#Captain John price x reader

[dumbbitchgalore]

Single Dad!Price with Nanny!Reader 🐰🎀 (🌽 Link)

Single Dad!Price is usually all over the place trying to take care of work and his two baby girls so when you volunteered to accompany the girls to their annual school book fair John was beyond ecstatic having one more thing off this plate. 

Morning of the book fair, John’s girls were dressed like fairy princesses with the help of you doing their hair and makeup, laughing along with them and kissing the tops of their heads as the three of you were getting ready together. 

John doesn’t interfere, deciding to watch from the comfort of the doorway as you acted like the mother they never had, a better mother than John’s ex-wife could ever be. His mind becomes buzzed filled with scenarios of you and him, taking care of the kids and being a perfect happy family. 

He pictures you in his worn-out t-shirt in the kitchen making pancakes for the girls with a soft smile on your face. John comes up behind you, pressing himself against you back as she presses soft kisses along the side of your neck as you giggle pulling away from it playful touches reminding him that his girls are watching the both of you. John’ll huff reluctantly pulling away, standing by your side as he helps you with breakfast. 

With an hour or two to spare after the girls have gone to school, John will coax you onto the couch to spend time with him before he goes to work, slowly tracing every part of your body before kissing you senselessly. 

His daydreaming comes to a screeching halt as you bring him back to his senses announcing that you’ll be taking his precious girls to school. John runs a hand through his hair and simply nods, unable to say anything as the shame of fantasising about his nanny begins to kick him in the arse. And it surely doesn’t help when you sweetly call him ‘Mr Price.’ 

What John didn’t expect to ever imagine about was what happened after you came home. Not only did you buy John’s daughter’s princess costumes but you also happened to buy yourself an outfit too, a cute bunny get up with shorts and a tank top. John couldn’t help it, it’s not like he wanted to intrude, the door was already open a jar and he simply peaked inside to see if you were okay. He did it out of concern of your safety and what he was doing right now was also for your betterment. 

Now, he’s no barbaric man but what he is is an absolute manipulative bastard. ‘Accidently’ walking in on you while you check yourself out causing you to shy away and as you try to cover yourself up while John gives you a half-hearted apology shamelessly checking you out.

No doubt there was already underlying tension between the two of you, stolen glances, compliments with sexual innuendo and all he needs to do is to be the bigger man and address the heavy atmosphere between the two of you leading to you shamelessly fucking yourself on his cock as he pummels inside of you from underneath all while repeating the same four words over and over again as John tries to manifest his life with you from that moment.

“My pretty bunny wife.” 

[thevoiceinyourheadx]

Controversial opinion but I think John Price would be terrible at comforting you.

He's a doer. He sees something that needs fixing and he does it. He hates feeling useless, hates feeling powerless, especially when it comes to the people he cares about. From the second he realises  there's something wrong (which is instantly, he's scarily good at reading people) he's all questions. What happened, who did it, why did they do it...he needs all the details, love. He'll sort it, don't you worry.

You have to remind him that he can't murder your boss, or your shitty friends, or the guy who made you spill coffee on your favourite shirt and then yelled at you for it.

(And no, he can't rough them up - "even a little!" - or give them a "warning")

And if he can't fix it himself, he'll resort to giving you orders - this is what you'll do next time, or here's why there won't be a next time, because you're cutting them off immediately. They're no good for you, and you deserve better. You need to understand your worth, you need to stand up for yourself, you need to you need to you need to - 

If you weren't already, you'd be in tears by this point,  yelling at him to just stop and listen. You don't need advice. You don't need anything fixing. You just need someone to listen to you and comfort you - you just need your partner. 

He's stunned into silence. He's never really considered that you might just need him. Soft words and gentle touches were never something he was afforded himself, so he learned to show his care through his actions, by providing for you and caring for you and doing anything, big or small, that could make your life easier. The idea that he could care for you by doing...nothing? By just being there? It was a foreign concept to him.

That being said, once you've gotten it into his head that he doesn't have to do anything, you just need him...his hugs are unbeatable. He will pull you onto his lap and completely envelop you with his arms, draping your favourite blanket over you and rubbing your back gently. If he can't fix the world for you, then he can at least distract you from it, to remind you that in his arms nothing will ever hurt you. That to him, you are the most important thing, and he needs to tell you that with words rather than actions.

He may be terrible at comfort, but with John Price you'll never doubt that you're loved.

[mikuluvu]

Not saying 'I love you' Back

Tf141 x fem!reader

Phillip Graves x reader

A/n: 6/10 cod fics. It's been like 2 weeks since i posted- hehe sorry about that. i was sick :(

Oh Captain, My Captain (Cap'n john Price)

Are you mad? Because if you are, he WILL fix it.

You were both about to sleep, his arms wrapped around you from behind, his beard tickling the back of your neck. He let out a slow exhale, eyes closing as he murmured, “I love you.” His voice was deep and gruff.

…Huh. Weird.

Any minute now…

Okay, what the fuck.

His eyes cracked open, and he lifted his head slightly to glance at you. He couldn’t quite see your face, but he was sure you were still awake.

“Love…?” he whispered.

His fingers gently rubbed circles against your hip. "What's this about?"

You couldn’t hold back a giggle, your body shaking slightly against him. That only made him more confused.

Turning around to face him, your nose mere inches from his, you smirked. “I was just messing with you, silly. Wanted to see how you’d react.” you admitted,

Price huffed a small chuckle, shaking his head. “You little menace.” He pulled you closer, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “That’s the last time you’re getting a love confession out of me.”

You knew that was a lie.

“Mm, we’ll see,” you mumbled sleepily against his chest.

He sighed, amused. “Bloody troublemaker.”

But his arms tightened around you anyway.

Simon "Ghost" Riley

You were both cuddling in bed, him as the big spoon while you were the little spoon. His veiny, strong arms were wrapped securely around your waist, his face nuzzled against the back of your head. Yes, he still had his mask on. But you weren’t complaining… who would even complain?

"I love you,” he murmured—calm, low, steady.

The only reply he got was the sound of rain pattering against the window.

He didn’t react immediately. He just… stared at the back of your head. Processing.

A minute passed.

“…Right.” His voice was unreadable.

It made you wonder if he even cared. But in reality, he did—he just wouldn’t show it easily.

His grip subtly tightened, like he was bracing himself. He wouldn’t ask if you were mad—if something was wrong, he figured you’d say it.

Then, he felt you shift. Turning around to face him, a grin on your lips as you giggled at his expression.

“I love you too… sorry to keep you waiting.”

He exhaled through his nose. A slow, deep breath.

“Not funny.”

But his arms stayed wrapped around you. A little tighter this time.

Later, he would get you back. Probably by making your legs wobbly when you least expected it.

Better than your regular soap (Johnny McTavish)

“Mhm… I love ye’.”

...

He paused, waiting for your sweet voice to say it back, thinking maybe you just didn’t hear him. But when a minute passed, he gasped.

“Oi, did ye just ignore me?” he asked.

Still, you didn’t respond—you were too focused on the movie.

Then you felt it. A poke to your cheek. Then a nudge. And then, he started gently shaking you.

“Helloooooo? Y’feelin’ alright, bonnie?”

Silence.

