sabbath shirt with the sleeves cut off. Black high rise denim straight jeans with a belt with a white gold skull metal belt buckle in the middle. Knee-high black leather steel capped combat boots lined with metal studs on the sides. The studded choker with a pentagram pendant.

Black smudged eyeliner with a Smokey eyeshadow with black ombre lipstick. Combined with your nose ring on the left side and the 9mm black gauges in your earlobes. The industrial piercing in your right ear too. The stainless-steel tongue piercing. Your hair in a long wolf cut with your hair dyed jet-black.

Your fingerless leather gloves with studded spikes along the knuckles. Along with a few other things like the coffin shaped bag and the studded black bracelets with spikes on the outside. Your wallet, motorcycle keys and coin purse inside your bag too.

You weren’t planning on staying there longer than maybe an hour to two hours at the most. This type of thing amused you a little bit. But not enough to make you stay too long. You didn’t want to give them the wrong idea. The idea they were what you were there for. As you drank the gin you brought in there inside your bag.

Your art usually gets displayed on the screen when there is an intermission for auctions. Last time it was tiny, small, palm sized obsidian breathing red glitter fire and demanding flamed grilled chicken every Halloween.

You weren’t going to be picked at this kind of auction. You thought people wouldn’t care if you got drunk and started drawing on your massive tablet with your stylus in your right hand. You started off with drawing a strawberry shaped frog, the demonic bunny wooing his angelic bunny lover, a love fairy trying to pull a sword from a boulder, a beaver smoking a cigar who is a loan shark demanding its money paid back with huge 25% added interest.

The addition to it all you added walking, talking carrots you added in a cultist formation wearing deep red robes lingering in the redwood trees you slowly added into the background. The lingering footprint indents of poltergeists still walking around unseen in the foreground. Making the art piece slowly eerie. But the gothic witch cottage with an even scarier version of yourself drinking hibiscus tea in the doorway.

As you were about to leave for something rather sweet and pleasant like pancakes. A six stack of thick pancakes smothered in hot butterscotch and chocolate fudge sauce. Whipped cream and strawberries on top. The type of thick souffle style pancakes that tasted so good that you never had any other type ever again.

You didn’t think about whether someone might have cared if you left so abruptly or not. In your mind. No one cared either way, and you preferred to keep it that way. While you were eating, you had a cartoon style video of a cat hanging onto a wire with a Welsh flag jumper, with ‘Be right back’ and ‘Artist food break in pastel pink bubble writing. Enjoy some cat videos’. Which were all of your own cats from the backlog of videos you have already. Including some of the older ones you have shown them already.

As you were delving into your pancake desires at your table. As you were eating your favourite kind of dessert, whenever you drink copious amounts of gin. In the moment of pure ecstasy, someone decided to interrupt you. You didn’t think you could pull such erotic looking facial expression. But according to the person interrupting you?

To him? It was one of the most beautiful sights he’s ever seen. You were enjoying yourself a little too much and someone wanted to make sure you were tamed. As if someone could ever do such a thing as to ‘tame’ you to begin with is laughable. Most guys love to brag about that kind of thing to your face or behind your back.

It didn’t annoy you as much as people loved to assume. It amused you more than anything. The thought of you being domesticated. You wonder how that would even work and how that would even look. And the person interrupting you? John ‘Soap’ MacTavish and John Price. You heard they had the knack for ‘brat taming’ whatever that means. You never asked for more details. You never plan to either.

You were too busy thinking, ‘I hope no one can see the nipple piercings through my shirt’ to really notice them approaching you. You wonder how someone react if they did see them, and she didn’t notice. A warm feeling blossomed on your cheeks at the mere thought of it occurring.

You were dead certain you placed on nipple covers before heading out this afternoon. Now you’re sitting there while you eat pancakes thinking about it some more. You were so sure you made sure that you were dressed and ready to leave your dorm too.

As you continued to ponder whether you had remembered to place on the nipple covers. Nikolai smirked as he watched you haphazardly ponder the question mentally. He automatically knew one of your many weaknesses were your boobs. How did he know this you ask?

