#Captain John price x reader

[orbitganymede]

18+, MDNI

cw: somno/noncon

somno with price but he’s your boyfriends dad

maybe you’re laying in your boyfriends bed, he’s at some sports game or something with his friends and you had come over and decided to wait for him after you got off work simply because his place is closer than your house. you’d fallen asleep pretty quickly after receiving a text from him saying he was gonna grab drinks and that he probably won’t be back for a few hours.

and then you’re woken up some time later, something hard pressing into your back and cool air against your cunt from your panties being pushed aside. you’re confused, disoriented, but happy to have your boyfriend back, as you push yourself back into his chest you’re surprised to feel a scratchy beard, maybe he’s grown it out, you’re too focused on the calloused fingers circling your clit to focus on the strange facial hair and happy trail you can feel against your spine.

it’s only when he finally pushes into you, cock thicker than you remember, never mind without a condom, something you’d sworn against doing, that your hazy mind takes in that his groan is deeper than usual. your hand reaches behind you, feeling for the basically free of hair chest you’re used to, only to come across burley pecs that resemble a bear rather than a human. also your boyfriend kinda smells like the cologne you always smell on mr price, something cedar-like, and maybe when you peer back at him between rough thrusts you catch blue eyes instead of the normal brown.

yeah, maybe you should say something, go running for the hills, call the authorities because your boyfriends dad who’s at least twenty-five years older than you should definitely not being fucking you completely bare, should not be groaning and huffing into your ear after every thrust, telling you how good of a girl you’re being, and he should definitely not be muttering about how long he’s waited for this, how happy he is to show you how a real man fucks. yeah you should stop him, but his cock feels so good and the way he’s rubbing your clit is making your brain white out, and there’s no point in stopping now.

[homeofthelonelywriter]

Poly!141 x fem!Reader

“Love, are you sure we need all these lights?” You glanced up from your position on the floor and glared at John who stood over you. His usual commanding presence and persona immediately disappeared once your eyes connected. “Right…sorry. Consider it done, Ma’am.” A grin formed on your lips as you watched the man retreat, going back to where a bunch of Christmas lights were waiting to be hung.

Simon was already there, waiting for him, knowing there was nothing they could do against you during Christmas. After all, it wasn’t the first time they spent with you, but it’s the first time you spent together as more than just friends. More than just a team, a task force.

“Kin ah come in yit?” You chuckled at Johnny’s whine. “Not yet!” He complained under his breath before you heard him retreat further back into the house you all lived in. Kyle, who was sitting on the couch, watching you wrap the gifts you had gotten for the Scott, chuckled. “You’re mean. He’s really clingy today, just wants to be close to you.” But you just shook your head, concentrating on folding the wrapping paper without ripping it.

After a few more minutes, filled with fin paper, sticky tape, and bows, you called Johnny and let him know that he could come back into the living room. He immediately sprinted through the house, before you felt him slipping across the floor and into your back, hugging you tightly. “Fockin’ finally.” His face was nuzzled into your neck as he wrapped his legs around you as well. A laugh escaped your lips as you reached back, running your fingers through his mohawk. “Sorry, I kept you waiting, Johnny.”

“’ Is alright. Gotcha now.” You hummed and leaned back against him, but were interrupted when complaints were aired. “Leave some for us, MacTavish.” Simon’s gruff voice made you grin, and without hesitation, you stretched your arms up and in his direction. Easily, almost too easily, he pried Johnny’s arms and legs from around you and lifted you up, while you clung onto him like a koala.

“Let’s go inspect our work and then go to bed? Santa has to have time to come down the chimney after all.” You nodded, not letting go, as the Lieutenant carried you outside, to show off the decorations. A gasp left you as you took in the beautiful and colorful lights all over your house. “Like it?” John walked out the door, clad like a lumberjack, a look that did something to you. And he knew it. “I love it. Thank you, you two.” You quickly pressed your lips against Simon’s, before waving John over and kissing him as well.

“Oi! I also want one!” Johnny came sprinting out of the house without even putting on shoes, closely followed by Kyle, who was wearing shoes. With a chuckle, you gave them kisses as well, before pulling back and gazing at the decorations, as well as at your men. A grin spread across your lips. “Best Christmas ever.”

Part 2 (coming tomorrow)

[logansblackgf]

YESS GODDDDDDD🙏🏾🙏🏾🙏🏾🙏🏾🙏🏾🙏🏾🙏🏾🤩🤩🤩🤩🤩🤩

[fallenneziah]

Deck the Hall (and Every Other Surface)

Summary: When going to spend Christmas with John's family, Price breaks out the Santa costume. But Santa is giving out more than paper wrapped presents when everyone goes to bed.

Cw: Anal, roleplay, blow jobs, semi-public, pet names, John Price as Santa, readers genitals are as neutral as possible.

A/N: I had this pretty kinky idea in my head and unfortunately because the writing program I was using has been giving me trouble, the project didn't come out white how I pictured it. This is for @the-californicationist . Your smut and writing in general is so delicious and I envy your skills, lol. I don't think my smut is as good as yours. But hopefully, it's still good. Also! The AO3 link to this story is available if you guys want to support it there too. And Merry Christmas from me!

A03 link.

________

John’s hand rested over your thigh, occasionally squeezing it as he drove down the barren road to his family’s house. White flurries blasted against the side of the car and windshield. Car wipers rhythmically waved back and forth to clear a way for John to see. The road ahead was pure white, a dangerous combination of slush and ice, but the tires of John’s truck kept you straight. The radio played the usual Christmas carols and the leather seats warmed by the heaters. You looked away from the frosty window and over at your fiance, a soft smile gracing your lips. His face fixed in a concentrated expression, the lines in his face leading into the salt and pepper chops on his chin. He had let it grow out over the month and it was just a tad fuller than usual. His freshly cut hair under his beanie sprinkled with grey.

You looked down at where his hand rested on your thigh, then at the ring on your finger. You were excited to tell his family, and after John proposed, you felt like you were on cloud nine. It was like Christmas came early for you. When he got down on one knee in front of the warm, crackling fireplace, his skin bathed in the hues of orange and red from the roaring fire. His blue eyes had been lit with the love he had when he first told you he loved you. You slipped your hand along his palm, and he adjusted his grip to hold your hand now instead of your thigh. “Something on your mind, love?”

“Mm, I love you, y’know?”

The concentration on his face melted away slowly for a small smile to grace his lips. “I love you too.” He gently squeezed your hand, his thumb brushing over the band on your finger. He traced it at night too. When he couldn’t sleep or would ponder things, your hand in his larger ones calmed him enough to find rest. Having you next to him was enough, though. In bed when he’d pull you close and set his chin on your shoulder, arms loosely resting on your stomach.

“Do you think your dad will come? If he knows?” You asked. You knew John didn’t exactly have the greatest streak with his father, one of those strict military types who tried to raise men who couldn’t bear to love themselves.

John’s expression returned to the strict, calculated gaze watching the road. “I haven’t gotten my hopes up in nearly forty years, love. I’m not about to start now.”

“I’m sorry.” You murmured. It was touchy for John, but sometimes you were too optimistic for reality to play into.

“Don’t be. He won’t show up. He didn’t for me, so why would he for us?“

“Well, I think we’ll have a good Christmas, regardless.”

—————

You arrived at John parent’s house pretty late that night. The driveway snowed over, though it looked like they’d shoveled earlier. John drove the truck up and parked, and his hand left your thigh. “I’ll bring the bags in.”

“I can help.” You offered.

He lightly shook his head and took the keys. “It’s not much. I’ll bring in the presents tomorrow.” You both hopped out of the truck, your hands sinking into the fuzzy and arm pockets of your jacket. The lack of his warmth next to you forced you forward up the walkway to the house. The front doormat was visible under the thin layer of snow, and the light on the other side of the glass window illuminated the obscured interior. You lifted your hand to the door, the cold air stinging your palm as you knocked.

After a moment, you saw a figure in the glass and the door cracked open, the face of a sweet older woman appearing. “Darling,” she exclaimed with delight, glad to see you. “Where is Johnathan?” She looked past you down the dark driveway.

“He’s just getting the bags. He’ll be right in.”

She nodded and let you come inside and sit by the fire. John eventually came in, the bags weighing down his arms, his biceps flexed and held them up with ease. He walked into the entryway and dropped them just in time for his mother to hug him and grip him. “Oh, Johnathan, glad you could come!” She squeezed him tightly.

You chuckled softly and smiled at John, and he awkwardly returned it over her shoulder. His mother was the only one you knew who got away with calling him Johnathan. Except for you on the occasion.

“The spare room upstairs is waiting for you two, John’s old bedroom.” She teased him, but he ignored it. “Thank you, mum.” He nodded for you to follow, and you did. You helped him with the bags, went upstairs, and got ready for bed. You stripped from your current clothing and into something more comfortable. John slipped into his cotton bottoms and crawled into bed, his arm laying across the bed where you’d faithfully settle every night against his chest. The warmth of his body, paired with his heartbeat, made you feel safe and cozy, his other arm loosely laying over your hip, his fingers tracing ghost shapes along your lower back.

—————

You were more or less used to John’s massive family. He had an older brother and two adopted siblings, both of which had children, and they were rowdy kids. John had warned you the first time, but you were acquainted with them now, nudging them toward their toys or their parents if you didn’t want to concern yourself with them. Of course, as soon as they noticed, the whole family was questioning you excitedly about the new band on your finger. John’s mother practically jumped on him when you told her he’d proposed only weeks ago.

Spending time with his family took a lot of energy, but John was always there to be a barrier between you and them if you looked like you needed to. But later in the evening, John left your side, his palm slipping out of yours with a quick squeeze and he disappeared upstairs. You continued to talk with his sister-in-law, trusting that he’d return quickly.

John came back down the stairs and his sister-in-law took her gaze off you and looked just behind you. The kids shrieked and got up from their toys, bursting into the living room as soon as they saw him. You turned and had to cover your mouth to suppress a laugh. John had dressed in the old red and white, the Santa hat perfectly positioned on his head. His salt and pepper beard complemented the white trim along the edge of the suit. It was thin; the fabric clinging to his chest. You smiled as the kids rushed to him, and he sat on the couch. “Ho ho ho.” He played along and bellowed it, picking up one kid. The parents and cousins all gasped and played along. Santa is in our living room! Crazy stuff.

Some kids were young enough that they wouldn’t be able to tell it was their uncle, even if he said it was him. He looked over at you briefly and saw the signs of the giggle you were holding back in your eyes. He gently tickled his youngest nephew. “What do you want from Santa, hmm??”

He giggled and flopped closer to him, grabbing his arm. “Lego!!”

“Legos??” He scratched his salty beard and nodded. “My elves have lots of Legos lined up for you. You’re on the nice list, after all.”

His nephew’s eyes lit up, but his older niece was already nudging in for her turn, so John switched them. The kids, one by one, told Santa what they really wished they had for Christmas. He got through them all and set the last one to the ground, then winked. “Well, my elves will come through soon, bedtime for you all.” He said, lightly shooing them. Their parents agreed with Santa, the couple’s going to send their children to bed.

The house was quieter for the moment. John’s older brother got out a bottle of wine and poured you and John a glass. The alcohol usually came out when the kids were gone. The night already felt over for you as well, but you took the glass and drank.

The evening passed, until it was late, an hour before midnight, when the adults finally decided it was their bedtime. As the sun sets and the kids finally tucked into bed, John slips downstairs, still wearing his Santa suit. He finds you laughing with his older brother, Tom, in the living room. He clears his throat loudly to get their attention, adjusting his belt. “Tom,” he says.

“Well, Santa’s here.” He saw the body language and slowly got off the couch. He said goodnight to you and disappeared down the hallway.

John smiled and sat down on the couch next to you. He eased into the cushions and patted his knee, clearing his throat.

You looked over at him. The longer he kept that thing on, the more attractive he looked in it. The glimmer of mischief in his eyes said he felt the same. You took another couple of sips of your wine and placed the glass down on the table. “John.”

He patted his lap again and adjusted his knees further apart, taking up more of the couch. The fabric strained across his hips; it wasn’t for such a big man; the belt stretched around his hips, the small portion of hard muscle and fat of his stomach cushioning the leather. “Well? Santa never got to know what you want for Christmas.”