From the corner of your eye, you could see him. He let out a dramatic sigh and threw an arm over his forehead like a theatrical little shit.

“Ach, I knew it! You never loved me!”

That made you break.

“So dramatic… I was just messing with you,” you laughed.

He stared at you for a moment before groaning. “Hehe—ACK!”

Before you could react, he tackled you into the couch, fingers mercilessly digging into your sides.

“Ye’re gonna pay for that, lass.”

“HAAH—W-wait! Noooo! Pfft—HAHA—”

After a few seconds of your struggling, he finally stopped, only to smash his face against your chest, wrapping his arms around you so tight you couldn’t escape.

“Yer lucky I love ye, menace.”

Pretty man (Kyle "Gaz" Garrick)

When you didn’t say it back, he let out a playful scoff, thinking you were just teasing him. “Oh, so that’s how we’re playin’ it, yeah?” he said, but you still didn’t respond.

He narrowed his eyes, leaning in a bit. “Wait… you’re not actually mad, are you?”

God, you felt bad. He looked like a puppy that thought it did something wrong, giving you those sad, pleading eyes.

“Don’t leave me hangin’ like that, love.”

He took your hand, slowly caressing it before moving to tickle your sides. The moment his fingers made contact, you burst into laughter.

“Wait—no! Not there!” you squealed.

He blinked at you a few times before groaning. “You are the worst. I almost started drafting my apology speech.

”You smirked at him, and in response, he flicked your forehead.

“Hey—!”

Phillip Graves

The briefin ended, and the room gradually emptied as the Shadows left one by one. Boots echoed against the floor. You stayed, standing near the table, eyes staring at the map spread across it. Your mind was elsewhere, on the mission, on the risks,... on him.

Phillip was across the room, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, waiting.

When the las soldier was finally out the door, he pushed off the wall, closed and locked the door, and then approached you.

"Y'good sweetheart?" he asked,

You nodded automatically, but the worry weighted in your chest stayed. The mission details kept messing with your head, the potential dangers and the things that will be unexpected. You'd been through plenty together, too many, really, but something about this one made your gut twist.

You felt his hand on your waist, fingers curling around the fabric of your uniform as he pulled your closer. "C'mon now," he murmured, tilting his head to meet your eyes. "Ain't got much time,"

This was routine. After every briefing, before going to meet with the shadows, you both stole a moment like this. A secret between husband and wife, hidden in plain sight.

His hand brushed over your cheek, it was warm. “Be safe out there,” he said softly, eyes searching yours.

“You too,” you whispered.

His thumb grazed your jaw before he leaned in just slightly. “I love you.”

You opened your mouth—then hesitated.

You wanted to say it back. You always did. But this time, the words caught in your throat, tangled up with the worry clawing at your ribs. What if this was the mission that went wrong? What if this was the last time?

Graves pulled back just enough to look at your face. He waited. And when you still didn’t say it, his grip on you tightened ever so slightly.

“Darlin’,” he said, a bit more serious now. “Say it back.”

You swallowed hard, eyes darting away. “I just…” You exhaled sharply, shaking your head. “I’m worried, Phil.”

He knew. He always knew.

“I know, baby,” he said, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead. “But I need to hear it. Just once.”

You let out a shaky breath, forcing yourself. You wrapped your arms around his neck, holding onto him like he might slip away if you let go.

“I love you,” you whispered.

He huffed out a quiet chuckle, though there was relief in his eyes. “That’s my girl.”

REBLOG W COMMENTS IS APPRECIATED! SUPPORT ME BY BUYING ME A COFFEE

[luvvictoria]

bro. Dad Bod!Price. Oh lawd I'm feral again.

Captain Price with a slight dad bod — It’s a little soft around the middle, but still enough muscle for when things get serious. His broad shoulders and arms still have that power, but the gut has a bit more... character, adding to that rugged, comfortable vibe. He’s definitely the type who loves a good steak and beer after a long mission.

Flirty, confident banter — Price isn't shy about showing affection, but it’s always got that playful edge. He's the kind to give his girl a smirk while wiping off his beard, letting her know he’s been thinking about her all day. When they’re in public, he pulls her in close, wraps an arm around her waist, and plants a kiss on her temple, always making sure everyone knows she’s his.

Teasing in private — He loves teasing her about her special appreciation for his dad bod, and he’ll make sure to flaunt it. Maybe after a shower, he’ll let the towel hang a little lower, letting her get a good look, and give her that ‘What do you think?’ look, before bursting into laughter when she blushes and tries to act cool about it.

Spicy moments — Late-night raids aren’t the only things that get him worked up. After a long, exhausting day, Price pulls his girl in by the waist, making sure she feels the heat of his body. He’s the type to take his time, slow and deliberate, but when he’s in the mood, there’s that raw, animalistic energy that matches his deep, throaty voice.

Post-battle intimacy — He likes to unwind in ways that aren’t always conventional. After a mission, when everyone else is passing out, Price pulls his girl to a quiet corner, flicking off the lights, and making her feel like she’s the only thing that matters. It’s about connection, but he’ll remind her who’s in charge when things heat up, and he’s definitely not shy about showing that alpha energy when it comes to the bedroom.

Sweetness underneath the spice — Despite the tough exterior, Price is a softie when it comes to his girl. After a particularly intense night, when the aftershocks of passion still linger in the air, he’ll wrap her in a blanket, brush a kiss against her forehead, and whisper sweet words of reassurance about how she’s the best part of his day. And maybe a bit of a proud smirk when she’s worn out from him. "Good girl."

His little guilty pleasure — Price likes to indulge in spoiling his girl a little, whether it’s bringing her a snack in bed or giving her a special gift that has nothing to do with the warzone. It’s the little touches that show he’s thinking about her when he's not the hardened soldier everyone else sees.

AND LIKE LET'S THINK ABOUT THE TWO OF YOU AFTER A MISSION , SITTING AT A FIRE CAMP AND HE JUST EATS YOU OUT LIKE WHOIUUGHH

"You know, after a mission like that, I've gotta admit, I've earned a little… relaxation," Price murmured, his voice a low rumble in the quiet of the night.

"And what kind of relaxation did you have in mind?" you replied, a smirk playing on your lips as you took a sip of the whiskey that burned its way down your throat. The campfire crackled, casting flickering shadows across the rugged lines of Price's face. The tension in the air was palpable, like the moment before a storm breaks.

Price leaned closer, his gaze intense. "The kind that involves you, on your knees, and my cock in your mouth." His words were a command, but there was a hint of a question in his eyes. He knew what you liked, and he knew you'd give it to him, but he liked the chase, the power play of it all.

Without a moment's hesitation, you set your drink aside and knelt before him. The firelight danced across your skin as you unzipped his pants, revealing his hard, throbbing length. You looked up at him, a challenge in your eyes, and took him into your mouth. He groaned, a sound that was half pleasure, half relief. His hands found their way into your hair, guiding you, setting a rhythm that was both gentle and demanding.

The world around you faded into the background, the only sounds the crackle of the fire and the soft, wet noises of your lips sliding along his shaft. The scent of his desire filled the air, mixing with the smoky scent of the campfire. His breathing grew ragged, and his grip on your hair tightened. You felt the power shift, the dynamic between you clear as day: he was the captain, and you were his willing subordinate. But here, in the dark, with the fire's embers kissing your skin, you both knew it was more than just a game. It was a raw, primal need that had been building for hours, maybe even days.