Well, it’s simple, he touched your breasts once by coincidence and you whimpered accidentally. You didn’t mean to. It just………slipped out of your mouth. “Pretend……... Pretend you didn’t hear that.” You stated at the time your face heating up.

Nikolai still remembers how you left so hastily afterwards. You weren’t going to let that accident happen a second time. That would make YOU look bad. But Nikolai wasn’t the type of man to keep that to himself for too long. Especially since he hung around Price a lot. There wasn’t a moment when he isn’t around Price.

You hoped he would have forgotten that you exist or ever existed. But apparently. Luck just isn’t on your side this week. Though, luck is rarely ever on your side when you want it to be. You didn’t think how it would affect the guy long term now, did you? That whimper is now engrained into the back of Nikolai’s mind like a saucy, sultry catchphrase.

When they spotted you at the gym swimming pool the next day? The two-piece black bikini you always wore when you did your morning swimming routine? The routine of fifty laps in breaststroke, backstroke, freestyle and butterfly. And that is what she calls a warm-up rather than a plain exercise.

And the stretches you usually warm up before you swim? The ones you learned through gymnastics, hot yoga and your love for MMA? As you were doing the rest of those stretches as they walked in? Perhaps it was when they walked in while you were midway through your morning exercises.

As yesterday, you pushed yourself a little harder than usual with the bicep curls and the deadlifting amount and the sparring. You hoped swimming wouldn’t be as intense on the body as the gym. But, oh boy, you were wrong by the time you reach in Backstroke. You were about to take a break for fifteen minutes to thirty.

You were resting on the chairs beside the pool drawing in your art journal, sketching a few new ideas to bring to life through ceramics or pottery. You often looked up to make sure they haven’t spotted you, you hoped the divider you made from recycled wood, black fabric and a recycled plastic sheeting in the middle of the wood. The over-all design of a gothic cathedral blocking the line of sight of anyone who might want to ogle you.

As you switched back to reading your Lovecraft book collection on your waterproof tablet. While you sipped your cold water. Ignoring the people around you as you normally did first thing in the morning. You were happier at this time of day because no one is usually brave enough to approach a giant like yourself in this state.

Especially considering you haven’t eaten your breakfast yet. You hoped the calorie deficit would be enough to keep you going through the exercise. You were resting and thinking what you should be having for breakfast. Would it be better for you to eat Semolina porridge? Would it be better for you to have soft boiled eggs drowned in a sweet & sour sauce with paprika, salt and pepper? Or maybe just a bowl of porridge with honey? Or perhaps something more substantial like a full English breakfast with extra black pudding.

Your stomach rumbled at the thought of breakfast. You were already planning the recipe in your head. Semolina porridge with a side of fruit and two cups of sweetened coffee. Though it after you were finished your morning exercise routine. Heading straight to your dorm with a dark blue beach towel wrapped around you.

Taking your homemade divider with you too. As you were about to leave the pool area to have breakfast inside your dorm. You heard the gruff voice. You ignore it. Obviously thinking the person behind you was either coughing or talking to somebody else. Either way. You weren’t sticking around.

Breakfast on the brain. You couldn’t think about anything else. No. You refused to think about anything else. Determined to have your breakfast. In peace and quiet. Like your father does at this hour. Though he is a night shift working as a line cook in a diner open 24/7. His need to try out a different type of breakfast each morning is just another one of those things you got from him.

Your walking pace kicked up a notch. Maybe two. The premise of food always won you over. Far more times than the whispered promise of sex. The statement alone is usually met with judgemental snickering from women. The ‘then maybe you haven’t had good sex’ grated on every nerve in your body. Sometimes sex isn’t the end all, be all of someone’s personal journey, Linda. Maybe you would have learned that if you weren’t so busy sucking cock all the time to actually take care of yourself, LINDA.