That tone in his voice, no longer happy, jolly kid friendly Santa. You chuckled and lowered yourself onto his lap, your feet stretched out the rest of the couch length. “Hmm. What do I want?” You asked out loud, his hand faithfully finding its place on your thigh, the other embracing your lower back. “Spending Christmas Eve in Santa’s lap seems fitting.” You said, placing your hand on his chest, smoothing one button on the suit. Your fingers splayed over the center of his pecs, feeling the strength of his sternum.

“Maybe Santa should check if you’ve been naughty or nice this year...” His thumb traces small circles through the fabric of your jeans. “What do you think?” He ponders it, focusing on the feeling of his hand squeezing the fat of your thigh through the tight fabric, teasing traces along your hip.

You smiled a little, your fingers curling higher on his suit, teasing the fabric. What do I get If I’m not on the nice list?"

His fingers hook into your belt loop possessively as he feels your hand creeping higher on his suit. “If you’re on the naughty list...” He growls softly, leaning into your ear and kissing the corner of your jaw to coax you further into him. “Santa might just have to keep you up all night, teaching you a lesson... Making sure you know how to behave for next year...”

You swallowed. The words went right to your sex, shooting down your legs and making your body taut with arousal. “Oh, Santa.” You let out a breathy chuckle, his scruffy beard itching against your neck. “I’d hate for you to have to check the list, just for me.”

John considers what you’ve said for a second. He swallows back a groan as the suit strains against the erection that’s pressing up against it. Heat crawls up the back of his neck and he quells it by kissing your neck again, his teeth nipping at the soft flesh. His hand is itching to touch you, push your legs open and make you hump his palm. His free hand moves to cup your cheek, thumb tracing your bottom lip. Compared to your mouth, his thumb is rough but not harsh. He slides his thumb across your lip, groaning softly when your tongue flicks against it. “Maybe...” He whispers, “You could... convince Santa you’ve been good.” His voice drops lower. “Show me how good you can be...”

You squeezed his collar, then trailed your flat palm down his chest to his belt. You squeezed the leather, giving it a tug as you left his lap. His arms tensed. The absence of your body on his made his stomach twist. Your knees settled on the carpet, eye level with his straining erection.

“John,” you pulled the belt open and slid it down, his thick body shifting upward so you could get them down his knees. His thick, hairy thighs, caged in his prick, strained against his underwear. You knew the length under the thin fabric, and your hand dragged along the outline of his member.

John watched you with a stern expression, his wary eyes firm and fierce. They pursued your movements, watching as your hand delicately pulled back the skin on his head, knuckles meeting his hipbone softly. Your fist tightened, stroking back up, his tip weeping down his length, coating it in a sheen of pre.

Your wrist remained loose, dragging up and down, watching his cock grow firmer, veins kinking up the sides. Your hand was slick in pre-cum soon, his cock twitching and dripping between your fingers and through the gap of your index and thumb.

“Careful, little elf…” John smirked a little, his hand reaching out to brush your head. He leaned forward a bit, his thighs opening more, and his hand cupped the nape of your neck to bring you in. He coaxed you right between his thighs, his other hand taking his cock from your hand.

“Good, good job, little elf.” He praised with a few firm strokes to his cock. “Open up, your first present is ready…” His intense eyes watch your face, the flutter of your eyelashes, the way you licked your lips in anticipation. He tapped his cock against your bottom lip, leaving a small string of pre.

“That’s it.” He murmured, guiding you to take his cock between your lips. Your tongue pressed flat against his underbelly and your lips wrapped around him as he entered your mouth deeper. The firm length was familiar and welcome. You pushed him deeper into your throat, free hand pushing into the Santa suit to adjust his balls and squeeze them along with your mouth.

He groaned above you, his hand stroking your scalp, his gaze flicking between watching you and the hallway. His cock twitched and strained. The idea of being so open even in the darkness had him feeling naughty, but your lips were nice.

“Fuck, that’s it… that’s a good elf.” Job. approved, adjusting his hips so he could make shallow thrusts upwards. “Take it deep, darlin’, there ya go- there-“ He grimaced in pleasure, your lips pressing against his groin. Your nose against his trail of pubic hair, and your eyes on him. He shivered when your throat flexed around his prick, saliva dripping down the walls of your mouth onto his length, pushed up against the back of your throat.

Your eyes were a tad red, your lips swollen but tightly sealed around him.

“Good. Fuck, that’s it, little elf,” John said. “Keep sucking, make Santa proud.”

Your head bobbed, his thick length sliding along your tongue and the walls of your throat. Tears pricked your eyes from the exertion, coming up to suck along the tip, saliva leaking from your mouth down the side. Your hand clasped around his head, jerking it off while your mouth sucked one vein along the side.

John grunted, and his eyelids fluttered. He twitched, pre dripping down into the mix of saliva that slicked your hand and his prick. “Fuck, darlin’.”

You looked up at him mischievously, kissing and lapping at the vein, firm in your hands.

“Yeah, yeah- good little elf.” John gripped your head, smacking his cock against your cheek. “Open up… get your next present.”

You followed the tug and opened your mouth for him, his length sloppily pushing back into your mouth. He thrust up into you, holding your chin and head. “Take it.” He whispered, spurts of his cum filling your mouth. He shuddered as he released into you, your tongue lapping at him to get all of it.

He pulled his throbbing, swollen prick from your mouth and gave it a slow, soothing stroke. You opened your mouth, pushing the cum up on your tongue to show him before doubling your efforts and swallowing. Nearly made him hard again, right there.

He clicked his tongue and looked at the clock. “You’re not nearly done. I think you’re still on the naughty list.” He pulled his boxers up and adjusted the pants. The belt hung from his hips loosely as he motioned you upstairs into the guest bedroom.

Quietly, you followed, and he locked the door behind you. He kissed your neck and, reaching around, slowly undid your top. Your heart pounded, your body was warm. His hands opened the buttons on your sweater and pulled it off your shoulders. His kisses trailed down your bare shoulder and back, the itch of his beard following.

“John…” you whispered as you reached back for him. John merely diverted your hands, kissing down your arm and then back up to your neck. He licked your neck and clasped his lips around the skin, nipping it and sucking a hickey into the skin. All to distract you from the hand in your pants, sliding into your linen to tease your sex.

You breathed in sharply, his firm hand cupping between your legs like it was nothing. “Love those pretty noises.” He whispered against your neck, getting his hand wet with your excitement. “That’s it. Who’s a good elf?”

You nearly melted into him, his broad, firm chest braced for you to keep you up, your knees weak but he wouldn’t let you fall.

“Who’s a good elf, Darlin’?”

“Me.” You whispered back, only to whimper when John removed his hand.

“Mm, not yet.” He pushed you onto the bed and worked your pants down your hips. His heart pounded in tune with yours, the jeans coming off and he tossed them across the room. “Lay down, you’re gonna like this present.” He said with a rumble, parting your cheeks.

It made you gasp, gripping your biceps, stomach pressed into the sheets, and instinctively arching your back for him.

John chuckled and licked your taint, listening to your little gasp. It made his belly light with hunger, sealing his lips around your hole, lapping at the tight muscle, firm hands fondling the soft fat of your ass.

“Shit- John.” Your asshole clenched when he lapped at it, his warm tongue pushing in, making itself welcome inside you. Saliva dripped from your hole to his tongue, his beard scratching as he worked. His jaw didn’t stop, licking from the base of your sex to your asshole, flicking the tight ring.

“Open up, love.” He demanded, his hands squeezing you firmer. “Let Santa in.”

You shivered against the bed, a hand pinching your nipple, exhaling your noises halfway into a pillow. His tongue made your body react in kind, leaking pre onto the bed. The flicks of his tongue caught your sex, making you arch and buck your hips softly.

“John-“ You whined, the pillow taut in your hands. John smirked, two fingers replacing his tongue on your taint, pushing past the ring of muscle and into your tight channel.

“Oh-!” Your hips jumped, his fingers curled more, pushing deeper inside and working you open.

“Easy, good elf.” He gave your ass a firm smack, wiggling the fat and soothing the sting with his palm.

“Open up for me. There we go.” Your noises were music to his ears, better than any carol or hymn. He worked you deeper, pinning your back to the back and picking up your hips. He smacked your ass again, your little yelp making him grin.

He leaned back in and sloppily lapped your asshole, his beard picking up saliva and pre that dripped from your sex.

His cock twitched and stiffened against his pelvis, dripping against the bed. He rutted gently against the edge, veins pulsating while he ate you out.

“Fuck, you taste good.” He said between mouthfuls of your ass-cheeks and taint. Eventually, he pulled away and took the belt from his pants. He shoved down the red pants and coaxed your body to his whim. “Such a greedy little elf.” He smacked his wet cock against the hole, slowly pressing it in.

You groaned when he pushed his cock against you, his thick size forcing you open slowly. The wet heat of your dripping hole caved slowly, and he slid in. You could feel his body towering over you, your body trembling, sweat down your chest. “John-“

His hand covered your mouth, making you inhale your own scent off his callouses. You whimpered against him, his warm breath fanning your ear as he pushed in. “Shh, don’t want to wake anyone. Be Santa’s good little elf and let me fill this pretty hole.”

You groaned into the bed, squeezing fistfuls of the bedding against the pillow, your drool dripping down it. His cock seated inside you, filling you up. Your thighs trembled and your knees spread further apart. His hairy, muscular body leaned over you, covering you and placing one massive hand over yours, the other on your hip.

“That’s it.” He kissed your neck, his hips slowly rocking into your ass. “Fuck, nice and tight for Santa.” He teased, his voice low in your ear. His salt and pepper beard grazed your cheek, the hand on your hip snatching you back into his thrusting hips. His fat balls smacked against your sex as he picked up his pace.

You moaned, arching and curling your toes. His hands stopped your squirming, keeping you open as he fucked you. The kinked veins along his cock bulged as he slid out, your hole clinging on tight.

He continued to watch your face, his cock twitching hard when your eyes rolled back from pleasure. “You like that, don’t you, baby?” John whispered, his voice low with desire. “You love being my good little slut, don’t you?”

Your response was a whimper, your body shaking as he pushed back inside you. He watched your mouth open slightly, your tongue darting out to wet your lips as he thrust into your tight hole.

He thrust into you deeper and harder, his hips grinding into your ass. “Oh fuck, you’re so fucking tight!” He hissed, his fingers digging into your hips as he rammed into you.

You cried out, your body trembling with each thrust. Your hole clenched around his thick cock, pulsing with every thrust he made. It felt like fire was shooting through your body, and the pleasure was almost too much to handle.

His beard scratched against your skin as he leaned in to kiss your neck, his hot breath sending shivers down your spine. His balls slapped against your ass with each thrust, the sound echoing through the room.

“You like that?” He growled in your ear. “You like having Santa’s cock in your tight little elf ass?”

You whimpered, gripping the sheets tightly. “Yes,” you choked out, your voice high-pitched with excitement. He chuckled deeply, a cavernous sound that pierced the foreground and tunneled in your ears. Your hand slipped down between your thighs, groaning as the bed creaked beneath you. The hat on John’s head had long fallen off, running a thick hand through his hair, shaking his head like an animal while his hips rocked.

Your body shook uncontrollably, your ass clenching around him with every thrust. Your hands gripped the sheets tightly, your whole body trembling with each movement.

His cock pulsed inside you, filling you up completely. The veins along his shaft throbbed with each thrust, and you could feel his heart pounding in time with your own.

As he fucked you harder and deeper, he pulled on your hips, grinding them against his. His beard tugged at your skin as he kissed your neck, his breath hot against your skin.

“That’s it, baby,” John whispered, his breath hot on your neck as he continued to thrust into you. “You’re such a good little elf.” He said, his voice a low rumble as he fucked you deeper and harder. His cock throbbed inside you, pulsating with every heartbeat as sweat mingled on your bodies.

You moaned, arching your back and pushing back against him. Your hole clenched around his cock, milking him for every ounce of pleasure. The bed creaked beneath you, the sound mingling with your heavy breathing and John’s deep grunts as he fucked you senseless.

His hand slid down to your aching nipple, pinching it roughly between his fingers. You cried out, your body convulsing as electricity shot through you. “Cum for Santa,” John growled against your ear. “Come on, love.” He coaxed you, stroking his hand over your head, grabbing a handful of your hair and tilting your head back. He kissed your throat, reaching his other hand to stroke your sex. His cock strained against your quivering frame, your ass fluttering and clenching. A whimper tore from your throat as the pleasure built until you could no longer ignore it. You squirmed and trembled, coming in his hand. He groaned, your orgasm writing pleasure across your face. He pulled out with a slick pop, your hole puckering as he came across your back. Stripes of white landed across your ass and the small of your back.