And as you took him deeper, his eyes never leaving yours, you felt that need echo through your body. Your own desire grew, a warm, wet ache between your legs. But you knew better than to act on it just yet. This was his show, his moment of dominance, his way of unwinding the tight coil of stress that came with leading a squad of soldiers into battle. You'd get yours soon enough.

Price's eyes narrowed, and he pulled you away, his cock glistening with your saliva. He turned you around, pushing you down onto the makeshift bedroll, his hand on the back of your neck, keeping you in place. "Now, it's my turn," he growled, and before you could even gasp, his mouth was on your pussy, devouring you like a man starved of the taste of a woman. His tongue slid against your clit, flicking and teasing, and you moaned, arching your back in response. The heat from the fire was nothing compared to the fire he was igniting within you. His hands were rough, but tender, as they parted your thighs, holding you open for his inspection.

You felt his breath hot against your skin, a stark contrast to the cool night air. His teeth grazed your inner thigh, making you jump before he plunged back into the task at hand. He knew just how to touch you, how to make you squirm and beg for more. His tongue danced around your clit before sliding down to delve into your wetness. You bit your lip to keep from crying out, your body trembling with every stroke.

As he ate you out, you couldn't help but think about the man behind the mission, the one who held your life in his hands. The man who was now worshiping your body like it was a sacred temple. His beard tickled your thighs, and you reached down to grip his hair, urging him closer, needing more of him. Your orgasm was building, a pressure cooker ready to blow at any moment.

Price sensed your urgency, his movements becoming more deliberate, more intense. His thumb circled your clit as he pushed two fingers inside you, curling them just so. The sensation was exquisite, and you couldn't hold back anymore. You screamed his name as you came, the sound echoing through the night and mixing with the distant howl of a wolf. The tremors of your orgasm shook through your body, leaving you weak and panting.

He didn't stop, though, continuing to lick and suck until the last spasm of pleasure had rippled through you. Then, with a final, lingering kiss to your swollen flesh, he pulled back, a satisfied smile playing across his face. "Now, that's the taste of victory," he murmured.

[writingfromasgard]

Valentine's Day: Mutton and Lambchop

■ Captain Price ■ Requests Open ■ John Price x SingleMom!Reader

John Price can't imagine a Valentine's Day he's had in the years that he enjoyed as much as this one. Yeah, his nails are painted a smudged yellow-red-purple mix, the pungent smell of the nail polish filling the air. He has stickers all over his face, some half ripped from the hurried chubby fingers of the tiny tot next door, their sticky texture clinging to his skin. There's at least an hour's worth of dishes in his kitchen, the clinking of the plates and the running water creating a comforting background noise.

All of that is worth it to be sitting across the kid-sized table on his ass while Lambchop forces her parent on this pretend date.

To his credit, he made actual food and plated it on the playset plates. He even filled the teapot up with real tea for the teacup. The food, though simple, was made with love - a simple lemon-parm pasta, a few sprigs of parsley, and jello cups with whipped cream and diced strawberries.

"Thank you for Indulging her." You whisper to him.

"After she got me date-ready, I couldn't say no," John replied, grinning.

That earns him a laugh and a smile that reaches your eyes. "Those stickers do make you look handsome."

"I thought it was the nail polish, personally," He shot back, his playful banter adding a touch of humor to the moment.

Lambchop rounds the corner with the dessert plate, signaling the end of his near-perfect day. He could see how Lambchop eyed the desserts after the tot set them down in front of the two of you and leaned back from the table, rubbing his stomach.

"I don't think I could eat this without help." He winked at you, “Lambchop, do you like strawberries?"

The toddler showed no hesitation as she climbed into his lap, letting him feed her every bite. He glanced up mid-bite to see you snapping a picture of the two of them, teeth tugging your lower lip as you tried to hide a smile.

This was the best Valentine's Day he's had in a long time, a reminder of the beauty in life's simple joys.

[starsinmylatte]

Military bf, but this time he's used his unfairly muscular arms to flip you onto your stomach, pinning you in place against the mattress so he can pull your panties to the side and nip at the tender skin just below the curve of your ass before his tongue sinks into your drooling pussy

[gloomwitchwrites]

How would the 141 boys + Nikolai (everyone's favorite Russian dilf) react if their s/o proposed to them with a sword? Like a custom, made by an actual blacksmith, sword? I'll also leave capes on the table, you can choose what to do with that idea.

Swords? Capes? Sorry, I’m dying over here. Never would have thought of this honestly. Just a fair warning, this entire thing is going to consist of me rambling and just putting my brain thoughts into words. Read at your own risk.

Written w/ gn!reader

Price: This man is in awe when you present him a sword. Don’t worry about him saying “yes.” Price is just impressed that you went out of your way to do this for him, to propose to him with a work of true craftsmanship. He’s cherishing that sword, putting it in his office where he can look at it every day, and when people ask him about it, he’ll proudly say that his wife/husband/partner proposed to him with it.

Ghost: If anything, Simon is just going to stare at you for a ridiculous amount of time when you present the sword and propose to him. Like, awkward silence that stretches a bit and you aren’t sure whether you should say something or just let it be. Eventually, he answers with a firm “yes.” However, that’s probably all you’re getting from this big brute of a man. But the sword? He’s taking that thing with him into battle. Are you kidding? He’s cutting down enemies with it. Capes? Possible but optional.

Gaz: There are capes involved in this proposal. Not because it was planned but because it happens when the two of you go to a Ren Fest together. Dressed in cosplay, Kyle doesn’t expect it at all when you excuse yourself to go purchase “drinks” and come back with a sword. Of course, he says “yes.”

Soap: His immediate reaction is the Scottish version of “hell yeah” the moment that sword comes out. You went out of your way to have a custom sword made for him? An actual sword? He’s cherishing that for the rest of his life. He’s showing it off to everyone. He’s making up stories about it like it’s an actual weapon he takes on mission. A cape for him during the wedding? Unlikely. But he’s strapping that sword on him.

Nikolai: If you approach Nikolai with a sword with the intention of proposing to him, this man is going to laugh his ass off and then pull out a sword to propose right back. You think you were the only one with this idea? Guess again. The two of you share a single braincell. Also, no capes at the proposal, but he insists on capes for the wedding.

main masterlist

[spurbleu]

where the aster grows

ch.1 bookmarks neighbor!price x fem florist!reader

The sky wears blue to your grandmother’s funeral

Memories of yesterday’s rain remain as dew on the grass shards of the cemetery, but the sky gives nothing away. Robin egg belly, sun peaks from behind thinning clouds, and the crisp air denies downpour.

There’s plenty of irony, here. Every fiction iteration of death leads you to believe that nature cries with you, feeding the oceans and the dirt she returns to. And by all accounts of your Ma, who at the ripe age of 87 still jumped in puddles, rain had restorative properties. What about your grief had convinced nature not to join?

Perhaps you had enough for the both of you.