But that conversation is for another time. At least one when you’re not already hungry. You didn’t think about them talking to you. Food is on your mind, and you were ready to get it. You were keen on your breakfast. Too keen according to some. A real grouch without food too. Not as grouchy as your ex-boyfriend Damien. And you haven’t spoken to that guy in months.

And the last time you spoke to the guy in almost a year. You would reach out more if he weren’t so much of a cunt to contact most of the time. Part of you missed the guy something fierce. Not like you would admit it out loud. Not like you would admit it even if someone waterboarded you either. Keeping all your personal things wrapped inside yourself until it hurt. Till your bones ached.

You didn’t have to speak to get your point across. He didn’t have to lecture you about picking up after yourself. You don’t know why you don’t find yourself liking others as much as you did for him. Sometimes you have to remind yourself that his father murdered him out of spite. The kind of spite you only ever read in Shakespearean Plays or Greek tragedies. But it happened to you, didn’t it?

And now, you’re a recluse that enjoys the company of animals more than people. You weren’t going to find another Damien. Yours is long dead. Mourning for someone who you wouldn’t have again. In your eyes. In your mind. You wouldn’t have that again.

But that’s your business, right? Yours and yours alone, right? No one else’s. You don’t expect people to fix you. You don’t want to be ‘fixed’.

People, most people, love the idea of ‘fixing’ someone they deem ‘broken’. But you don’t like the term or the idea you can ‘fix’ a living human being. You never had. Flaws are flaws. Inherently human nature. Defined by innate nature of being born human. People forget we are still learning new things about the human body.

The ringtone you were listening to on your phone. Damien’s voice. Even when he’s dead was enough to keep you going a little bit longer. A taste of the past amongst the pointless lingering in the future. You don’t know why you still had it. You had a feeling it was a way to keep a part of him with you.

You call it a breakup, in reality, he was ripped from you one night and his father didn’t have the guts to turn himself in for six months. You don’t know what snapped in his father’s head when he found out Damien was going to move out into the apartment you were living in at the time. You don’t have the guts to ask.

You have the scars to remember. To ache. To writhe inside your own skin. The night he was killed. You were both nineteen. It’s easy to forget it wasn’t just yesterday. Sometimes it feels like it was a lifetime ago. Sometimes it feels like it was only minutes. The cold steel of the knife on your throat. The warm blood splatter on your face. The way your heart stopped in your chest.

John price saw you texting your ex-boyfriend, despite the fact you knew you wouldn’t get an answer. It was something to keep you from dissociating entirely. The friends you had weren’t yours in your mind. They were your boyfriends. And you stopped talking to them because in your heart you believed they were never YOURS to begin with.

Religious people pissed you off now. More than they had before. It was like the way dismissed your pain as part of their ‘god’s plan’. Like some kind of sick joke. The kind they loved to repeat. Again. Again. Again. As if your life was some sort of sick joke to be played at their whimsy. You didn’t believe in that shit anymore. Not after one of their own did something as heinous as murder.

People love to say they like helping people. But when it comes to actually helping them? Especially those who aren’t religious. They say things like, “Everything happens for a reason,” or “It’s all part of God’s plan.” As if that’s supposed to make you feel better. As if that’s supposed to justify the fact that you’re now left with nothing but a dead body and a shit-ton of guilt.

You didn’t believe in that shit anymore. Turning to the absurdist philosophy did more for your life than any religion had ever done. Once you started living it? It was like a weight is lifted from your shoulders. A weight you hadn’t known existed there. You didn’t know what to do with your newfound freedom. Thus, you pursued things you wanted to try out without any meaning behind it all.

You didn’t believe in destiny or fate anymore either. You believed in chaos. In the chaos of life. In the randomness of the universe. In the cold, unfeeling abyss that swallowed you up whole. But you liked that. You liked that there weren’t any strings attached to your life anymore. No expectations. No one to live up to. No one to disappoint. Just you. Your thoughts. And your art.