“Christ, love…” He ran a hand through his hair, smiling wolfishly.

Your hips hit the bed, your back aching against the warm sheets. “John…” You panted heavily into the bed, feeling your heart violently pumping against your ribcage. Sweat dripped down your brow, your lips parted as harsh breaths escaped your lungs. John slowly leaned over you and kissed the corner of your mouth. “Did you like your present?”

You laughed softly, reaching up yo feel his chest with your hand. Rolling over, your hands cupped his face to kiss him properly. His tongue slipped past your lips and your bodies pressed together in the sheets. His hand slid up your thigh to your waist, giving it a squeeze.

“You’re naughty.” You whispered, though your lips formed a smile.

“For you, love.” He pressed his forehead to yours, sharing the oxygen between you. “Merry Christmas.” He whispered.

You chuckled breathlessly and kissed him again, wrapping your arms loosely around his neck.

[gothghostiie]

In the spirit of Christmas approaching, and as someone who prefers making gifts to buying them (for many reasons, the main two being that I love making things and forcing ppl to look at them and that I’m fuckin broke lmao), how do u think the 141 lads would react to receiving a gift from their spouse that was made by them? Like a drawing, something they knitted/stitched, or even a sculpture?

using this as my merry Christmas post so

merry Christmas and happy holidays yall<3 I hope ur having a great time and enjoying urself, sending much much love, mwah <3

cw: fluff, gn!reader + bonus what they would gift you

Price is a sucker for that stuff. handknit sweater? he'll wear that thing until it's barely more than a thread. nothing more cozy than something someone handmade with love specifically for him, nothing will ever be as comfy. that goes for anything handmade, he'll treasure it until he can't. nothing makes him feel more loved than anything handmade. hes has a hard time gifting things usually and will flat out ask and get what you asked for, but also add some stuff that he thought you might like. huge fan of practical gifts.

Gaz absolutely adores anything you make yourself, especially decorative items. paintings, stitching, sculptures, little trinkets, adores all of it with his whole heart. will keep everything with him, everything around the house/apartment. and he notices is somethings missing too, absolutely upset until he finds it again. he immediately finds a place for whatever you gave to him. kyle isnt really the one to gift materialistic things (sure, you get some jewelry or those new headphones you wanted) but he always gifts creative dates that he takes you on.

Soap is also a sucker for anything handmade. is a huge, huge fan of handmaking presents himself (he mostly draws, will 100% gift you a drawing too) and loves receiving them just as much. your skill level doesn't matter one bit, whether it be a patchy painting, a wonky mug or a sweater with holes, he'll proudly wear/display it and make sure you know just how much he loves it. as I said, you'll get a drawing - probably a portrait he secretly drew of you while you were doing the most mundane shit ever and he couldn't help but think you're gorgeous.

ghost is a secret christmas lover imo. colourful lights, christmas tree, sinple deco. he doesn't really want/ask for gifts, tells people there's nothing he wants when they ask. but listen: handmake him a balaclava. that man will propose to you on the spot. I'm so serious. appreciates any gifts he gets, especially handmade, keeps saying you shouldn't have, but that will make him fall hard. hes the type of guy where you think youll get a gift card at best, but you get almost anything you wanted but didnt get over the year. that cute mug? that sweater? those earrings? all yours, he remebered.

[miss-vanta-likes-to-write]

Just wanted to say I LOVE your work! Especially with the inclusion of a black reader/character 😭🫶🏾🫶🏾🫶🏾🫶🏾

This is a personal lil thought of mine, BUT

John Price wouldn’t say he was dating a black woman, but there would be signs. Even though his style would be fine beforehand, He’d be dressing nicer, his hair and beard would always be well groomed and overall put together.

I think Gaz would be the first to peep something different from his Captain cuz he recognizes the work of his own people lol

And you're right because suddenly this man's beard is lined up too nicely and that damn hat is gone. Check it below the cut love.

Rating: gen audience

It all started a few months ago with a simple, "Hey Captain?" Johnny says, "Nice cologne, the hens in the media bay can't stop talking about it."

Price only shrugged, not really paying attention, "Just trying something new."

Kyle agrees, it's new, and he thinks it fits his Captain nicely.

Then, things escalate from that one-off comment.

Kyle is perplexed. Confused. Genuinely thrown for a loop because why is his Captain sporting a tapered fade that connects tastefully to his beard? With the side burns fading into the connect?

Kyle just shruggs it off as someone at his boss' super cuts trying and talking him into something new.

Only the new hair style stays and there are plenty of women and men staring at him with lust filled eyes.

The next thing Kyle noticed was the glittering shine of a simple gold chain around John's neck. It's thin, and within regulations, the clasps are too small for his co's large hands to actually put on. Kyle peeps the little gold cross that's just dangling there when he leans over the desk to point out things in their mission dockets. Hm when did he find religion? It's not really his business.

Okay what the actual fuck? Kyle is wondering where John heard the phrase "Do I look like Boo Boo the fool" to be able to understand that he needs to not answer that question with anything other than "no ma'am". They are working with another task force that's headed by an older black woman who's a force to be reckoned with. But that's beside the point because, since when did he learn that and whom did he learn it from?

John Price isn't one to actually keep up with eating lunch at work. Kyle remembers having to drag and threaten and get Simon and Soap to help him get their leader to at least try and eat lunch and not work through it. Nowadays? This man brings in lunch, and it's not what you expect. What Kyle is expecting, well...he's not really sure what he is expecting, but seeing this man eat a fried plantain sends him.

It all comes to a head when the four of them are leaving a debrief. They are shipping out at the start of next week. Set to be gone for like maybe a few months. Johnny is begging asking for them all to go out for lunch and Price only raises an eyebrow.

"Can't today Soap." Price says as they exit the office building. His eyes scan the parking lot, and a smile breaks onto his face at the sight of a shiny black car. "I've got plans."

Now Kyle knows how to put two and two together to get four. He's had his suspicions, but the reality of John Price even dating never crosses his mind. He really thought it was just the effects of him and Soap teasing him for being an out of touch old man. But no...he crosses the parking lot and opens the car door to help out a gorgeous brown beauty. There's no telling how old she could be because Kyle knows black doesn't crack (he's often called baby face...its why he refuses to shave off the little facial hair he has). Johnny is shocked and Simon just grunts out a small "huh?" as they watch their captain help his girl into the passenger side of the car.

"In hindsight." Kyle smiles and says as they watch the car pull off, "That new cologne he started wearing months ago should have let us know far before the tapered fade."

[loveybirdlt]

I just want to squeeze these sweet boys in a hug (and be squeezed in return)

➜ chivalry isn’t so dead, 𝐓𝐅𝟏𝟒𝟏

summary. they open the door for you

warnings. fluff

authors note. n/a

𝐉𝐎𝐇𝐍 𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐄

It wasn’t a surprise that John was right by your side when walking towards the car, his arm draped casually around your waist. However, as you approached the car and he didn’t make a move to go to the driver's seat, you shot him a puzzled glance.

‘Why isn’t he going to his side?’ you pondered silently. As you approached the passenger door, John leaned in to open it for you, stepping aside with an expression that suggested this was completely ordinary.

You should have acted as if you were unfazed by his gesture, but the surprise was so genuine that you found yourself pausing to stare at John with wide eyes. His chuckle bubbled up at your reaction.

“What’s that look for, lovie?” he inquired, a curious smile playing on his lips.

Your cheeks flushed at his question, but more so towards his unexpected actions.

"Just wasn’t expecting you to open the door for me..." you mumbled, feeling shy as you finally settled into the passenger seat. Unbeknownst to you, John watched with a look of fondness as you fastened your seatbelt.

Just as the buckle clicked into place, he leaned in closer, resting one arm against the roof of the car while his other hand gently lifted your chin, guiding your flustered gaze to meet his.

“You won’t ever be opening another door as long as I’m here, I can promise you that love.”

𝐒𝐈𝐌𝐎𝐍 ‘𝐆𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐓’ 𝐑𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐘

Simon stood closely beside you, a supportive hand resting in the middle of your back. Even though it had been decided that you would be the one driving today due to his sore hands from his recent deployment, he remained right there with you as you approached the driver's side. A look of confusion crosses your face as your brows furrow together.

"What are you doing—Oh," you begin to ask, but the question fades as Simon opens the driver's door, looking at you expectantly, waiting for you to get in the car.

Your heart races a little faster as you gaze at him with admiration, as if he were the one who hung the moon and stars. He responds with a playful roll of his eyes.

“Get yer’ ass in the car, b’fore I change my mind and go back in the house.”

A bright smile spreads across your face, knowing he would never actually follow through on his threat. Beneath that tough exterior, you recognized the big softie he truly was when it came to you.

Before getting into the car, you leaned in closer, gently placing a soft kiss on the corner of his lips, which were hidden beneath his mask.

"Thank you, baby," you whisper to him before sliding into your seat, completely unaware of the way the man behind the mask is beaming, his heart nearly racing out of his chest.

𝐉𝐎𝐇𝐍 ‘𝐒𝐎𝐀𝐏’ 𝐌𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐒𝐇

You were bubbling with excitement at the thought of heading to your favorite restaurant. As Soap parked the car in an empty spot, you quickly unbuckled your seatbelt and reached for the door, eager to step out.

"Oi!" Soap exclaims, quickly reaching across to grab the handle of your door, pulling it shut before you can open it fully.

"What are you doing?" you laugh, watching as Soap shakes his head in amusement.

Without saying a word, he unbuckles his seatbelt and steps out of the car. You watch as he strides over to your side, opening the door and extending his hand for you to take.

“Much better. Can’t have ma’ girl opening doors, now can I?” he quips, attempting to sound playful, but the sweetness in his words makes your heart flutter. You step out of the car and lean in to give him a quick peck on the lips.

"Well, I can't let my man go without a special thank you, can I?"

𝐊𝐘𝐋𝐄 ‘𝐆𝐀𝐙’ 𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐊

The night air was crisp as you made your way toward the restaurant, with Gaz just a few steps behind you. Craving warmth, you reached for the door handle, but before you could grasp it, a hand swatted yours away. Before you had a chance to protest, Gaz was already opening the door and ushering you inside, who was just as eager to escape the cold as you.

You shoot him a deadpan look, but he simply shrugs in response, a playful grin on his face.

“You know better than to open any doors around me.”

Despite rolling your eyes playfully, you can’t suppress the lightness in your step and the flutter in your heart. You move closer and wrap your arms around his hips, pulling him into a warm hug.

“You spoil me to much.”

©️ jeepersbxch Rights Reserved

Leave a comment and tell me what you think! <3

[valscodblog]

𝔸 𝕧𝕖𝕣𝕪 ℙ𝕣𝕚𝕔𝕖-𝕪 ℂ𝕙𝕣𝕚𝕤𝕥𝕞𝕒𝕤

SOOOOOOOOOOOO I HAD A WEE LITTLE VISION. ENJOY!

Warnings: very steamy smut intro and outro (although the edning aint that spicy), vulgar language (your baby(teenager-) lmao and you and price but shhhh mostly the kid), and tooth rotting fluff. That's it.

TAGS: @ink-n-shadow @skauni @thebunnednun @writing-with-moss @2econd-of-1sts @rainyrambles-overcod <33

"John-fuck the kids are home..." you murmured as your husband kept slowly and softly kissing your neck. He hummed, "Then i guess you'll have to keep it down f'me..." Oh the fucker. You huffed. "Fine-but you better go slow." John looked up at you and pressed a soft little kiss to your pulse. "Deal." and next thing you knew, his cargos, vest. sweater, tee shirt, and boxers were off and he had you stripped of your own clothing. God, you loved it when he came back from deployment.

You closed your eyes, trusting him to do whatever he felt like doing, because to be honest your own job had been draining today. The kids were so loud, and you burnt three batched of cookies trying to prevent your boys from eating the crafting glue your girls had forgotten to put away...but now the little angles were in bed-and you were being ate out by your husband. You hadn't even noticed the small little whines exiting your mouth, the soft "John"s you were saying.