Your father graciously accepts the condolences as people file out into the parking lot. Even from where you stand, you can see the mulberry beneath his eyes, paling ears. At a certain age you forgot his fragility. Found it again as you drove him home after the last visit, offering the tissues in the front compartment. It was the first time you’d seen him cry. You’re nearly 35.

He joins you by the fresh grave once everyone had left. Her coffin is closed, and you think that’s for the best. The morbid curiosity died a long time ago. He doesn’t look at you, and you struggle with your words. You eventually settled with,

“Wanna get dinner? On me.”

His response starts with a sigh. When he faces you, you wish you were five again, when you didn’t recognize misery when it meets your eyes.

“Yeah.”

The hostess gave you a look. It falls somewhere between questioning the formal (albeit bleak) clothes you woreto their hole in the wall diner, or figuring out the relationship between you and man across from you.

The reality is it was a seven-minute walk from the cemetery, and was the cheapest place in the area.

As for your father, he looks young  for having a middle-aged daughter. You were a college baby. Your mom didn’t want the responsibility, but your father lacked the iron fist to change his mind on raising you alone. You’ve seen how guilt stamps itself to the print of his loafers for the trivial mistakes. Your absence would eat him alive.

You chew your noodles in a practiced silence. It comes as a surprise to you when your father is the one to break it.

“Your grandma was still working when she died.”

You pause mid-bite. “The…she still kept the old thing?”

Your Ma, after her retirement and just before your grandfather’s too-early departure to the grave, bought a floral shop. You’d visit them for weeks, sharing their flat in Liverpool and helping around the shop while your father worked. Once Pops passed, Ma offered you a paid position as an assistant. You took the job without the salary.

However, when you went to college, you had to quit. She understood- but said she couldn’t hire someone outside of the family. “Wouldn’t feel right”. You had assumed the shop dwindled with her age, and that it had been lost to time and some expensive construction project. But…

Your father laughs. “You’d be surprised. That ‘old thing’ kept a handful of cliental. Still running now.”

You stutter. The image of your grandmother, arthritis bows and yellowing teeth, giving flowers to a sweaty teen in February makes your eyes water. You take another bite to swallow the feeling.

“She never lost her charm, did she.”

He shook his head. He took out a folded piece of apple slice paper, and under the dim lights of the restaurant you see her cursive in browning ink.  

You look at him over your water glass. He confirms your hunch when he purposely avoids your eyes.

“Dad I can’t-“

He slides the letter to you. “I know. It’s up to you. but you wouldn’t inherit any debt. She owned the property. It comes with her old house, above it. And…”

He doesn’t say you’re jobless, but you hear it anyway. With your recent ‘let go’, you needed something to pay the bills if you wanted a roof over your head. The English major has really only brought you to libraries and we appreciate your application but emails. Your sigh makes your chest cave.

“I’ll think about it.”

The misery in his eyes is replaced by hope. You wish you hadn’t put it there.

“Great.”

The letter wilts on your desk for three days. You procrastinate opening it- not because you haven’t come to an answer, but because it’s the last remaining piece of Ma you have. It would be like unwrapping a limited-edition action figure or leaving an antique on the edge of the table.

You risk losing what made it so special to begin with. The choice to give an object mortality or permanence.

Your hands shake when you peel the stamp.

Missy,

When you read this, I will have finally kicked the bucket. Pops had always been the patient one, between the two of us, but I think he’s waited long enough.

I know you’ve got a lot on your hands. But the shop and house are yours when I’m gone, if you choose to have it. It’d kill your father, if I gave it to him. Don’t think he knows how to feed the flowers, and I can’t have them all dying on me. I’ve got a reputation to uphold. Think it’d just make him miss me, too. I gave birth to such a sap.

Keep him steady for me, will you? You’ll be just fine, I know it. I swear you were born with two green thumbs- if anyone knows how to keep my petunias, it’s you. And if you don’t take the shop, I want you to sell it. Your father has a notoriously bad sense of character.

Love you heaps and heaps and a pebble more,

You better miss me,

Ma.

You’re weeping when you text your dad for the key and address.

Although it is cliché, walking into the store feels like you never left.

citrus oil. tepid rain. chipping paint.

The store architecture is a family secret.

The room was vacant of the crowded charm that drips from green grape wallpaper before it met your grandfather. leather glove labor remains in the medullary rays of the oak that dresses the shop in various shelves, tables and chairs. The centerpiece, an island with base cabinets, is engraved with small familial symbols- some that you recognize- others older than you are.

But it’s not just your grandfather that breathes in the construction of the store.

Your grandmother was a talented ceramist. Being a florist, pots were her specialty. You find many of them in corners and nests on the floor, warm as they were out the kiln, analeptic in gauzes painted off-white and copper. They hold her other children, fiddle leaf figs and dracaenas, next to smaller pots of her florals, dwarfed by their greener counterparts.

But none of these things are known by someone who isn’t you, which is perhaps why it was so important you inherit it. The secret dies the minute its sold.  

The only anomaly is the cat.

Calico sleeps where you’d draw as a child. Nuzzles the lace curtains that haven’t been opened since Ma passed. Looks at you with eyes that convince you animals can miss someone.

You kneel with an outstretched hand, after setting your stuff down. She sits and watches you from afar.

“She’s not here.” You scold yourself for talking to a cat, but when she dips her head to the side you feel strangely understood.

“I miss her too.”

She rolls over, exposing her belly in what you can only assume to be an offering of vulnerability. You run your hand through the burs of her stomach, and when she starts purring the fondness your grandmother must’ve had for her balms your palm and the pit of your stomach.

Everything aches as you sit with applesauce legs on the cool tiles of the main room. It feels weird to call it yours- so you decide to share it with the cat.

“Do you want to run the shop with me?” She rolls over and nuzzles your knee. The corners of your mouth twitch.

Everything lulls. Ataraxia unravels from the spines of the walls. The sun sets over the sills, and the world seems to fold into you, the cat, and the space you’re still learning how to breathe in.

And then the door begins to rattle.

You think it’s a figment- until it rattles again, this time more aggressively.

You’re on your feet in two seconds flat, and the cat scampers to a corner. You see the flickering outline of a wide, tall figure from behind the lace shudders of the door. Your heart leaps to your throat.

In the ten seconds you have before the shadow enters the shop, your franticness focuses on a blue watering can on the shelf. The toolbox with the more intimidating and likely effective weapons sits across the room on a desk, which you do not have time to reach. At least this might keep the perpetrator distracted until you grab them.

The door rattles again, this time it whines at the hinges.

You brace your arm for the throw of your life.

The next few seconds register as a blur. You launch the watering can the minute the door opens, you hear a startled grunt, and you scamper to the toolbox across the room. You pull out a small shovel, aim at the door, until you notice that his eyes seem to be just as startled as yours.

He raises his hands forward in surrender, and your arm falters.

“Who the hell are you.”

[leyavo]

TF141 x Spiritual!medic!reader

[masterlist]

Spiritual!medic!reader who believes in the universe and a source to guide her. Can find her doing breath work or meditating, yoga in the gym.

Spiritual!medic!reader who predicts a few outcomes and has Soap asking her about betting on football or the lotto numbers he could pick.

“I don’t know, the energy of this place is giving me a really a bad vibe right now.”