You suppose it’s when you started going to brothels. Or in your case when you started working in brothels for £1000 a night. Setting it credulously high on purpose. If someone couldn’t afford you. You’d be able to sense it from a mile away. Besides, setting it that high made sure you had the cream of the crop. You weren’t going to deal with anyone who didn’t respect you or your boundaries.

You made sure they were tested for STDs, vaccinated, background checked, no criminal record of previous criminal activity, and that they had the money in full ahead of time. You weren’t going to risk your health for anything less.

He must have heard about your side hustle or something, you didn’t think it could have been anything else to give that part of you away to them.

Simon overheard rumours about it, the rumours you were a ‘lady of the night’ or something equally ridiculous. Until he heard you charged £1000 a night for it. Solidifying truth from supposed fiction. He didn’t know what was worse. The fact that you had a side hustle or that you were good at it.

As you were showering, you were thinking about whether you should just get dressed straight away or take your time this morning. As you were washing your hair in black shampoo which helped your dyed hair keep its dyed black colour to it. As you were washing it out a second time.

Slowly adding in the black conditioner into your hair, started at the tips of your hair and ending midway. Leaving the conditioner to soak into your hair follicles. You were about to pick up your goat’s milk body wash to wash yourself with the black loafer you bought from the discount store yesterday to replace your old one.

You weren’t expecting anyone, your roommate is usually having breakfast with her boyfriend in his apartment at this hour. The freedom of not having to be modest first thing in the morning has always been a blessing in your opinion. Often walking to your room naked sometimes to get dressed there after you got dried in the bathroom.

You weren’t worried or fussed with the concept of modesty when it came to your own place, your own space or your own dorm. You had your porridge ready to cook and you were keen on getting straight to eating breakfast as soon as possible.

Yet, even as you were getting dressed in your bedroom, you didn’t exactly clock the fact that Simon just saw you walk into your bedroom naked as a jaybird. You weren’t particularly shameful in doing so, either. He didn’t expect to see you in such a state. As you slipped on your black lace underwear and shorts.

Slipping on an Iron Maiden shirt. It used to be a stark white until you ultimately decided it would look better tie died in deep purple and blue. The shirt had seen better days, it had stains of various art projects and paint splatters all over it. It remains to be one of your favourites. You didn’t bother with a bra today. Letting your heavy chest breathe a little. You weren’t expecting anyone to see you today.

You also didn’t expect the two johns frowning and trying to figure out how to cook semolina porridge. “Do you need a hand with that genius and shorter genius?” you asked raising an eyebrow at the pair. “I thought you were gym bros into calculating all that healthy stuff and cooking.”

“Semolina Porridge is Semolina flour, milk, water, salt and butter.” You added in. “There is more than one type of porridge in the world my confused puppers. Cute, confused pups I might add.”

“I have the recipe typed out, laminated and held with magnets in case I forget how to make it.” You pointed to the side of the fridge. “It SHOULD help you.”

You didn’t think you would have to help two buff guys how to cook as something as what you thought was simple like ‘Semolina Porridge’. But here you were helping them out like they were lost puppies in the middle of nowhere.

You eventually took charge and showed them how you made it from scratch. The hot plate you bought ages ago still working luckily. You didn’t expect to use it today, but here you are. You combined the milk, water, butter, and salt in a saucepan over medium-high heat. Bring to a boil, stirring gently with a whisk.

You then removed it from the heat. Pouring in semolina flour in a steady stream, whisking constantly to prevent lumps.

Afterwards, you placed the saucepan back over medium heat; whisking until porridge comes to a boil, for about 2 minutes. Reducing the heat to low, covering with a saucepan lid, and cook, stirring occasionally, until porridge thickens. It takes about 20 minutes.

You didn’t miss the glances exchanged between the two Johns. They were clearly out of their depth. It was like watching two hunks try to navigate the art of cooking without burning down the place. You couldn’t help but chuckle to yourself, feeling oddly superior in your kitchen skills.

“Now we stir occasionally for the next 20 minutes.” you remarked, adding things like cinnamon, nutmeg, and brown sugar. It was your own little twist to the recipe. Soap sniffed the thickening porridge with a nod of approval.