"Fuck, love-sllrrp!-taste s'good," John mumbled into your cunt, swirling his tongue all around your clit which caused you to whine softly and bite down on your lower lip. He looked up at you and chuckled, "C'mon, Love. You know what you want-Say it." You looked down at him and huffed, "John. I'm not taking that risk-"

"MOMMMM JAKE WON'T STOP PUSHING ME-Mom? What's under the sheets?" you froze and looked at your husband with the most god awful look you could manage and he gulped quietly. "Nothing, Lena. What's that about Jake?" "Ugh-the fucker won't stop biting me!"

and up came Price from the sheets. "Watch that mouth!" "Says the one who was prolly just eatin' mum ou'-" "Elena Susan Price!" "...I'll just go..." and out your eldest walked. Fifteen was a a scary number for sure. John groaned. "And there goes our fun night." you slapped his arm. "I told you-" "Ah shut it, yeah? It's just as much your fault!" "Johnathan!" "Y/n!" "Ooouughh you have no Idea how much i wanna strangle you right now!" and John laughed. "Darlin'-I have a choking kink that goes both ways." and you groaned. "And how did i fall in love with you again?" "Mhh, no idea. Called you a pretty dove one day and you followed me around like a lost puppy for awhile." you flipped him off before getting up, putting your shorts back on and walking out of the room.

he followed, naturally. "Where ya goin', Lovie?" "Bathroom-" "I'll guard." "This issn't-....Fine. Make sure Jake dosen't barge in without knocking." "Yes, Mummy." "Fuck off, John!" and Price gently pushed you into the restroom, laughing softly. "Love you too, Babe," he murmured, eyeing the hallway. he narrowed his eyes before- "...Jesus, Mary, and Joeseph, Lance! You scared me. What are you doing up?" "Lenny was screaming sum and I woke up and couldn't fall back asleep and now i have to pee." John nodded. Good reason. Elena was Loud. Like her mom-

"Your talking out loud, Price!" "Oh mind your fuckin' business!" and the toilet flushed and he heard the tap running, he stared at the door so hard that his son sworn he would see smoke coming from it any second-that was before you swung it open and caught Price's stare, and he narrowed his eyes. "Your short, Corp-" "Say that infernal ranking again, Lt, and I Swear to God himself, I'll punch you in the gut!" and John laughed, unable to keep his stupid act up any longer. You did too. The way you too acted with each other was so dumb, so stupid...and yet so perfectly in love.

Your son gagged and ran into the bathroom and said, "If i puke, it's your fault, mum an' dad!" John rolled his eyes, "Sure, Son. Sure." he started walking back to his room and you followed, just how you used to back in the day. John looked over his shoulder and turned around, picking you up with ease and carrying you the rest of the way to the bedroom. You let out a yelp and clung onto him. "I did tell you to warn me before just-picking me up, right?" "Ye did...but i don't listen."

"So I see...We best get some shut eye. Girls'll be up in no time screaming about their presents." John laughed. "Yeah? Let's go then, Darl."

Seems you were right, John thought as he felt his youngest daughter softly punching him on his chest, "Daddy! Wake up! Its-" "Christmas? Yeah...I know, Lovie." and your youngest giggled happily as she then moved onto wake you up. "Mummy! Mummy!" You could never tire of hearing her little accent. Even having been living in the UK ever since you got married you still didnt have an accent-not a full one at least. "Yes, Dear?" "It's time for presents from Santa!"

Your don't think a rabid animal could've made such a damn mess in your living room as you watched your kids tear open their presents. Elena got a new pair of gaming headphones (due to her begging John behind your back), some new socks, a few new hoodies she found rather comfy and nice, lots of art supplies, and..."Mom. What the fuck?"

"You need some new ones, Elena." "Mom-these bra's dont even look like they'd fit me!" and John sighed, "I didnt even know that you got those for her, Y/n." "She needed them." Elena rolled her eyes and opened her next one and nearly choking on her own spit. "WHO THE HELL GOT ME THIS-!?" and she held up a pack maxi-pads. Lance rose his hand and laughed his ass off.

Elena threw them at his face, smiling. "Bastard!" "Hey hey hey! Watch it, both of ye!" John shouted, and you rolled your eyes. "Let them be kids, John." He groaned and said, "Why don't you tell them off?" "Cause I'm the nice parent and everyone's favorite. I like to keep it that way...Now, what did you get, Ellie?" and your youngest daughter giggled happily. "I got some new dresses and a lot of new markers!" you smiled, teeth and all, but then slowly turned your head to look at your husband. "Lovely...now she can draw on my walls even more, " You whispered to him.

He just laughed loving. "What about Lance?" "I...Got some new boxers, a new pair of shoes and-OH HELL YEAH! RED DEAD REDEMPTION TWO!" and John coughed. "Who the hell-....Y/n..?" "What? He sold it pretty well." "....Damn it." and your youngest son, Jake said, "I got a new toy car! and a few more dinosours and more crayons and uhm...A new cup! It has dinos on it! And words-but I can't read them too well. I know one says...R-Rrawr? Rour? I dunno."

You laughed, "I can help you read it later on after we wash it, Kiddo." "Thanks, Mama!" and after the kids finished naming all their presents, they got one more-and so did you. The whole 141.

"AYE, IIIIIT'S UNCLE JOHNNYYYYY!" Soap shouted, running into the house, from the kitchen. How did they...You looked at John and he smirked. "Im a damn good actor, huh?" "You shit." "Ye love me."

"Uncle Simon!" Your daughters shouted as they both ran for the man, he smiled under the mask-which Elena tore off. "Told ye once an; I'll tell ye again, Uncle, Dont wear this around family!" Ghost laughed-harshly wheezing sounds, "Alright, Alright, I get it ye lil' Demon." And Elena laughed.

Lance did a fist bumb, hand slap and something else looking sort of hand shake with Gaz, and Kyle, being the sweet boy he was said, "Looks like yer gonna help yer mum out cleaning, aye?" "Uhmm..." Lance blushed. "I dunno..." "That better be a yes, young man." "Yes, Lieuntant Gaz!" "Good...."

And finally Nikolai was knocked down by all of your kids jumping onto him-literally. "VWHOA! And Hello to you keeds, Too!" John sighed and, after bushing his kids off playfully, helped his old friend up. "Merry Christmas, Nik." "Very happy holidays here indeed."

You watched your eldest daughter started to slowly back out of the room, but you caught her gaze and she glared at you.

'Mom. Please-'

'Their family. get back over here now.'

'....Yes, Ma'am.' and so your daughter walked back over, your glare overpowering her own. Ghost had watched the whole thing and tried to cheer her up by handing her a tenner. Your daughter took it and grinned. "Buy yerself sum'in nice, yeah? Since i didn't have tme to get ye a gift an' allat..." "Naw, it's okay Uncle Ghost! Thanks though!" John gave his old LT the worse side eye you've ever seen him give and Ghost, even though he was already very pale, seemed to pale even more at that.

After everyone left, you sighed heavily. Never were one for long staying guests. John placed a hand on your lower back and you smiled. "I still have one gift left to give you, John..." and Your husband Grinned. "Oh really, Darling?" "Yeah...meet me upstairs in ten," you murmured, walking away. John watched you and nearly started after you right away. You knew he would so you let him but then, in the hall way-"Bathroom-Go."

You nodded and changed course, walking into the bathroom, letting John pick you up and place you on the counter. You smiled before he kissed you, nice and hard. All teeth and tongue. "John-Slow down! I'm not gonna run away, and besides the kids are in bed, we have all night, Babe." He groaned. "Sure dont feel that way t'me, Darl." and he squeezed your thighs, spreading them open and telling you, "Undo my jeans." and boy did you. Unbuttoning them, and undoing the fly and watching them fall off his hips.

"You gonna be good?" "Yeah." "Atta Girl...Merry Fucking Christmas." and his cock slid inside of you, making you whine in response, "M-Merry Christmas, John..."

[j0hnpr1c3sm1ssus]

FICMAS - DAY 12 - WRAPPING PRESENTS

Title: Presents with Price

Synopsis: John and you take a small... break from wrapping presents.

Warnings: This is uh.. smut :) other than that, nothing much other than mentions of Johnny having chemical burns (because he's a bomb tech, it's kind of realistic I reckon) oh and like mild voyuerism but nothing much lol. Also female anatomy + fem praise (atta girl) and a spank because The Missus don't write no smut without spanking

AN: god I love writing smut for this man oh uhhhh and merry Christmas :)

You're sat across from John, genuinely trying to focus but he's looking scrumptious in those flannel pants and low cut shirt. 

"How many left to wrap?" You ask, slightly breathless, currently working on Simon's gift, wrapping carefully.

"Got Kyle's, Kate's, and then I think we're good," he responds, glancing back up at you before looking down at whatever he's wrapping. 

You sigh, snipping with the scissors the wrapping paper, folding it up carefully. You aren't really... Focused, though. You're looking at his hands.

He watches you with a small chuckle, already finished with whatever he's wrapping.

"Johnny said 'e wants us t'wrap his gifts for Kyle, Kate, and Sim'n. Says 'is 'ands are real bad after the mission--chemical burns and the like," he mutters out, tilting his head as he watches you, flustered to be caught staring, trying to wrap with shakey little hands.

"Copy that," you mutter, setting the gift aside, grabbing the next one to start wrapping.

He lets out a soft hum, "'Ow 'bout whenever you're done with all that we take a little break, hm?" He offers, patting his thigh with one of those deliciously meaty hands.

You nod, squeaking slightly, "Yeah.. little break would b'nice."

You start to wrap a little quicker, fumbling slightly. He chuckles, watching how flustered you are. Once that present is done, he opens his arms, welcoming you with that smile.

He sets you down in his lap, plopping you down and wrapping his arms around you. He kisses from your jaw down your neck, placing little nips and kisses and licks, teasing you.

"J-John.." you mumble, shutting your eyes and putting both your hands on his shoulders to keep yourself upright.

"Yes, lovie?" He responds with a smirk.

"Y-ou're such a damn-" you're cut off by him sinking his teeth into the crook of your neck, sucking down and making you let out a gasp.

"I'm a what?" He asks, smirking as he goes back to just gentle, feathery kisses.

"A d-damn tease.." you whisper, taking a deep breath to try to hold yourself together. By now one of his hands is rubbing up and down your side, before it goes down to your thighs, rubbing up and down again.

"A damn tease? I'm teasin' ya, love?" He murmurs, finding another spot to suck on your neck. You gasp out, his hand finding your cunt.

You let out a tiny moan as his hand slips into your slick little slit, "Ya dirtry bird, 'uh? S'wet.. just from starin' a' me..." he growls into your ear with that smoky vibrato.

You nod, embarrassed, and your cheeks flush as he teases your clit, making you groan out.

He hears this little gaspy "Juh- John!" come from your lips, and that makes all his control slip.

He can't help but push all the presents and supplies and wrapping paper away, getting you on your hands and knees, slapping your ass after pulling your pajama pants down and those lacey little "panties" down, though he can hardly consider them anything when they leave *so little* to the imagination.

"Gonna pu' it in, yeah?" He says, kneeling behind you and starting to get undressed. He gets his pants off, his stomach slightly exposed, and then pulls his boxers off.

He teases his shaft up and down the crease from the very top of your ass to where your labia ends, making you shudder and mewl, embarrassed to be spread out somewhere so... public.

"Y-you're gonna wake someone u-" you try protesting, you really do, but then he slams his cock directly down into you, bottoming out in *seconds.*

It makes your elbows go weak, your back arch, those pretty eyes John loves to stare at go back, rolling into the sockets. You feel that *entire* girth that he's been working to get you to comfortably take all sheathed inside you at one and you can't help it, you let out a loud moan.

So, John covers your mouth with his hand, leaning down and kissing your shoulder, "Break's gotta be quie', birdie. You'll wake someone up," he taunt.

You nod, desperate, and it makes John chuckle and shake his head, kissing down your shoulder to the centre of your back, "Arse up in the air, atta girl.." he mumbles, making you arch your back into his length as much as you can.

He rubs up and down your back, making slow, easing thrusts into you. By now, his hand has been removed from your mouth because you're *already* cockdrunk on him because of how girthy and patronising he can be.

"S'pretty..." he praises, wiping a small dribble of drool from your mouth, a little "ah- ah- ah-" escaping your mouth as your ass stutters back into his rudely slow pace, cum flowing down slowly.

"Makin' a mess, huh bird?" He chuckles, rubbing your ass with one hand as the other holds your hip, gently groping your cheek as his thrusts start to ever so slightly speed up.