> “Ere we go lads,” Gaz says down the radio. “That’s just Soap.”

Spiritual!medic!reader who does reiki on Captain Price, his way of distressing after a particular rough mission. He was against it for ages till he later gave in.

Spiritual!medic!reader who teaches Ghost about somatic healing and stored trauma. The big hulk of the guy wondering why he’s crying.

Spiritual!medic!reader that has no business being in the TF141, she’s too nice and soft. Only for them to realise the gentlest of people are the most hurt. She’s stronger than she looks.

Spiritual!medic!reader who can read people better than anyone. Captain Price glancing to her each time they meet someone new as he can tell from her face what she’s thinking.

Spiritual!medic!reader who knows what natural plants to use when she’s in a stitch and doesn’t have her medic kit.

Spiritual!medic!reader who gives Price an amethyst crystal for his headaches and it stays in his office on his desk. His finger prodding it as he feels a headache creeping on whilst he’s filling out paper work.

Spiritual!medic!reader who also loves astrology and warns Gaz not give his birth time out to that one women asking him. But she does show him his birth chart in their free time. She’s seen Gaz reading his horoscope too, telling him to read for his rising sign instead of sun.

Spiritual!medic!reader trying to explain to the TF141 how their constant moaning is lowering their vibrations. Cue Soap making a dirty joke.

Spiritual!medic!reader who always looks for a sign and gets teased whenever the team are looking for a location or signpost.

>“You going to ask the universe?”

> “Ghost, don’t you’re lowering the vibrations.”

[dumbbitchgalore]

This is how big I imagine pathetic!Price to be (🌽 link)

BEFORE you people start filling my inbox with stupid shit- yes I know this is ftm porn

But fuck them kids and fuck you too because that is how big I imagine Pathetic!Price's dick to be so shut up 👹👹👹

Now-

For a man so macho and manly who in the bloody hell would've thought that Price's dick was so darn stinking cute!

Intimacy was definitely existent in both of yours sex life however, it most certainly came to an end by them time you tried to initiate sex.

On the couch as you both kiss each other with holy reverence and a good amount of hormonal horniness, John would always use whatever means necessary to make you come. He fingers, mouth, any and all toys. There was never a limit to anything, except when it came to his cock.

He’d make you cum on his tongue, beard drenched in your squirt and lips glistening with your slick. You were so blissfully floating on cloud nine when all of a sudden you realised that you never, ever returned the favour.

So you pull him closer to your face, giving his lips a kiss, tasting yourself on him when you snake your hand down his stomach, all the way down to-

Oh.

Before you could give his crotch a good squeeze, his grabs your wrist causing your brows to furrow in confusion.

I mean come on, any girl would be confused if you willingly want to give a blowjob only for your man to stop you giving you a half arsed response of ‘no longer being in the mood,’ which rightfully so pisses you off even more!

Like bloody hell, you are spreading your legs for the msn to shove his cock into you, the same man you are you like a starved man and he’s refusing you?!

Unbelievable.

You let out an irritated huff, frustration getting the best of you as you excuse yourself for a shower.

After that long well-deserved hour long shower accompanied by your one-sided argument, you make your way out of the ensuite only to be welcomed by hushed grunts and whispered moans.

Curiosity begins to engulf all your senses and you follow the path of lustful noises, finding yourself standing in front of John’s study.

You crack the door open to get a glimpse of what was going on inside only to see John on the floor slumped against the mahogany desk using a buck-off toy on his teeny tiny penis.

And in that moment you knew, you knew you have to show it some sweet lovin’

[goaskangel]

i dont really have a praise kink so maybe im not qualified to talk about this but some fics do write it and include 'good girl' like 50 times. i feel like its so over done and theres a million other thing he could be saying

[midnight-shadow-cafe]

Phantom of the 141

Pairing: Task Force 141 x Reader

AU: Phantom of the Opera 141 x reader

Warnings: Dark themes, obsession, possessiveness, stalking, implied violence, minor horror elements, yandere undertones, romanticization of toxic behavior, power imbalance, emotional manipulation.

Author's Note: This is a Phantom of the Opera AU where each member of 141 embodies a different version of the Phantom, haunting the opera house in their own way. Some are gentle protectors, others are dangerous lovers—but all of them are utterly devoted to you. Inspired by gothic romance, dramatic declarations of love, and an all-consuming need to claim one's muse. I’ve been obsessed with the PotO for so long and I see a lot of people have Simon as the phantom but what is all the boys were Phantoms?

Masterlist

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

Simon "Ghost" Riley – The Haunting Shadow

The darkest, most untouchable Phantom—a presence that lingers in every corner of the opera house, watching, waiting.

- You never see his face—only the silhouette of his bone-white mask reflected in the grand mirrors of your dressing room.

- He moves in absolute silence, appearing and disappearing like a specter. The air shifts when he’s near, the candlelight flickers. Your heart pounds, knowing he’s close, even if you can’t see him.

- His voice is deep, smooth, and inescapable—it comes from everywhere and nowhere all at once. It seeps into your mind like a melody you can’t unhear.

- “Sing for me, songbird…” he whispers in your ear, the warmth of his breath brushing against your skin. You spin around—no one is there.

- “Only for you,” you find yourself murmuring back, entranced.

- You wake up to handwritten sheet music left on your vanity, unfinished compositions waiting for your voice to complete them.

- “You are my inspiration,” the note reads, inked in his bold, elegant script. “The only one worthy of my music.”

- You press your fingers to the parchment, your heart aching at the devotion woven between the notes.

- When another man dares to get too close—a suitor, a fellow performer— they vanish.

- No one dares speak of it. A freak accident, the stage crew whispers.

- But that night, Ghost’s voice is different—less controlled, more desperate.

- “No one will take you from me,” he growls, the faintest trace of vulnerability bleeding through.

- His gloved hand caresses your throat before tilting your chin up. “You are mine, love. Say it.”

- And God help you, you do.

---

John Price – The Mastermind

The true ruler of the opera house, its unseen king. Price is not just a Phantom—he is a powerful, possessive force who ensures that you belong to him, whether you realize it or not.

- The lead role is yours before you ever auditioned. Your name appears at the top of the cast list, as if fate itself placed it there. You never saw who made the decision—only a lingering wisp of cigar smoke in the director’s office.

- He watches your performances from his private balcony, an unreadable expression on his face.

- His eyes never leave you, burning with something dangerous yet reverent.

- When the crowd erupts into applause, his lips barely part: “Good girl.”

- You shiver, unsure if you imagined it.

- He visits your dressing room after each performance, inspecting you like an artist admiring his masterpiece.

- “You’re extraordinary, love,” he murmurs, adjusting a loose strand of your hair. “But you already know that, don’t you?”

- His voice is warm, smooth like velvet, but his touch is possessive—lingering, unwilling to let go.

- You never question why the doors always lock behind him.

- When you try to leave—when the opera house begins to feel like a cage of velvet and gold—you find yourself unable to escape.

- The doors don’t open. The carriages won’t take you. The world outside seems to bend around his will.

- “You trust me, don’t you?” he murmurs, standing behind you, hands resting on your shoulders.

- Your reflection in the mirror looks lost, trapped between love and fear.