You then removed the saucepan from heat; stirred in sugar. Only to let it sit on a cold plate for five minutes before serving it with a dollop of cream.

“Make sure to tell me if you liked it or not. I’m not a mind reader. If I was, I would be making at least ten grand a week.” You remarked setting a bowl in front of each of them. “And before you ask, no, I have no intentions on adding eggs to my porridge.”

As you were about to make a head start on your second breakfast because classes didn’t start until later. You were cleaning out the porridge to get it ready to make some soft-boiled duck eggs. Kyle wandered over after he showered in the gym lockers.

Kyle remarked with a grin on his lips, “Someone’s got a big appetite this morning.”, he cooed.

You raised an eyebrow at his comment. “I eat four duck eggs a morning.” You reminded him. Just in case he forgot how much of a high metabolism you still have.

You placed the duck eggs in the saucepan and filled the pot with cold water. After you placed it onto the hot plate you went back to getting back into your normal routine of cleaning your bedroom, cat litter boxes and general garbage from the bins.

Bringing out the steam mop however, John Price decided to say why they were there. As if the mop suddenly just reminded him for some reason?

“We noticed you didn’t go to bed with anyone last night.” He began awkwardly. You looked at him like he had suddenly sprouted another head.

“What’s your point? I don’t work if I’m drinking all night.” You remarked. Thinking this was about why you didn’t ‘work’ last night. Your work that allowed to be able to get things you normally wouldn’t have been able to afford otherwise. “And in terms of dating, I haven’t dated anyone else since I was 19.”

You didn’t mention the fact that you had a mishap that ended up with in the hospital and getting at least 45 stitches in your arm. You didn’t think they would notice either. You were certain of it. Too certain perhaps?

As you were about to eat your duck eggs, Simon spotted the bandage. You were mixing the sweet and sour sauce with soy sauce into a small saucepan, combining crushed garlic, finely sliced ginger, and dried sliced jalapeños.

“What the fuck happened to your arm?” Simon asked, growing a little. At least it sounded like he was growling according to your own ears.

“I tried to jump a wired fence after having one too many drinks last night. I didn’t account for any loose wires in the fence.,” You answered his question. Silently hoping this answer would be good enough and they wouldn’t ask further questions about it. “Technically, this is my fault and mine alone.”

There. You have admitted it was no one else’s fault but your own. That should cover everything. Right? They can’t be mad if you admit the truth first. They can’t be mad at you if don’t have something on you to get angry about.

They can’t find something to get mad at you for.

You have won their little game.

Whatever that game was.

You don’t know.

But you like to think you won anyway.

As you continued to make the sauce. You weren’t sure who brought up the subject first or why it was brought up in the first place either. But the topic polyamory is brought up up and the look on your face made Soap snort.

You looked like you had decided to suck on sixteen lemons at once. “What you get up to is not my business.” You reminded. “Its like you enjoy torturing me.”

“Ok why did you want to talk?” you asked John Price this time allowing Simon to taste one of the duck eggs. “Is everything tidy?”

You were rather suspicious over their need to talk to you now. You were content with how things have been in your life so far. Things didn’t have to change. Things were fine the way they are. Change brought in potentially being abandoned and left behind. You don’t want to take that risk like you had the first time.

John cleared his throat, looking a bit nervous. “We were wondering if you’d be interested in a polyamorous relationship with us?” He said it so casually that it took you a moment to process it.

Now you were just rather confused. No, you weren’t offended by the idea. You were more or less confused because this is the first time you ever heard of such a thing. “How does that even work?” you asked frowning deeply. You knew a lot of things. It became blatantly clear that you haven’t dated someone in so long that you have forgotten what it's like to be in a romantic relationship.

“You’re going to need to write this down. I won’t be able to understand otherwise.” You added in. Hinting at your learning disabilities this time. You handed him your tablet which is larger than he expected it be.