The change in pace makes your little "ahs!" get louder, a "Shush, darlin'... don' gotta get loud on my cock, huh?" escape his lips as he tries to shut you up.

After so long you think your brain might be leaking from your ears, maybe your third(? John has lost count at this rate) cumming falling from where you're both conjoined his hips start to stutter and his chest heaves. He lets out a few groans, harder thrusts that make you squeal coming from him.

His hips jerk a little more and a hand goes to your shoulder, pushing you back onto his cock as he spills himself inside of you. You let out a pretty moan, body going frail as you grin widely, fucked out.

He pulls out slowly, a little "plop" sound as his cum spills out and onto the ground. He helps you up, getting your panties on and those pajama pants and hoping that that is enough until you're upstairs and finished wrapping presents so he can *properly* give you aftercare.

"'Right, lovie.." he mumbles out, helping you sit on your ass as you catch your breath, "let's finish these presents up, yeah?"

[cutiecusp]

A Devotion/Matchmaker cross over.

John Price x Reader.

@kaeyasfuturewife @xoxunhinged @muneca-lemon-steppa @gardenof-venus @misshugs @soraya-daydreams @frudoo @renpodz @yesornowaitidontknow @thevoiceinyourheadx @shadowdark00 @rynbeerose @lunamoonbby @incredible-walker @identity2212 @pukbadger @urbimom @corvid007 @wordsfromshona @shadows-empress @m00xy @canyonmooncreations @oniraki @evie-119 @havoc973 @kylies-love-letter @ishipdabands @cmbghost @heckinspooks @midwesternwitchery @eggy-yoke @redzluvvesage @masterclassofescapism @s-a-v-a-n-a-34

[ayyisasra]

Girl dinner. Talking bout licking the plate and everything 😋

cowboy!neighbor!price

[syoddeye]

the warren, part nine - misunderstanding

price x f!reader | 3k words | series page | ao3 tags: implied/reference suicide attempt, implied/referenced abduction/captivity, gaslighting, stalking, taxidermy mention, pov multiple, italics flashback a/n: you know what you saw. ...right? 🔪

The suit fiddles with the gift, his disgust evident.

Price will be happy, he thinks, cheeks smarting from all his grinning. He's a dog with two tails.

The stranger disappears into the motel, and he puts his nose to the ground. There are only so many places she could be. He twirls the keys, perfectly at ease. Rabbits are on their own during hunts, whereas he's got his fellow dogs. All it takes are a few cheerful inquiries for him to end up at the library.

Brave thing. Smart thing. 

He knew it. Pride warms him as he lopes through the doors, taking in the place. It's grand. Temple to knowledge and all that. He hasn't set foot inside in years. It was one of the first solo errands he ran for Price, way back when–

He staggers, pressing a hand to his temple as pain splits through his skull. It's sudden, the strike of an icepick, and his whole body reacts—muscles seizing, limbs tightening as though he's been thrown into freezing water. But then, just as swiftly, it dissolves, leaving behind a light fog.

"Can I help you, sir?"

Sir. 

The address cleaves through the mist.

Been ages since anyone's called him that. He rubs the ridge of his scar and beams, taking in the peculiar woman and her many bracelets. "No, I dinnae think ye can. Just browsing."

He drops the smile once she totters off, tilting his nose a little to catch the scent of John's doe. Syringa and prickly rose, same as her soap. If he licked her teeth, he knows he'd taste the mild mint from her toothbrush, too. Instead, he pretends to browse, nostrils flaring as he filters out the tang of glue and lignin decay, tracing her steps to a secluded corner.

Through the stacks, he watches her lean over some oversized machine. John's doe is clever. He called it. All those books and writings and not investigating all that terrible racket he made. Clever, clever. 

He tongues his canines in thought. Interrupting would be awkward. She'd ask questions, and he's on strict orders to keep it simple. There's no sense trying to coax her out now. He retreats, content to loiter outside. It's a long walk back.

~~

"Soap?"

He turns, the sound of his name like fingers threading through his hair. He arranges his face into surprise and delight, but his attention shifts, quickly and completely, to her. There's a twitchiness, a strain in the line between her eyebrows.

"Bonnie! Fancy seeing ye here."

"What are you doing here?"

"Could ask ye the same thing. I was just retrieving supplies for Simon. Predicting an uptick in business with the big game season open."

"That makes sense." She smiles tight again, and nods. "Well. I ought to head back–"

"Where's John? He not with ye?"

He reckons that if she had the right ears, they'd flatten to her head. Friendly fella like himself, but she still shrinks to a degree. Polite, even when she's stiff. Knows better than to let her guard down. Like he told them. Smart.

"Uh, no," She shrugs like it's nothing. "I walked here. From Grouse."

He whistles. "No…you didn't!" He already knew that. "Hell of a jaunt, bonnie. Aren't you sore? Tired?"

"A little," She admits, her expression finally softening. "I used to have to walk into town where I lived before, too, but I like walking."

"Clearly," Hopefully, she remains smart. She's not like he was. She knows what's good for her. "C'mon. I'm taking you back."

It doesn't take much to convince her when he harps on the distance, the weather. She follows him into the truck, the volume of the tape deck making her jump when the engine roars to life. He dangles an arm out the window, feeding off the glaring tourists on the street. He takes the longer route out of town to roll past the Patridge, then nearly slams on the brakes.

Ahead of them, it's him. The suit. That handsome bastard, face pointed at his phone. The novelty of their little welcome gift must've already worn off. His fingers drum impatiently on the wheel, and he steals a glance at his passenger. She's watching the stranger, too.

When the man reaches the other side, he looks back, double-takes, and stares. His gaze shifts between them, brows knitting behind his aviators. Beside him, she opens her mouth to speak, so he lays his foot on the gas, stares straight ahead, and peels out of town. 

~~~~

The truck reeks. Cigarette smoke and wet dog clings to the sun-bleached fabric seats, and through the rear window, sharp bursts of acetone and the sour tang of formaldehyde drift in. The seats are pockmarked with cigarette burns and patch jobs. The floor caked in cracked mud, ground-in dirt, and pine needles. A heap of worn cassettes in the center console.

You slowly turn down the volume, shooting him a nervous smile. You're still reeling from what you saw at the library. For all his oddities, Soap feels like a tether—an outsider like you, or at least someone who once stood where you stand now, and far more approachable than Nikolai or Simon. You'll ask John, too, but something about Soap just feels more…open.

"So…Soap. We haven't spoken since the Fourth. How have you been?"

He doesn't miss a beat. "Really? I'm fine. Workin' hard, playin' harder." His eyes flick to you, a fleeting look before he shifts focus back to the road. "And you? Heard rumors you might stick around after the season's over. True?"

You wonder how many ears John has whispered his hopes into. "No comment," you say, then quickly add, "How long have you lived here again?"

He shrugs. "Years, I reckon. I'm bad with time."

"John mentioned you worked at the store, too." You watch him closely. "He said your stint was short-lived."

"Aye, I did and it was. Not cut out for workin' with so many people."

You force a soft laugh. "I find that hard to believe. He said you were a bit of a flirt, though, that Simon swept you off your feet. True?"

Soap's smile falters, and he looks out his window. The silence hangs long enough to feel pointed. Then he glances back, sidelong, expression almost stern. "You a reporter now, bonnie? Askin' a lot of questions."

You're dancing around it, the photo, the snag you feel yourself unraveling around, and although you're trying to keep things light, it's obvious Soap's caught on. "I just want to get to know you better. I spend all my time with John, which is fine, but you're his friend, right? And if there's a chance I'll stick around through the winter, I ought to get to know everyone better."

He raises a brow. "Even Simon?"

Right. They're a package deal. "Even Simon."

"Then it's only fair that I get to ask questions too, right?"

"Oh, um, yeah. Of course."

"Then what's eating you? You looked ill when I caught you outside the library. Like you'd seen a ghost."

Your mouth opens, the words pushing to the front and failing to organize themselves. A small stampede. "Actually, I wanted to ask you about something. It's going to sound insane." You hesitate, but he doesn't interrupt, so you open the gates. "I was curious. About local history, the mines and stuff. My hus—I used to be familiar with the business. So, I was looking through old newspapers at the library, just to see what I could find, and there was this photo, from decades ago, of a group of miners who survived a huge fire. One of them looked exactly like Alex. I think it was Alex."

"Alex." Soap repeats. "Ye dinnae say?"

"Yes. Do you know him? Works at The Echo? I'm positive it was him."

"I know him." He grins, bemused. "I think you're seeing things. Not close with the man, but he's not that old." He chuckles softly. "Could be his grandad or something."

You try to laugh along, but it catches. "I…I know what I saw, Soap. It wasn't a lookalike. It was him —exactly him. I know that sounds crazy. That would make him, like eighty? Ninety?"

Soap checks the rearview, then guides the truck to the shoulder. He faces you, his broad frame pressing against the worn seat. "Aye, maybe," he speaks slower than before. Careful. "But ye ken, sometimes our minds play tricks. Price...He might've mentioned you've been sleeping poorly."

You blink, thrown. Sure, small towns gossip. Let every clucking hen share theories about your circumstances—but John? You had no idea he even knew about your worsening sleep. You hadn't told him about the nightmares, or woke him.

Soap continues. "Bad dreams, tossing and turning…early mornings. When did ye wake up today, bonnie? When did ye hit the road?"

You begin to answer, then stop. It's as if now that he's pointed that out, exhaustion creeps in, and alongside it, doubt. Could it really be a coincidence? Your tired brain misfiring?

"I'm not tired." You say more to yourself than to him, blinking. "I know what I saw."

There's a flash of pity. "Alright, bonnie. If you say so." He pulls the truck back onto the road. "But I think John's working you too hard."

He doesn't believe you. Disappointing, but not surprising. What you're implying is absurd. So you bite your tongue and feign agreement. "Maybe you're right."

The conversation peters off, leaving the sound of the tires on the road. You'll have to ask John now, otherwise, Soap will beat you to it.

You stare at the passing trees, and it feels as if your mind is slipping, one treacherous inch at a time. You want to believe it's the creep of exhaustion, the stress of being on the run, because for all your comforts, that is what you are doing here. Yet, even as the excuses form, they dissolve, because you know what you saw.

The photograph is not something you can forget. You think of the man in Ponderosa, behind the counter at the diner, smiling ear to ear, asking about the cats at the cabin. And then the exact same man, covered in dust and dirt, happy to be alive. It doesn't make sense, and the pit forming in your stomach deepens.

Soap's words circle back. I think you're seeing things. You're sleeping poorly. It's true, isn't it? You haven't slept well for weeks. Months, really, not since you left your husband. Not since you started driving north, stopping in towns where no one knew your name. Sleeping as little as possible, waking up before dawn, like you're always outrunning something. The way the woods press in at night, the noises, the dark—a perfect storm for the kind of thoughts that keep you awake. The scratching. The eyes. It's easier to believe you're imagining it all.

Your thoughts split in two. You know what you saw. Except, maybe you don't.

That's what scares you. If you believe it, you know how it will sound. How it will look.

You glance at Soap out of the corner of your eye. One hand on the wheel, cradling and rubbing his head with the other. Now, he probably thinks you're just a jittery, paranoid woman who's been through too much. Maybe you are. If you're wrong about this and really are losing your grip, what else have you been wrong about?

"Soap," your voice cracks slightly. "What if…" You trail off, not even sure how to finish the question. What if you're not crazy? What if you are? The doubt is a splinter, buried deep and bound to fester. You already know that no matter how much you try to convince yourself it's nothing, you can't.

"Nevermind."

~~~~

Her head must be spinning. He knows what that's like.

She doesn't get out of the car right away when they stop. Her smile's bent in a brittle shape, and she places a tentative hand on his arm.

"Thanks for listening to my ramblings. You're a good friend."

Oh, how he wants to correct her.

There was once a man with his face, his body, a name—but that isn't him. Not anymore. John and Simon saved him from that, or they tried to. Fixed him when he didn't deserve fixing. He'd been so selfish.

Some days, he tastes the metal on the back of his tongue. Hears the gunshot, sees the flash. His favorite memories are those months spent in the mounting room, stretched out, recovering on the cot. All the fussing, the tenderness Simon showed him, even though it came from a place he hasn't been able to reach since. No. The weeks that followed, when he could move, fastened to the hutch, reminded of his place again. He wished those memories had vanished instead. His head's a minefield. Gaps, holes. Pits, great and small, with nonexistent or false bottoms

But he has a modicum of sense left, so he swallows the lump in his throat. "Like ye said. I'm your friend."