- “I’ve given you everything,” he breathes against your ear. “Why would you ever leave?”

---

Johnny "Soap" MacTavish – The Passionate Phantom

Unlike the others, Soap doesn’t want to frighten you—he wants to win you.

- Your dressing room is filled with roses, their petals soft and blood-red, their scent wrapping around you like a lover’s embrace. Each one is accompanied by a handwritten letter, signed only with J.

- “You make my heart race like a drum in an orchestra,” one reads. “Sing for me, bonnie—I want to hear how love sounds.”

- You press the letter to your chest, feeling the weight of his devotion settle into your bones.

- One night, when you hum a tune absentmindedly, another voice joins yours from the shadows.

- It’s warm, rich, full of love—a perfect harmony.

- “You sing so beautifully, lass,” he murmurs. “But you already knew that, aye?”

- The warmth of his presence envelops you, a stark contrast to the cold loneliness of the opera house.

- When he finally reveals himself, he doesn’t threaten you—he kisses you, hard and desperate.

- “I’ve loved you from the moment I heard you sing,” he confesses, his forehead pressed against yours.

- “Let me love you. Let me be yours.”

- And when he looks at you like that—like you’re the only star in the night sky—you almost want to say yes.

---

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick – The Gentle Phantom

The most human, the most tragic—the Phantom who loves you but fears you’ll never love him back.

- He doesn’t send roses or whisper threats—he leaves music.

- Late at night, the soft notes of a piano drift through the empty theater, melodies that make your heart ache.

- They sound like longing, unspoken words, a love that will never be returned.

- And yet, you still hum along, feeling his presence lingering in every note.

- You catch glimpses of him—a face half-hidden behind a curtain, warm brown eyes watching you from the rafters.

- When you turn, he’s gone. Always gone.

- But his presence lingers, like a ghost that refuses to leave your heart.

- One night, he steps into the light, mask in hand. His hands tremble.

- “If you knew me,” he whispers, his voice raw, broken, “would you love me?”

- Your breath catches—because for the first time, you realize…

- Maybe you already do.

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

[lisenberry]

We drift in and out

(Epilogue) Ch. 4: If someone asks, this is where I'll be

3k/E/NSFW

Talk of pregnancy/injuries/hospitals (but also a ton of domestic fluff).

A welcome home for John.

(How it started...) (AO3)

You ended up picking a ring that belonged to his great-grandmother, and had it resized just in time for his release from the hospital.

Severe internal bleeding from multiple puncture wounds and two separate points of blunt force trauma, five broken ribs, a fracture in his spine, a grade three concussion, and a blown out right knee.  Two agonizing weeks in intensive care before they could even fly him back home.  Six more at King Edward VII’s Hospital for veterans.

It was strange being on the other side of things.  With him in the hospital bed, arguing with the nurses and staff, and you the one adjusting his pillow and fetching a refill on his water and ice chips.

But you were grateful to see him recover at a quicker rate than any of the doctors had anticipated.  They clearly didn’t know John, because by mid-January, he was walking with the help of a cane and sitting back on your couch.  Watching the weekly match and defying their orders not to lift anything heavier than five kilos.

Each time he hoisted the baby up into the air, you worried that he’d somehow fall apart.  Rip himself open again.  Only to remember that of all the things he had endured, the weight of your child on his chest wouldn’t be what took him from you.

That nothing would, ever again.

He was retired.  A decommissioned weapon of warfare that would spend the rest of its days warm and dry and protected in a museum, telling its stories and keeping its secrets.  And if they tried to bring him back in again, you’d just have to bash in his other knee. 

Simple as that.

“While I admire your conviction, love, it won’t come to that.  I promise,” he’d vowed with a deep chuckle, and dropped a scratchy kiss to your temple when you’d told him as much.

The rest of the team had a laugh over it, as well.  Sergeant Garrick even offered to do it for you, if necessary.  Which sparked a grisly conversation between him and Sergeant MacTavish about the correct pressure and angle with which to get the job done, and whether or not they’d need Lieutenant Riley to help hold him down.

“Gladly,” had been the quiet man’s only reply.  Made even slightly more unnerving because your drooling, teething baby had his finger clenched tightly between her sharp little teeth.  And he didn't seem bothered at all.

She must’ve seen something interesting in him as well, perhaps in the way he didn’t flinch or pull away with an exaggerated yelp like her mum did.  It brought an adorable crease of concentration to her tiny brow, followed by a wide, cheeky grin as she realized she’d met her match. 

“It’s good luck when a baby smiles at you, L.T.,” Johnny teased around the mouth of his beer, quickly turning to the telly to avoid the annoyed look he knew would come.

“She can’t go around biting people,” you admonished, rolling your eyes with a huff as you set the table.

“Only the dodgy ones,” Kyle piped up from his end of the couch as he rose to have his turn of holding her, avoiding any potential for bloodshed.

You’d kept your promise to meet his team again under different circumstances, and you’d invited them to your flat for a Welcome Home party to watch the match.  It had been too cold to grill on his outside deck, so instead you made a small feast of chicken marsala, mashed potatoes and green beans.  Crusty bread rolls and a brightly colored salad.

You hoped they weren’t too picky, but if they were anything like John, they’d eat burnt shit on a shingle if it was hot, so you tried not to overthink it.  When you’d been working full time, you didn’t have much energy to think about cooking, but in the months since your maternity leave, you’d come to enjoy it.

Not knowing what to expect of your guests, you’d been surprised to see that none of them had arrived empty-handed.  Kyle brought a case of beer and a bottle of wine.  Johnny brought a sweet bouquet of flowers and a dessert trifle that he swore looked more labor intensive than it was.

“My mam’s old trick for impressing the lasses.  Didn’t have to cook a thing,” he’d pronounced with a lazy wink.

And Simon, well, he’d brought a party-sized bag of prawn crisps. 

You almost wept at the thoughtfulness, for reasons you couldn’t explain.  Maybe it was because they’d all had a hand in bringing him home to you.  That they’d shown him such deference and respect.

Love.

You’d once lamented that he had no one except you, but you were wrong.  He’d always been in good hands.  All that was missing was Kate, who’d declined your invitation with a sweet note and a promise to catch up another time. 

Maybe there was some lingering animosity over the way the mission went down, or maybe it was that she preferred to keep things on a professional level.  Her power over the team hinging on keeping herself separate.  An omnipotent voice in their ear more than a friend at their side.

“I half-expected to see the missus knocked up again, Captain.  What are you waiting for?”  MacTavish pivoted from instigating his lieutenant to his captain with the same puckish fortitude.

A scandalized snort escaped as you turned to gauge John’s reaction.  Sure enough, a rosy blush crept up under his beard.  His cerulean eyes evolved from crinkled with amusement to panicked in a heartbeat.  Like he’d been found out.

As before, he’d come back a little different.  Changed in subtle ways, beyond the physical.  You sometimes thought of him as a planet, circling steadily on some unending course.  A force to be certain, but not invulnerable.  Weathered and scarred by tiny evolutions that shifted him imperceptibly off axis along the way. 

Perhaps the weeks of torture he didn’t talk about affected his capacity to keep his desires so close to his chest.  What you had once thought of as his poker face, you now wondered if he’d start wearing everything so readily upon his features.