The tablet wasn’t what John expected you to have. The screen size of 16 inches, a thickness of 8.2 inches, weight of 718 grams, storage capacity of 1TB with a micro-SD of 1.5TB, Moonstone Grey coloured, and a battery that lasted for 16 hours. It came with a 2 year warranty and 16GB of memory.

You used this when you were going on the train, and your professional artist display tablet is too expensive to risk breaking just by carrying it everywhere. Soap looked around your office part of your dorm. The vintage porn movies posters hung on your office walls. The Welsh flag on the door to your office and the shark themed foot mat to the office.

Other things like the Welsh gin inside of a black and white bar fridge. There is a jug of mead fermenting in the corner of the room. There is a black coffin shaped bookshelf with Absurdist philosophy books, a lava lamp and many art history books. Beside the art easel from the 1980s.

The walls are painted a midnight blue with black trimmings. The vintage posters brought out your absurdity far more. Though it was the 3D printer, the 3D printed figurines around the room you made for yourself that were more than a little raunchy in theme.

Figurines of busty women in different stages of undress along the top of your coffin shaped bookshelf. The other figurines you had displayed? Some of which were of women in playboy bunny costumes with the character names on the base with small décor items like a bouquet of flowers. Something to give more personality to the character.

It was how you got comfortable with your sexuality, sexual orientation and how you looked on the outside. It happened to be pansexual. You liked whoever you liked regardless of gender. You had your preferences, everyone did. But when you found someone. Someone you liked, you liked them for them.

Other small things Soap noticed was the desktop computer with a giant mechanical keyboard with LED lights that changed colour and the mouse pad that had a dragon on it. It was like something out of a gamer’s fantasy. Though the only games you ever play on the thing were all soulsborne games, Doom Games, Fallout Games, and Skyrim.

Which inspired most of your art. Whether some could say it was on purpose or not is purely conjecture because some of the normal people around you are stranger than you are sometimes. So much so, that most of the art you sold were inspired by those same people.

Not like they noticed. Much to your own relief.

As John continued to write down the fundamentals of a polyamorous relationship. He knew you weren’t easily swayed by charm, you were someone who preferred actions rather than just the simplicity of words because talking is easy. Everyone can talk. But it’s the actions that speak louder than words.

They scream louder than words from somebody’s lips. They were more telling sometimes through someone’s body language at any given time. Plus, it was easy to ignore somebody’s words. It was harder to ignore someone’s actions.

Perhaps this is why they were drawn to you to begin with? Your actions were always closely tied with your words. It also meant your face gave away what you were feeling all of the time, and you weren’t going to be ashamed of it either.

“I am very surprised you didn’t go for, what was her name again? Was it Linda Paulson or something?” you asked the five of them. “Because she is the type I see you being into.”

They looked at you with a puzzled look. “What makes you say that?” Soap asked.

“Blonde, chipper, bright in aesthetic, Five foot three, cute as a button, bubbly in personality, nerotypical, untraumatised. she doesn't look 'dirty' with all her tattoos. Obsessed with baking cookies, the typical girls girl. The whole nine yards and far better suited to you.” you answered. “People like to think they want different. But in reality they just want the kind of different with the same cover on the outside.”

They looked at each other, unsure how to respond. It was clear your words had struck a nerve. “You don't think we'd be into someone like you?” Kyle asked, raising an eyebrow.

“In truth, I don't think anyone would be. I am more of an artist watching, like a perverse creep watching art pieces walk and talk around them. Never able to participate in any kind of meaningful manner.” you answered. “Absurdist theory on life made things easier to understand. Removed the mystery rug from over the top and left it bare-bones enough to see what it actually is beneath those layers.”

Nikolai replied, noticing you have taken the absurdist philosophy to heart, specifically philosopher Albert Camus' notion that life is inherently absurd and the German philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche’s idea that one must embrace the chaos and live life to the fullest. Both of which you read before bed each night according to the lines along the spines of the books on the coffee table.

Nikolai knew you were more or less weren’t going to take things at face value or just because they ‘found you intriguing’ or ‘unique’. You more or less looked like you despised those two terms and loathed the idea you can slap those two things together to win you over.