He returns her wave when she pauses at the shop door.

Am I?

~~

He rides the accelerator all the way home.

"Simon! Simon!"

Slaughter and the Dogs drowns him out, but he barrels through the workshop anyway, feet pounding the floor. The door to the mounting room is ajar, so he jams his hand inside to turn the volume down, stepping in just as Simon looks up. In the lowlight and shadows, Simon's shoulders look like a snow-capped ridge, scars tracing the curve of his muscles like weathered timberlines. The air holds a scent of sweat and hide paste. An acquired taste. Intoxicating. Normally, he'd grovel, fall to his knees to nose between the thighs wedged under the steel table, but there's no room for hesitation. No time to indulge the usual knots twisting in his chest.

"I dinnae ken how, but I think she's onto Alex. She saw some picture at the library. I–I think I talked her down, but..."

The news hangs, then Simon exhales sharply, the paper mask fluttering over his mouth and nose. He stands, abandoning his work with the bolting buck's pinnae, its slate eyes wide, frozen mid-flight, and peels off his stained leather apron.

"You tell Price?"

His tongue fattens with every step his man takes. Has to force it out. "No. I only just delivered her to him, I didn't have a chance–"

"Mm," Simon grunts disapprovingly, reaching past him for the towel on the hook. He wipes his brow, pausing to press it to his mask and inhale. "Thought you liked her."

"I-I do! She's nice to me."

Simon snorts and tugs his hair with his free hand. "Well, you've shortened her lifespan. If she asks 'im, which she will, no tellin' 'ow 'e'll react. Remember the last girl?"

His head throbs. The scent of blood on gravel, salt and metal, reaching forward in time. He gawks, horrified.

The hand pulling his hair flattens, cups his skull. Strokes. "She'll be alright," Simon mutters. Soothing, but not quite. "Price thinks she's the one. It'll take more than a few questions to make 'im do somethin' stupid."

He wants to believe him, always, but the last girl—well, Price thought she was the one, too. 

And they all paid for that mistake.

~~~~

The stranger arrived after a long, unsuccessful week away. Just at the right time. A balm for John's bruised pride.

He loathes the days he leaves his range. He hates the cities to the south and the backwater latrines up north. He loathes that his needs require travel and discretion these days, for him to prowl territory where no one knows him and his authority's nonexistent. He relies on the weight of his influence, his power. The decades of blood, of dirty and thankless work, of blessings and curses, of folklore and superstition. The rabble who grew up at their parent's and grandparent's feet listening to stories about the men eaten and spat back out by the mountain.

He likes the wary. The watchful.

More than that, he likes the overlooked and the desperate. People starved for attention in any form. People with nowhere else to go. Both groups careless with where they go looking for belonging.

Most times that place is the dingiest bar in a shithole town. A truck stop. The edge of the highway.

Sometimes that place is his general store. 

John weeds out the characters that don't fit the bill. No families. No groups. He's tried couples, when one or the other's to his liking, but their residencies stir up too many questions. Individuals? Now, much better. Individuals like the man in his shop. Scuffed, secondhand gear and a ratty pack. An overgrown haircut and beard. Wild, sleep-worn eyes heavy with bags. He's seen dogs with mange look better than the specimen stalking his shelves. 

"This it?" He stares at the man's selection: a single beer, a pack of pencils, and a cheap razor.

"Aye. That's it."

The brogue, thick and unmistakable, wraps around the words and John decides then and there. He holds the man's eyes, a shock of blue, more striking than his own. "You're a long way from home."

"Could say the same to ye," The man laughs, fishing out a wad of crumpled bills and some coin. The billfold looks as worn as his clothes, edges fraying, stuffed with two other currencies.

"Looks like you've been around," John sorts the coin by feel. "What brings you here?" He leans on that word, here. It's a habit now, sizing people up. Most tourists are easy to place—locals from a few towns or the next state over. But every so often, someone like this turns up, someone from further afield. It's usually a sign. Fish nibbling at bait on one of the hooks he's cast.

"Just going where my thumb takes me. I'm spending the next three, four months in America. Left tracks all over already, but someone told me the camping's good up this way. Figure I'll make my way to Seattle, then through to the Yukon." 

"Somebody waiting for you up there?"

The stranger's smile is wide and reckless. Toothy, sharp. "Nah, that's the beauty of it. Free as a bird. No strings, nowhere."

John returns the smile, feeling that rotten thing in his chest stir, stretching awake, licking its chops. It's always hungry, always ready for a reason. The man's candor is laughable, he's tying the snare around his own neck. John looks him over again, considering. It's probably a bit of both, he decides. Starved for attention and just dumb enough to show it. Typical rabbit.

However, there's the matter of the shit he's stolen.

John chuckles along with the stranger, but his hand moves without hesitation, wrapping around the sagging strap of the backpack and giving it a tug. He stares down his nose. The man's smile vanishes, fast as a light switching off.

"Son, I'm gonna need you to empty your bag."

Outside, as if on cue, Simon rolls into the lot, and John watches the man's posture stiffen at the sight of the hulking mass climbing off the dirt bike. 

"You don't want him to empty it." John warns.

It's almost dizzying how quickly he complies, dumping the contents onto the counter: mostly food, a folding knife, and a bar of soap. The door chimes behind him, and John picks up the soap, turning it over in his hand, his eyebrows raised in silent accusation.

"Am I interruptin'?"

Simon stands in the doorway, helmet under one arm, already fixed on the man. His chest rises and falls like bellows, his gnarled lip curling in that way John knows too well. Interest. Blood in the water.

The stranger isn't small, not by any measure. Solid, broad through the shoulders and arms, though he's hunching slightly, an instinct to look bigger. A meal trying to pass for something harder to swallow, and isn't that the way with those lower on the food chain?

But he's not stupid. He sees the man for what he is now that his right hand's here. He's just Simon's type. All he needs is a shave.

"Not at all. I'm clearing up a misunderstandin' with…"

The man clears his throat, eyes still locked on Simon. His voice steady, but barely. "John. John MacTavish."

Simon's chuffs. John cracks the bar of soap.

Another decision made, then.

~~~~

Kyle can spot trouble a mile away. He sees the ills of the world and the way violence threads through things and stitches them together. Why people do what they do, the multitude of factors and reasons—it's all straightforward in his head. In the real world, though, nothing is. Cases don't wrap up neatly, they unravel. Leads dry up. Witnesses clam up. Evidence falls short or gets thrown out, and he has to move on, whether he likes it or not.

He tells himself it's necessary. That there's too much evil in the world to fixate on just one piece of it. But moving on doesn't mean letting go. The frustration festers. The urge to kick in doors, to pull people out of the mess they're in, to handle those responsible the way no court ever will—it simmers under his skin, a wire fraying at the edges.

But there are rules. Policies. A whole bloody process he's meant to respect and follow. So when he spots some wild-eyed man ferrying around a woman who looks like the unnamed witness he's searching for, he memorizes the plates, sends them in, and waits.

His stomach rumbles. His choices are slim on that front, too.

~~

In the corner of the café, Kyle scrolls through the scanned posters on his phone. Missing persons, runaways, and other BOLOs from the local precincts. Shepherd had theatrically dropped the files on his desk, handing over Graves's case like it was a poisoned chalice.

Shepherd warned him nothing was digitized, leaving him to do it all. The batch of missing persons spanning decades hadn't been touched in years, he added, like it was some kind of badge of honor for the region. Called the area a breeding ground for bad shit, nearly spitting the words out. A place no one actually wanted anything solved, not in what he described as an inland Bermuda Triangle carved into the panhandle.

The old man expounded about the violent, standoffish types who called Grouse Bay, Ponderosa, and the surrounding area home. The kind of people who'd rather shoot you than admit what they ate for breakfast. Then, with a final slap of the files, Shepherd wished him luck—luck with the missing, the answers he'd likely never find, and the colleague who'd managed to disappear right along with them.

It's clear to him that he's not actually expected to solve a thing. He's supposed to find whatever mess Graves had gotten into, yank him out, and clean him up.

To do that, he had to find him, and that smarmy bastard seems intent on staying lost.

[rubyybutterfly]

Get your hands dirty if necessary

S/a: Mention obscenity, trauma, love, husband, No use of y/n.

Sinopse: Your husband returns from a 2 month mission, there's nothing better than a good shower and a hug.

When John walked through the door of his house he was greeted by the shock of a smaller body than his own, holding the woman by the thighs. He was graced by her scent, lavender and strawberry. Due to the softness of his wife's body, that skin, perfect.

When you looked at him and placed your hand on his cheek, his beard was a little longer, a reminder of how long the mission took.

He looked so tired, hurt. You stand up while holding his large, calloused hands. Your husband, your John. To you he wasn't Captain Price, he was just John.

I missed you a lot too, love", He said looking at you with that smile of his that you liked so much, that smile he had where his eyes crinkled.

He smelled of ash, tobacco and sweat. But that smell didn't make you sick, you liked it, it was the smell that showed he fought and came back to you. As I promised on the last night before the mission.

The two of you tangled up in that silk sheet, a tangle of feet together, you laid on his chest as you played with his dog tag, As he caresses her waist.

John was tired, his now not so young muscles ached, his left knee was hurting after being hit, not to mention this mission was more complicated than it should have been.

Looking at you he pulls you by the back of your head into a passionate, almost rough kiss, holding your waist he guides you to the wall.

" No, no, you need a shower, you need to eat and rest," you he said. as he pulled away from the kiss, John had a look of disgust on his face. He wanted to feel you inside, your walls tight and warm.

But not. You were right, even though you didn't want to admit it John liked your plan. A shower, a good meal and a bed wasn't bad after months of sleeping on the hard floor and eating food out of bags.

Going to the bathroom you help your husband take off those clothes, the equipment. You looked at John as he pulled a pistol from his back- just for safety- he said as he placed it in the sink drawer.

John, now naked, walked over to you and gently took off your dress. Since you weren't wearing a bra you were left in just your panties. Which John soon took off.

When you look at John's chest you frown, a recent scar running from his heart to the other side, You touch the wound carefully John just lifts his hand and holds yours gently.

Just superficial, nothing serious. It takes a lot more to kill me, love," he said in that hoarse voice.

The water was warm, John hugged her body while his head rested on hers. He felt the water, felt their bodies pressed together, their smell, everything.

You almost died, John," you said softly as you slipped your arms under his armpits and hugged his broad, strong shoulders.

"There are difficult jobs, but someone has to do them. Someone has to get their hands dirty," he said at the time. His dark voice, He held you by the waist. Water fell on your heads.

John knew he was not a good man, a man worthy of a family. The blood he had already shed It's more than he remembers, the memories will accompany him along with the pain he already suffers.

But if there was something he could be thankful for.

It was you.

His wife, his woman. That hIt was you.e gave his heart to and that he trusted her as if she were the boys on the team. The woman who made him feel the feeling of love,true. That he promised he would protect and love the day they both stood at that altar. And if he had to get his hands dirty to protect you, he would dirty them until the only color they would have was.

Red.

[miss-vanta-likes-to-write]

Be for real Miss Vanta. Kyle should have clocked the tea the second that man was wearing a tapered fade and should have been asking genuine questions by the time the gold chain showed up lmfao

The implications of Price knowing about Boo Boo the fool means she would have been brought out of character by him at least once and he learned a hard lesson

You know how people who date pick up each other mannerisms? IDK 🤷🏾‍♀️ Daddy Price slowly becoming Zaddy Price is a reality. More adventures of the Black Wife Effect under the cut.

I'm legally obligated to post some cute fluff because I'm about to post absolute filth later on.

Rating: Gen Audience

Kyle feels like he is in the twilight zone. He's known about Price and his girlfriend for a few weeks now, and everything is in perspective. But what he can't get over are the little conversations he over hears when John takes a private call off to the side.

"Love, I'm not sure what 613 hair is but I do know you look okay in it." Price says quietly.

The team is taking a brief break between meetings and training. And Kyle is gobsmacked over hearing the term 613 hair come from him. He's even more shocked because after a small silence Price says

"Yes dear, I'm sure your foot will stay on their necks...mhm." He sounds like he's trying to calm her down and placate her. There's a love struck look in his eyes. The man is smitten. There's more silence before Price furrows his brow. "Sure Love, I'll be sure to pick up dinner on the way home....I forgot to take the chicken out on the way out the door, I don't mind."