You took pity on both him and MacTavish, whose smile had faded in fear he’d hit a nerve.

“Not for want of trying, Johnny,” you corrected him mockingly.  “But one of us has to work around here, and my leave’s nearly up.”

“And without her work, he’d still be at the bottom of a bunker,” Kyle defended you with a nod.

“You’re right, carry on then.  Maybe it’s L.T.’s turn to catch the baby fever.”

He just couldn’t help himself it seemed, and you quickly turned back to the kitchen before all hell could break loose.

You needn’t have worried about dinner.  It was promptly and heartily devoured among a raucous round of conversation.  Not a green bean or a cherry tomato was spared.  Plates were all but licked clean of the rich, mushroom sauce you’d always been intimidated to make before.  Butter, shallots, flour and wine.  Salt and pepper. 

How could anything so simple taste so good?

As the evening wore on, there was a palpable sense of relief in the air.  An easiness that had you feeling like you were with family, but not like the family you’d known.  It was the kind you’d only heard about, never pictured for yourself.  One where you could laugh with food in your mouth or call someone an asshole without hurting anyone’s feelings.

Maybe it wasn’t just a welcome home party for him.  You were safe in this place with your baby, John and these men you didn’t even know.  You, who had grown so comfortable being alone and resigned yourself to that fate, were home, too.  Whatever had happened before, and whatever could possibly come, posed no threat in that moment.  For any of you.

It brought out an easiness in John as well, a bit of pride that his small circle of people had gotten along so well.  Until you’d tried to hide your first yawn, and then he gave the silent command for his team to take their leave. 

It was a marvel, really.  One short, audible sigh and a stretch of his wide shoulders and they were all on their feet, thanking you for the meal and excusing themselves with all the polite formalities of a table of boys at Sunday dinner.

When you were alone, the excitement of the day faded slowly from your bones, but the contented smile remained snuggly fastened across your face. 

“I hope those muppets weren’t too much.  I warned them to behave.”  He emptied the last of his beer down his throat as he pushed the door closed behind them.  

“You wouldn’t remember, being so heavily sedated at the time, but we got a long quite well at King Edward’s.  They’re good lads.”

“MacTavish can be...colorful.”  He gave a short smirk when he found the right word for his sergeant’s sense of humor, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Just wanted to get a rise out of you, is all.  I don’t think he meant anything by it.”

“Hate to disappoint the lad, but after five years of not exactly being careful, it’s not hard to see that maybe it’s just me that can’t—”  You shushed him with a gentle finger to his lips before he could go any further.  Stunned at his admission and wanting to stop it before any more of his insecurities spilled out so freely.

You’d silence them all.

Was that why you hadn’t had sex since his deployment, aside from a few hurried hand jobs and quiet blow jobs from underneath his hospital gown?  He’d been sure to take care of you in other ways once he’d gotten home, but had stopped short of filling you up and taking you in the way he had before he left.

When he’d pounded so restlessly, and relentlessly, you wondered if he was trying to burrow himself inside you.  To leave something of himself irrevocably behind.  Was he disappointed to learn he hadn’t, when it had come so easily to someone else?

You’d chocked his restraint up to his injuries, and were glad to see him taking it slow and not pushing himself.  You hadn’t stopped to think that he may have been still holding you just a little out of reach.  That he hadn’t fully given himself up to the idea that you were his, despite what his letters had said.

There was no room for that now.  Easy and casual went out the window the day your daughter was born.  His daughter, no matter how she’d been conceived.  In every way that did matter.  And in the days and months that followed when he saw you at your worst.  He hadn’t let you go then, and you weren’t going to let him pull away from you now.

“Well, the only way to know for sure is to stop being careless.  And start trying.”  Your arms slid around his neck and pulled him down to you. 

“Is that what you want, darling?” 

“I want you to know that you’re not broken, and you never could be.”

“How do you know?”

“I didn’t tell you?  I thought you knew.”  You pulled away with confusion, focusing instead on the buttons of his shirt. 

“What?”

“I’m psychic,” you boasted as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.  “I’ve seen the future.” 

“Have you now?”  At least the indulgent twinkle in his eyes replaced the bleakness you never wanted to see again.

He was allowed to come back different, but he was never going to be anything but your John. 

“You’re going to need glasses soon. And you’re going to buy four pairs of the cheapest ones you can find because you’re going to forget them everywhere.” 

“You’ve just been talking to my doctor is all.”  A playful hitch at the corner of his mustache brought him further out of his mood.

“And no matter how many children we have, they’re going to be horribly embarrassed by us.”

Once his shirt lay discarded at your feet, you went to work on his belt and trousers.

“Eww, Mum’s snogging Dad again.  They’re just the worst,” you mimic the disgusted voice of your potential progeny.  “And you’ll just laugh and kiss me harder.  Show them how much you love their mother.”

“What else?”  He stopped your forward progress on his wardrobe to hold your hands in his.

“We’re going to take a lot of vacations.  Show them the whole world, all the good people worth saving.  The beauty worth living for.  And the road trips to the country are going to take twice as long as they should because you'll have to stop to pee at least twice an hour, and I’m going to take an annoying amount of photos—”

He did shut you up then with a kiss, finally, as he pulled you both to the floor.

“Not the floor, your poor back!”  You attempted to protest, but he was moving quicker than you’d seen in months and held you tightly across his chest.

“It’s never too sore to please my wife.  Give this old man some credit.”  He sat you up with his back against the

“You’ll let me know if it hurts, won’t you?  I know how you like to be brave.”  You kissed the side of his neck, trailing to suckle along his ear.

Repeated the words he’d said to you, not so long ago.

When he smiled, you felt it in his jaw just before you sat up straight to notch yourself above him.  He propped himself up on a forearm behind his head, content to sit back and watch as you set your skirt aside and sunk down to meet him. 

“I’ve always told my men if they wake up to this, in the warm, silky,” his voice caught briefly on a breathless shudder, “grip of someone who’d fight the world for them, then to enjoy it for as long as it lasts.  Because they’re already dead.”

“You’re not dead.  You’re right here.”

You clutched him with your walls, as if to reinforce your position.  And he somehow hardened even more in deep gratitude, bucking back at you as if to test the veracity of your resolve.

“Fucking heaven,” he groaned just before he pivoted and pinned you beneath him with the thick thighs you were worried had lost too much size in the hospital.

That you worked tirelessly to fatten up with signs of life.  Signs of love.  They spread yours out wide, to prove you wrong for ever thinking he’d lost any of his fight.

“There you are.  Welcome home, John.”

*****

You were married on a lovely Friday afternoon in February.  Valentine’s Day, to be specific, in a small civil ceremony at the local register’s office.  John looked dashing in his classic black suit, and you were radiant in a simple dress you splurged on.  The cut and color flattering the curves that had made themselves a permanent part of you. 

It was a day just for the two of you, and you celebrated with dinner at The Midland, with three very enthusiastic babysitters keeping the little one occupied at home.

You only received two panicked phone calls throughout the night.  One minor emergency from Gaz regarding a particularly messy diaper and one sincere apology from Soap for knocking over a bottle of your hard-earned breastmilk down the sink while trying to heat it up.   You assured them that they sounded like it was all under control, and you had plenty of fresh nappies and milk reserves in case they needed more. 