Nikolai walked out of your dorm to speak to John in private, you didn‘t think much of it. As you cleaned up and started writing down questions you had in your notepad. As you were writing them, Soap decided to take a look at the books on your bookshelf. “Camus and Nietzsche, huh?” He murmured, holding up 'The Stranger'.

“At the moment, yes, I haven't had the time to read more than those two so far.” you answered.

Soap nodded, looking thoughtfully at the book. “I can see why you'd be into that. Life is pretty absurd, isn't it?” He said, flipping through the pages. His thumb brushing over the words that you had underlined, the ones that had struck a chord within you during your late-night reading sessions.

“Innately. Sensually. Romantically.” you stated.

The questions you wrote down were the following:

1. How do want to deal with living arrangement?

2. Do any of you have any allergies?

3. Are any of you allergic to cats? (I have eight this is why I asked you this question specifically.)

4. How do you feel about someone who has a past with the sex work industry?

5. What are your expectations of me in this relationship?

6. What are your intentions with me?

7. What are the rules? (If any)

8. How will we handle jealousy? Is there a preferred way? If so what is it?

10. Are you willing to get tested for STD’s?

You passed them over to John. Who then gave to Nikolai to give a look over too. They both read over them. They weren’t expecting you to be so straightforward. You didn’t bother with the fluff and frills that came with these kinds of conversations.

“We can manage living arrangement. We’re not allergic to cats, thankfully.” Soap spoke up as he put the book down. “But we do have a dog and a snake, so I hope they get along with your clowder.”

“Lovely.” you stated trying to be nice, but you have a phobia of dogs, a phobia running so deep and thorough.

Soap looked at you with a bit of a smirk. “Oh, you're afraid of dogs?” He said, his tone teasing. “Well, we'll just have to introduce you to ours gently, then.”

“Fear is a rather tame way to say the word phobia.” you stated. “And before you ask. I don't hate dogs. I just don't particularly trust them.”

Soap saw the scars on your left leg. The chaotic mess of teeth marks that you got from a large stray dog when you were only six years old. When your mother wasn't paying close enough attention to where you were. That was when you learned not to trust dogs. It was when you couldn't trust your own mother because she would rather continue her affair than be an actual parent.

You had taken upon your to call that day, ‘The Mauling & Blatant Disregard’. A day where you have etched so deeply into your memory that you remember it vividly even years later. You were just a child, and your mother was too busy with her lover to hear your screams. The skin, flesh pulling away from your leg like it was nothing but chucks & pieces of meat to the stray feral canine biting its teeth into your leg.

The way the fact you could feel the dog's teeth on the bone of your leg. it was a miracle that the dog hadn't bitten through. The way the pain had shot through your body and how you had screamed until your voice had gone hoarse. You were certain it would have. You feared that it did.

It was the neighbour that saved your life, not your mother like she wanted your father to believe at the time. He didn’t say much to her face, but he most certainly made sure to get everything in writing and stored away in the big metal filing cabinets he always kept in the garage at the time.

You had to get surgery. Relearn how to walk properly. You were put through therapy to learn how to cope with things after the traumatic event. Fundamentally it was the reason why you didn’t trust dogs, even if they were just pets. They had teeth. They could bite. They could kill.

Soap's opinion of you changed a little, a giant afraid of dogs, spiders and enough emotional trauma to sink a proverbial ship. It was a new layer to your onion that he wasn’t expecting to peel back so soon. But his opinion of your mother? He had none. It was clear she was a shit parent.

“Well, the dog is pretty friendly. But we’ll definitely keep her on a leash until you’re comfortable around her.” John Price assured you, his eyes sincere as he took the list of questions from Soap. “And as for the STD testing, we’re all clean, but we can get tested again if it makes you feel more at ease.”

“Probably for the best.” you answered.

Nikolai nodded, looking over the list with John. “We’re looking for someone who’s honest and straightforward. Someone who’s not going to sugarcoat things or play games.” He said, his gaze meeting yours. “And we can tell you’re all of that and more.”