Johnny is laughing because he thinks it's cute that Cap has a bird at home and he's wrapped around her finger. Simon is more interested in how he could get a pretty bird of that particular variety of his own.

Kyle is still stuck on what he's hearing...because what is going on?!?! And to make matters worse, Price hangs up the phone and sorta glances at Kyle. There's a question in the air, Kyle can feel it.

"Gaz...what does crash out mean and should I be worried?" He asks.

Kyle is suddenly getting whiplash.

[pricegouge]

alright.

cw: price x trans!reader. no gendered terms used so you can be trans in any direction you want. attempted deadnaming.

he knows something's amiss the second he opens the door to the pungent, chemical scent of too much cleaning product.

it's not that you don't keep a tidy house. some clutter, maybe, but only enough to feel homey, and he's never once found fault in the level of dust or dirt build up, even with his heightened standards after so many years in the service. but this level of cleanliness, the pristine shine of counters, and the cheery scent of orange peel and anise in the simmer pot on the stove. it could only mean one thing.

you're nowhere on the ground floor, though his search reveals more bleached grout, shampooed carpets. john calls up the stairs for you sweetly, a warning of his approach just a much as a barometer by which to gauge your response. he's never shied away from conflict, but he's only made it this far in life by being smart, never going in half-cocked, or with bad intel. he curses silently when you don't play along, either not having heard him or just outright ignoring him.

it's not looking good for him, that's for sure.

"sweetheart?" he tries again, beginning the ascent to your shared room. abject fear doesn't set in until he hears you banging around, taking out whatever pent up aggression you still haven't worked out on his things, by the sound of it. he scrubs a palm over his whiskers, checks the calendar on his phone to ensure he hasn't missed an important date by mistake. he doesn't truly start to panic until he hears you mutter an honest to god 'lousy good for nothin'.'

whatever he's done, there's nothing for it but to take your anger on the chin and start groveling.

you don't even give him time to greet you when he opens the door, spinning around to level him with that same look you use on the boys when they're being insufferable. it transforms you into some wild thing, fiery and tempestuous with sweat caking your hair to your temples and your breath puffing your chest up. he's half a mind to tell you how gorgeous you are, but he's a little afraid you'll make him swallow that swiffer duster if he does.

"dove -?" he tries and you huff before he can even finish, turning away to continue your tirade, mumbling incoherently all the while and he must have a death wish cause he follows after you, hands gentling on your shoulders even as you try to shrug him off. "love, look at me, please. what's wrong? hm? have i done something?"

cagey and stiff, you fight him even as he envelops you, hissin' and spittin' the whole way.

"it's nothing, john. can you -?"

his eyebrows nearly escape the confines of his forehead. "nothin'? that why you damn near polished a hole through the dining table?"

a sputtering sound, somewhere between a cough and laugh. it's all he needs to breathe a bit easier. if it had been something he'd done, you'd have mouthed off about putting a hole in him next time. he guides you to the bed, shoves the wadded up pile of dirty linens you'd clearly intended on laundering up the mattress to clear a spot for you. the smell of febreze wafts around you as you sink into it, not an inch of the house having eluded your wrath. "alright. it's alright now. c'mere, look at me," he coos, waits for you to abide before giving you an overly sweet smile. "now, what's happened?"

you sag, cut strings, the tension in your spine leaving you entirely the second he guides you through one long breath. unexpectedly easy, as if you wanted to be settled and soothed. "got a holiday card from my dad," you grumble, voice muffled somewhere in the pocket of his neck and shoulder.

he hums, the nature of your frustration starting to take shape. your father - absent the entire time he's known you, at least, though from what he gathers that hadn't been a recent development even back then. you exchange texts sometimes, often laugh when he forgets your birthday. chew john's ear off when the man has the nerve to say you're absent from his life when you fail to wish him a happy easter. he waits for you to elucidate. offers some semblance of a truce when he waits too long. "that was nice of him?"

a scoff, some wriggling. you produce a folded up drug store card with a chicken in a santa hat printed on the front. "misspoke," you croak, shoving the card into his hands. "he wrote someone a holiday card."

john sighs, presses a kiss to your scalp as he drops the card right back onto his lap. he doesn't need to open it to know what he'll find, though he's honestly surprised you'd even bothered to tell your father, not when you speak with him infrequently enough that him knowing your preferred name even seemed to matter. but it was your call and if you'd done so, only to have your wishes ignored, he'd half a mind to find this man and unload some built up issues he'd been collecting and ignoring ever since you'd first asked him to leave it.

"oh sweetheart," he murmurs, follows it with your preferred name because he wants you to know how much he likes it. "i'm so sorry. but you know who you are, even if he doesn't accept you, and -."

he stalls out when you squirm away from him, pluck the card right back up from the floor where it had fallen to press it, open, into his face. you're angry again, stalking around the room before he even realizes you've stood.

"you're sweet, but too optimistic, john." the accusation nearly levels him, not one that's ever been laid at his feet. it's a shock that only festers, bottom giving way when you continue, "that motherfucker wishes he'd deadnamed me."

well. doesn't that just pique the curiosity. he's not sure what he expects to find when he uncrumples the card. a medical bill, maybe - your father deciding that all these years of separation ought to be repaid literally. maybe the fool had gone and had another kid, sent you the ultrasound like you were all still one big happy family. he's decidedly not expecting to see the damn thing addressed to someone else entirely. so much so that he nearly asks who it's for before taking a second look, reading it over again.

wrong name. wrong deadname. a slight variant of your legal, christian name. and not even a matter of getting you confused with another family member because as far as he can remember, no one in your extended shares this name. and he can certainly remember more of your family than your damn father can. no, the man had simply forgotten what was on the birth certificate he'd signed. close, though.

"well, he's got the first syllable right," john hedges, folding the card carefully closed along the same seams you'd pressed into it. you don't find him funny, barely even acknowledge he's spoken as you continue to pace. he tries again, casting desperately for an excuse he knows the man doesn't deserve. "is he... unwell?"

"he's fucking fine, john. he's just an ass."

"he's getting up there," john counters, standing, creaky kneed, to trap you in his arms again. "you haven't seen him for years, right? maybe he's -."

"he's fine. called him to thank him for the card," you scoff, take a minute to resettle yourself before speaking again. "i was thinking maybe the same thing, you know? not unreasonable. but he's completely fine. even asked to speak with his girlfriend, just to be sure she hadn't noticed anything either. fit as a fucking fiddle. just forgot what he fucking named me."

without the distraction of cleaning, or pacing, or cursing, your frustration has nowhere to go except tears. he holds you, presses kisses to your crown. calls you by your name - your real one, the one you chose - just to make sure you know someone remembers it, he supposes. honestly, he's at a bit of a loss. not something he's overly used to, people's ability to surprise him having long since worn off. but this is a new one. or, at least not one he's equipped to handle. fathers forgot their kids all the time. forgot to go home after that trip to the store, forgot to call on their birthdays. his own old man had forgotten plenty in his time, too. but he's still fairly certain the man would have been able to recall what he'd named his son right up until the day he'd died.

by the time you've calmed down you're ready for a shower. he'd join you, but he hears the way your stomach growls, food evidently forgotten all day. so he pulls the curtain closed on you after one last kiss and picks his way to the kitchen where he starts first by sifting through the trash, finding the merry red envelope addressed to the wrong person at the bottom, buried under all the waste you'd excised during your cleaning spree. he takes a picture of the corner, tastefully crops out the name that had given you so much grief. sighing, he returns everything to the bin and washes his hands, careful to ensure he won't accidentally scald you.

the rest of the evening moves easier. there's nothing that can be said and you both know it, so you don't. he can let it settle as long as you want, doesn't mean to keep scratching at a fresh wound. so you eat dinner in relative silence, and you sit in relative silence when he lets you use him like a pillow on the couch after, your favorite comfort film playing softly. and that's fine. the next bit he can do alone, anyway. got your father's address tucked safely in his pocket already.

he just thinks someone should make sure the man's okay, is all.

and if i write a comfort fic where your daddy as hell boyfriend takes care of you after you open a card from your flesh and blood father to find it addressed to the wrong fucking name, are y'all gonna be super chill and never ask what inspired it?

[raffe156]

Breakaway State Part 6

Pairing - Price X Female OC “Tank”

Summary - Finally, finally, finally

This one is a little dark towards the end, Not much of Price but this is the bridge chapter for what’s to come an I’m so thankful for all those who have waited patiently I love you all.

Warnings -17+ Angst. Language, Age gap Price (38) Tank (26), Violence, abuse, abuse of power, controlling behaviour, injury, implied torture, death.

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Call of duty characters - Only Tank, Luke, Dredd, Mckinley, Crest and Falkirk.

“Thank fuck for that…” Mckinley’s laugh echoed through the van as it pulled away from the base. He turned in his seat, trying to catch your eye, but you only gave him a brief glance before turning to take one last look at the place you were leaving behind. You spotted Kyle just as the van rounded the corner—he would understand.

Once you were on the road, Mckinley couldn’t help himself.

“I hope you lot realize how good you have it,” he said, his voice cutting through the silence.

The van stayed quiet.

“Don’t any of you get any ideas about wearing a Halloween mask, either. I’ll shut that shit down before it starts… I’m looking at you, Dredd…” Mckinley chuckled, but the others remained silent. The lack of response was like a cold slap, and you could see it was starting to eat at him. No one found him funny, and it irritated him. Unfortunately for you, you were right in his line of sight. A nasty grin crept across his face.

“You going to sort things out with your fella before we head out?” he asked, his gaze fixed on you, watching for your reaction.

“Nothing to sort out…” you muttered, knowing exactly who he meant—Luke. You kept your eyes glued to the window, hoping he’d drop it.

“Haha, yeah right. There’s plenty to sort out. From what I hear, he’s playing the field while you’re off fighting in it. But then again, you’re not entirely innocent, are you? Little sleepovers with Price, weekends away with him. Dirty dog.” Mckinley shook his head, clearly enjoying himself.

You could feel the tension in the van rise, and it wasn’t just McKinley—everyone was listening now. You felt Dredd shift behind you, ready to jump in.

“Weekends away?��� Crest’s voice cut through the tension, his head raising slightly, his interest piqued.

McKinley smirked triumphantly, like a predator who’d just caught its prey. “Yep, escape-to-the-country style. Up at Price’s house in Hertfordshire—nice and secluded. Found out from his missus, you know, the Doc at the base? The Irish one?”

The words hit you like a punch. McKinley knew exactly which buttons to push, and now, the squad’s attention was fully on you. A few brows raised, and you could feel the heat of their stares.

Dredd, bless her, quickly came to your defense. “It wasn’t just them two! Kyle was there, too. Doesn’t sound like a romantic weekend to me, does it?” She let out a soft laugh, trying to defuse the situation.

“They weren’t together..”

“What was that?” McKinley cupped his ear, feigning ignorance, his grin widening.

“They weren’t together… not that it matters.” The words came out sharper than you intended, your blood starting to boil.

Dredd’s hand squeezed your arm from behind, a silent plea to let it go, but it was too late. McKinley had already pushed you too far.

“Not what the Doc said, though,” he said with a mock sigh. “Ah well, only you and Price know what really went on. I wonder if that’s why you transferred?” He turned back around in his seat, content with himself.

The seed had been planted. To the rest of the team, you were now a suspected homewrecker—and worse, the home you’d wrecked was that of your former captain.

The squad exchanged a few fleeting glances, the tension palpable. No one spoke for the rest of the ride, and the silence in the van was deafening as the weight of McKinley’s words hung heavily in the air.

*********************

“I’m not looking forward to this…” You thudded your head back against the stained headboard, the frustration evident in the gesture.

“Just leave him on read,” Dredd muttered, sitting cross-legged on the bed next to yours, casually rolling a cigarette. “He already thinks you’re gone for a while.”

The motel room was a depressing sight, tucked away near the ship-out base, its stale air heavy with the smell of smoke and spilled beer. The two creaky single beds groaned under the smallest movements, their springs long past their prime. They had definitely seen better days, but at this point, it didn’t matter. As long as the door locked and kept Mckinley out, it might as well have been the Radisson.

“I can’t leave him on read,” you muttered, running a hand through your hair. “I don’t want him thinking he has to wait around for me… He has no obligation to me. I’ve told him that from day one. He deserves more than this. Hell, I might not even make it back—might get taken out, put out of my misery.” You threw your hands up in mock exasperation, but the thought wasn’t as far-fetched as it sounded. For you, and for people like you, that card was always ready to be pulled. It hovered, high in the deck, just waiting for the right moment.