There was no dancing the night away, but you still managed to stay out until the wee hours of the morning, catching an early breakfast and the sunrise along the Thames.   You returned home, tip-toeing down the hallway with your shoes in your hands.  You had every intention of continuing the festivities in his apartment, but instead you both silently agreed to poke your heads into yours to check on the lads.

It was Ghost who surprised you the most, although it shouldn’t have.  You found him sitting upright in your armchair, with the baby asleep in the crook of his arm.

“Have you been up all night?” you whispered, as his eyes flickered up from the book he was reading, despite having lost his audience to dreamland.  Something about rabbits and foxes making friends.

“She’s a quiet little thing, isn’t she?” John intoned knowingly down to his lieutenant.

“Wake her up and I’ll kill you both,” was his only reply, but a slight smile pulled at his scarred lips.

*****

By the spring, you were back at work.  A whole year had passed since your world had changed so completely.  It was easier to leave them behind each day, knowing they had each other to keep company.  That they were both in good hands.  He even made you lunches in the morning and had dinner on the stove when you came home. 

You stopped for a coffee at your old favorite shop on the way to the office and reacquainted yourself with the new faces at the security desk.  Stretched old muscles of socialization and got up to speed on the latest workplace gossip.

On lazy Sunday mornings, John shared his cigar on the outside deck as you made your meal plan for the week, and you picnicked in the park on Saturdays while the baby practiced walking on her chubby, strong little legs.

John made time to get to the gym, not so much to stay in fighting shape, but to keep up with his ‘ravenous wife’, and his ‘beastly moppet’.  His words, not yours. 

And as the summer flowed into fall, change would come yet again.  But it didn’t scare you any longer.  It was all just endings and beginnings.  Beginnings and ends.

You slipped your work bag over your shoulder and paused to give your husband a kiss that would last all day.  The slow, warm, savoring kind that left a trail behind. 

“What was that for?” he asked, eyebrows nearly up to his hairline. 

“You said you were sorry once, for missing out on everything.  Remember?” you continued only when he nodded, solemnly, not really seeing where you were going with it.  “Well, everything is about to get a lot more interesting.”

You held up the white and purple stick that you’d been hiding in your pocket.  It was the third you’d taken over the last two weeks.  You wanted to be sure before you told him, knowing how much it meant to him.

Everything you had prophesized came true, in its own time, as you knew it would.

...And you were sure to take an obnoxious amount of photos.

[ghstveil]

haven’t been on here in a while ☕️

thinking about coming home to john after a stressful day of work…ughh. as soon as you walk through the door, he’s right there ushering you to sit down, taking off your heels and trailing kisses over your thighs as he does so. he would definitely whisper some reassuring words to you as you talk about your stressful day.

[starsinmylatte]

I am STILL THI KING ABOUT THIS

I simply cannot stop thinking about spanking with John Price. How he’d just bend you over his desk and start to caress your ass, kneading and rubbing the plush flesh with his big hands and an authority that has you whining. He doesn’t even bother to pull your panties out of the way before he takes what he wants.

The first spank is just a quick little tap- a teaser of what’s to come that sends a brief flash of pain straight to your already dripping cunt. John can easily see how you’ve already soaked through the gusset of your panties for him, and he goes back to the deceptively gentle caresses, shushing your whimpers with his deep, purring voice as he traces the outline of your pussy through the lace.

Your ass slowly grows red as he sneaks in more delicious, quick little swats. They never land in exactly the same place and there’s no discernible rhythm, so you can never tell when the next one is coming. The swats grow harsher and more frequent, and it feels like heaven as he coos sweet nothings into your ear. The whole area is so sensitive from the increased blood flow that every touch of John’s fingers sends molten hot pleasure and adrenaline racing through your body.

His other hand is in your hair keeping you bent over like a good girl, but John barely needs it with the way you’ve fallen open for him as you take everything he's giving. If you were even semi lucid you'd be able to hear the absolutely debauched things the Captain is whispering in your ear- what he wants to do with you and exactly how he's going to break you open on his thick cock… but your thoughts have already floated away into the thick, sweet haze of ecstasy.

[tojisun]

john price x reader; minimal plot but it’s daddy issues and making out and just yk the sorts; mini religious analogy

it starts with a tap to the mouth—john's thumb rough against your glossy lips. he tips your head up just enough so that you can meet his eyes, crinkled in his deep smile and shining with the depths of his desire.

his adoration is palpable, rippling from his body in burning waves. it makes you feel small in the softest of ways; like you are being tucked into the pockets of his chest, wedged within the spaces of his ribs.

it makes you ache, your body racked with shivers.

no one has ever loved you this way. no one was ever this devoted—all-consuming and scorching in the way it strips the world into nothing, leaving it bare, all for you to use. to yield. to pick apart and abandon, as you see fit.

john looks at you like you're all that matters.

the tears spring up before you could stop them, prickling the backs of your eyes until they trickle down the slopes of your cheeks. you hear john's breath stutter, his hand twitching from where it's cupping your jaw, before it drags up to the side of your temple, thumb swiping at the patch of skin just underneath your eye.

"shh," he rumbles, a gentle coo. "y've got nothin' to be sad about, sweetheart."

you sniffle, ducking your gaze away, turning shy. it makes him chuckle, his voice passing through his teeth with such fondness, it fills you up with warmth; cascading down your spine, setting you ablaze alive.

“now, then,” john says, tapping the apple of your cheek. “won’t you come here an’ kiss me?”

his voice is thick and sticky with his own need, rumbling in that sort of tone that always makes your thighs squeeze shut. you nod, not knowing what else is there to say, and slide to his lap. he helps you throughout—rough palms perched on your hips as he pulls you close, adjusting ever so slightly, until your chest is snug against his and his breaths are hitting your chin.

john is so warm like this, or is it you? burning with the fever of your own desires that it buzzes into your skin and etching him with it?

whatever it may be, he presses close, dragging his palms from the meat of your hips to your back, mapping along the expanse of your skin like he’s truly feeling you; like he’s truly grounding himself through you.

you let out a shaky breath. john mirrors it.

and, finally, the two of you meet in between. the kiss is soft, careful, then it is cataclysmic. he devours your every gasps, his beard scratching against your chin as he kisses and nips and licks.

it is so debauched; sinful in the way you moan into his mouth and john swallows it whole; destructive in the way that his kisses chase the burn from your lips and force them through your synapses, leaving your nerves to moan a song until the pleasure burrows in your core—thrumming and building, your nub hardening slowly; teasingly; more.

more. moremoremore—

“john,” you gasp out, fingers tugging at his hair. “john, i want–!”

“shh,” he rumbles, pulling away just enough to press his forehead to yours. “i’ve got you, peanut. i’ve got you.”

his words douse you in the holy flames because you feel—

absolved.

you feel forgiven. you feel loved.

oh.

“please,” you hiccup, crying out again. and john pulls you in, even closer, and closer, until you no longer know where you end and where he begins.

please—

“i’ve got you,” john repeats like it is a prayer; a testimony. “i’m here f’r you.”

and you fall into him, so trusting. so faithful.

so devoted.

so small in his greatness.