Nikolai looked at your own answer for that question, ‘I want someone who can take accountability for their own actions and instead of just simply stating the word sorry. They should be able to put in the action of trying to be better about it afterwards. Another thing, they should be ok with the possibility of being wrong because being right all the time is border line impossible and implausible. Not mention. The definition of being an automated system. Thirdly, I want a conversation. A conversation requires two people not one. This includes any philosophical discussions. A discussion requires two people’.

They both nodded at your answer. “We can manage that.” John said, a hint of a smile on his face. “We’re not perfect, but we’re willing to learn and grow with you. And we’re definitely open to discussing anything, especially philosophy.”

Simon noticed how your shoulders relaxed further at the last part. It seems philosophy is far more ingrained in your mindset. How ingrained your reading is right now.

The answer for your expectations for them. The detailed answer of, ‘I expect you to be kind to yourself when you fail at something. I expect you to count failure as part of the learning process and to be kind yourself when or if it happens. I expect you to be able to cry when you’re sad, scream when you’re angry, laugh when you feel joy and to let those emotions be. To allow yourselves to feel things.’

‘To allow yourself to just exist as you are. I expect you to be human. That’s all. I expect you to be human. Nothing more nothing less. I expect you to be you. And for that I expect you to be honest about your feelings. I don’t want to be with someone who is going to hide their emotions from me. It’s exhausting. And I won’t lie, it’s incredibly annoying when people do that to me.’

‘If you can do that. If you are willing to do that for yourself. Then I can do the same for you.’ you added in the cursive writing.

You listened intently like your feline Walter when he was high on silver vine, Soap noticed how the weed incense made you this calm and collected. The rules and expectations they laid out were straightforward, much like you. Honesty, respect, and open communication were at the forefront of their relationship guidelines. You nodded, scribbling down notes on your notepad, the tip of your pencil tap-taping against the paper as you thought.

“What's your take on personal space?” You questioned, your voice a mix of curiosity and wariness. You had your own quirks, your own need for solitude and chaos, and you weren't about to compromise that for anyone, not even the likes of them.

Gaz looked at you, his eyes serious for a moment. “We respect personal space. We won't invade it without your consent.” His voice was firm, leaving no room for doubt. It was clear that they had discussed this before, had thought about what they were getting into, and were ready to meet you on your terms.

John saw the design of your future disconnected office for when you moved into the family house your father left to you in the inheritance when he passed when you were twenty-seven years old. He then saw the pictures of the place you were going to move into with monster trucks, motorcycles, dirt bikes, and the rock-climbing wall you had painted with glow in the dark paint.

Alongside other many, many things people consider typically masculine. But you also had things that were feminine like the seamstress area which used to be your mother’s work-from-home office. The sewing machines and fabrics that smelled faintly of her perfume, the one she used to wear before she left your life.

Not like you missed her like she might claim to her many friends of her new husband. You weren’t interested in getting to know her again or the man she married. He was a good man, you had to admit. He took care of your younger brother, and he was kind to you. But your mother was never going to be the woman she was before she had you.

John flicked through the images of the house. You call it house. But it seems incredibly clear that he didn’t think it looked like a house at all. Which amuses you because this is the same place you grew up inside. “That’s not a house. That…. that is more like a compound combined with a circus and a garage for those who like to play with fire.”

“Do you see the image my father wanted to cultivate?” you asked. “The chaotic side his art works have in common with in terms of theme and homage.”

John answered, “Yeah, I see it. It’s like he knew what kind of artist you’d become.” He handed you back the tablet. You took it with a smile, feeling a warm sense of pride for the space you’ve created.

“My grandmother oddly enough wanted to be buried there too.” You revealed.

Soap raised an eyebrow, “In the house?”

“No. In the backyard underneath an apple tree.” you clarified pointing to the gravestone underneath the ominous looking apple tree.

Note 3: If you want to see more of this female reader. Let me know and I will write a part 2.

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