“More like put down by Mckinley,” Dredd said, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

She wasn’t wrong.

Before you could even let that sink in, your phone buzzed on the bedside table. It was Luke. Your stomach dropped, a strange weight settling in your chest. Why did this feel like a breakup? Could it even be classified as that? You’d never made things official. Hell, he didn’t even know what you did for a living. As far as he knew, you were just working abroad, setting up a logistics depot. Was it a breakup? Or just… a break? You hadn’t even thought about what to say, hadn’t planned for this moment.

“You gonna answer that, or you actually going to take my advice for once?” Dredd’s voice cut through the silence as she leaned out the window, struggling to light her cigarette.

Before you could even process, she was already at your side, grabbing the phone and answering it for you. With a flick of her wrist, she put it on speaker, then casually leaned back out the window, puffing smoke as if nothing was amiss.

The phone crackled to life.

“Hey, city girl.”

You took a breath, your heart suddenly heavy. “Hey… you okay?”

Dredd was still trying to push herself further out the window. You glanced at her, then back at the phone. For a split second, you thought about joining her.

****************************

Price sat at his desk, shuffling through papers that required his attention, but his mind wasn’t on the job. He lacked the patience, the energy—anything really—to deal with the endless stack. But more than anything, he couldn’t shake the thought that you were gone. Not just off base, but probably out of the country. That fact was hard to swallow. Yet, as the door to his office creaked open, there was a fleeting moment of hope—hope that you’d walk through it, storming in with that familiar, thunderous look on your face, ready to give him an earful. You’d tell him what a twat he was, how you wanted to come back, to come home. But no… standing in the doorway, where you should be, was Kyle, holding a mug with a large carp on the front and the words “Master-Baiter” emblazoned across it.

It was another secret Santa gift from you to Soap. The memory made Price chuckle despite himself, recalling the pride on your face as Soap unwrapped it, immediately accusing Ghost of being the culprit and starting one of his usual ruckus-filled tirades. The theme for the gift exchange had been “shit mugs.” Soap had Ghost, who received a blank mug that only revealed its true message—C*NT—when it was heated, drawing laughs every time someone used it. Kyle had drawn Price’s name, gifting him a mug that read “World’s Best Dad.” Price had smiled when he opened it, raising an eyebrow and saying, “Thanks, SON.” Kyle had sworn blind that he’d ordered “World’s Best Boss” instead, but either way, it was perfect. Ghost had given Kyle the “Shit in Bed” mug, and Price had watched with a wry smile as you unwrapped yours, reading the words “Accident Prone” across the front.

“Very funny!” You had swatted his arm, and he’d laughed.

“Glad you like it,” he had said, his grin widening.

“Very fitting, lass,” Soap had added, raising his mug in a mock toast. The rest of you had joined in, clinking mugs and sharing a moment of camaraderie.

The memory faded, and Price snapped back to the present. Kyle was now sitting in the chair across from him, carefully placing the “Master-Baiter” mug on his desk, his face a mix of concern and hope.

“You heard anything?” Kyle asked, voice tight.

“Not a thing, lad. All hush-hush on this one,” Price replied, leaning back in his chair and taking a slow sip from the mug. “Not even Laswell’s got a whiff of anything. It’s one of those ‘need to know’ deals, and right now, we don’t need to know, I guess.”

Kyle’s face darkened, and he started picking at his nail—a nervous habit that only appeared when he was truly wound up.

“Fuck’s sake… don’t ask me why, but I’ve just got a bad feeling about the whole thing.”

“Same, lad… same.” Price’s voice was grim, his eyes distant as he looked out the window. The weight of the situation hung heavy between them.

*******************************************

You couldn’t even remember how long you’d been sitting in the freezing cold truck. All that mattered was staying close to Crest—he was like a human furnace, a welcome warmth in the biting chill. You shifted closer to him in the front seat as the truck rumbled through the quiet streets of Tiraspol. The streetlights flickered on, casting long shadows across the road, and you knew you weren’t far from the safe house.

Crest was a soft-spoken Yorkshireman, a man you knew only in passing. He had served briefly with your first captain, Falkirk, and often spoke of him with a fondness that made it clear the two shared a bond. Over time, you’d found common ground in stories of Falkirk and tales of the infamous 141. Crest, with his quiet admiration, had something of a man crush on Price—something you couldn’t ignore. It showed in the way he’d let his beard grow out, shaving only the center to mimic Price’s signature look. And when he spoke, most of his questions were about Price, with a few curious ones about Ghost thrown in for good measure.

“Does he sleep in the mask?” Crest asked, voice thick with curiosity—he was voicing the question that had been on everyone’s mind.

“He does, yeah.” You smirked, recalling the moment vividly. “Shit me up one night. I’d just come off watch, crashed out on one of the mattresses, and rolled over to find bam—his bloody skull mask, just staring at me. What made it worse was that his eyes were closed, so all I could see were these pitch-black holes in the dark. I nearly had a heart attack, rolled right off the bed, and landed on Soap. He starts shouting, waking up the whole room. Price comes running, thinking we’ve been made, and Ghost just sits up, all casual, asking why I’m on the ground next to Soap.”

The memory made you smile.

“Sounds like a right laugh,” Crest muttered, raising an eyebrow. “But, uh… how does he eat or shower with that thing on? Does he shower with it?”

He furrowed his brow, clearly trying to picture how Ghost managed to drink a cup of tea with that mask on. It wasn’t a pleasant image.

“Jesus, Crest, how would she know if he showers with the damn thing on?” Dredd chimed in from the backseat, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Plus, if she’d seen him in the shower, don’t you think I’d be the first to know something so important?”

Dredd’s laugh rang out, her gun was hidden under a blanket, but the tension in the air had lightened—at least for now.

Crest, however, had turned a deep shade of red as the weight of his question settled. He stammered, suddenly aware of how ridiculous it sounded.

“Sorry Tank, I…”

Crest didn’t finish his sentence—he couldn’t. You turned toward him, but it was already too late. The bullet struck without warning, its sharp hiss inaudible in the chaos. You just heard the sickening sound of him choking on his own blood as his body slumped forward, sending the truck veering off the road and crashing into a ditch.

Everything seemed to stretch into slow motion as the truck rolled. You felt a dull pain spreading through your head and wrist, but the rest of your body felt strangely numb, as if it no longer belonged to you. You tried to prepare yourself for what was coming next—find your gun, defend yourself—but your hand wouldn’t respond. The pain in your skull splintered like shards of glass, each jagged piece tearing through your senses.

The last thing you felt before everything went dark was the gradual fading of Crest’s warmth, slipping away from your side.

**********************************

“Well, look who’s finally awake.”

The voice was unmistakable… Soap? You tried to sit up, but a steady yet gentle hand held you back.

“Easy there, kid. Take it slow. You’ve got quite the bump on your head,” Price said with a reassuring smile, helping you sit up.

“Where am I?” you asked, glancing at Price.

“Told you she was accident-prone,” Soap chuckled, giving Kyle a playful smack on the back.

“How did you all get here?” you asked, turning to Soap.

“Guess that means he’s terrible in bed, then?” Price shot a teasing glance at Kyle.

“Yeah, and he’s a C*NT” Soap laughed, his voice echoing through the room as he clearly found himself hilarious.

Your eyes shifted to the corner, where Ghost stood motionless, his presence looming. He hadn’t said a word, just observing in his usual quiet, unreadable way.

“Where’s Crest? Is he ok? I didn’t even see the shooter?” Your eyes pleading with Ghost to give you answers. How were they all here?

“Well we all know your mug is a perfect fit eh fairy liquid!” Kyle laughed.

“Will someone tell me what’s going on please?” You glanced from Price to Ghost, your voice cracking, a lump in your throat forming.

Price cupped your face, his touch firm yet oddly soothing. Though his touch wasn’t necessary, it was comforting, and your reaction made that clear. You almost melted into his palm, the warmth of him seeping deep into your bones, filling you with a sense of safety.

You glanced up at his wide smile, and just as you were about to return a weak one, his hand slipped away from your face.

“You need to wake up, kid…”

“What? … I am… I’m…”

The words felt heavy on your tongue, but something in the way he spoke made the air shift—unnervingly cold, like a warning you couldn’t quite place.

The icy cold water struck you like a violent slap, ripping the breath from your lungs as you jolted upright, gasping in shock. But before you could even steady yourself, you were dragged down by a force and the deafening clank of chains.

Collapsing to the ground, your eyes shot forward, locking onto the heavy iron door looming in front of you. Just beside it, a dark figure stood, holding a bucket with a sinister stillness.

The room was cold, the air thick with the stench of damp concrete and stale air. You turned slowly, the harsh scrape of your shackles echoing in the silence. Looking down, you saw the heavy chains binding your wrists, the cold metal biting into your skin. They were bolted to the concrete floor.

Your mind raced, adrenaline surging as the questions piled up. How had you missed the shooter? You’d let your guard down, gotten comfortable—no, lazy. That was the mistake. Crest… where was he? Had he made it out? Was he alive? Dredd—had she escaped? Had she managed to slip away, lay low until things cleared up? Maybe she’d gotten back to the safe house, or even to the backup house. But the uncertainty gnawed at you, each thought more unsettling than the last.

Did McKinley know? The thought hit you like a jolt of cold electricity. This mission had been clear from the start—if caught, you are not acknowledged. There were no backup plans, no rescue team, no second chances. You were disposable.

You were on your own.

The realization settled in like a heavy stone in your chest, and for a moment, everything felt impossibly still. No one would come for you, no one would speak your name. If you didn’t get out of this yourself, there would be no one to blame but you.

Before you could ponder your fate any further, a second figure appeared in the doorway. The sound of footsteps echoed through the cold, empty space, each step deliberate, measured. A tall, thin man made his way toward you, his movements almost unsettlingly calm.

In the dim light, you could just make out his features: dark eyes, sharp and unblinking, and hair as black as coal, stark against his pale skin. He was impeccably dressed in a suit—clean, pressed, and entirely out of place in the grim surroundings. His presence made your pulse quicken, your instincts screaming that he was not someone you wanted to meet.

And then, the realization hit like a gut punch. Staring at you with cold, calculating eyes was one of the world’s most wanted criminals—the very reason you were here in this godforsaken town. Vladimir Makarov.

The name alone was enough to freeze your blood. His reputation preceded him—ruthless, cunning, and without mercy. Every mission, every brief, every intelligence report had warned you of him. But no amount of preparation could have ever truly prepared you for the man standing in front of you now.

“Good morning, Tank. How very nice it is to finally meet you…” Makarov’s voice was cold, each word laced with a mocking sweetness that made your skin crawl. “…I’m sorry about your friend.”

His words cut through the silence like a knife, but you couldn’t help the sick, twisted laugh that bubbled up in your throat. It was probably hysteria setting in, a coping mechanism for the absurdity of the situation. All those years spent hearing about Makarov—the Russian scumbag that Price had been gunning for relentlessly—and now, here he was. Standing right in front of you, casually offering some sick version of politeness.

Good morning, like he wasn’t the very reason you’d been dragged into this nightmare. Like you weren’t sitting here, shackled and broken, Crest dead, Dread MIA, all because of him.

You almost wanted to laugh again. Almost. But it died in your throat, the weight of reality sinking in. This wasn’t some briefing room or war room banter—it was real. And Makarov, for all his cold composure, was here because he wanted something. That much was certain. His eyes never left yours, calculating, waiting for a reaction, a weakness. The mockery in his voice was a mask, but beneath it, you could feel the tension—the thinly veiled threat of what was to come.

You had no doubt he was enjoying this moment, savoring the control he now held. But what was it that he wanted? Information? Revenge? Or something more personal, something that would break you in ways no one could predict?

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, as he took a slow step forward. You could almost feel the weight of his presence pressing down on you, and despite everything—despite the pain, the fear—you refused to let him see how much it rattled you.

Not yet. Not until you knew what game he was playing.

The figure in the doorway bent down, reaching for something on the floor. It was square, bulky, and heavy. With a cold, deliberate motion, the man placed it down next to Makarov. A car battery. The heavy thud of it hitting the ground felt like a warning, its significance sinking in with a quiet dread.

“Let’s see how strong Price makes his toy soldiers, eh?”