#captain jonathan price x reader

[chamomiletealeaf]

Price fucking you over the table but he positions you so your clit rubs against the corner just right every time he thrusts into you.

The pressure and friction is so good you can't help but squirt all over him, yourself, and the table.

[joapmactavish]

i will be accepting asks / requests for writing when it comes to cod characters ! specifically 141 (price, soap, gaz, ghost) and los vaqueros (alejandro, rudy) !!

the ask button on my profile is available!

I WILL NOT WRITE

- p3dophilia

- “SLAVE PLAY” or anything revolving play with race

there is so negotiating these things as i simply find them to be disgusting behaviors! respect my opinions/morals please.

if anything else bothers me i will simply reply that i will not write it! but i am 100% fine with writing smut/nsfw alongside sfw/comfort/angst!

[lyeofhell]

you know John’s petty as hell. like no one that controlling and obsessed with caretaking is normal. if you unbuckle your own seatbelt and open your own door before he can jump outta the driver’s seat and do it, he’ll run around the car and shut the door back in your face just so he can open it for you djskdskd

[anghimalaaynasapuso]

HORNY PRIEST JOHN PRICE

breeding kink, sacrilege (?)

john joined the church after leaving the military, though he never spoke much about what led him there. some men left war and found peace in quiet towns, in family, in distance. john, meanwhile, found himself in the shadow of the cross, searching for something he couldn't name.

he knelt, prayed, studied scripture— not because he'd had a sudden divine vision, but because he’d needed something to tether himself to.

he's never been one to talk about faith in absolutes. the young priests, fresh out of seminary, speak with a certainty that makes him envious. they talk of god’s mercy like it’s a thing they’ve held in their hands, like they’ve never doubted it for a second.

john doesn’t have that luxury. his hands have held a rifle, pressed down on wounds, ended lives.

what right does he have to stand in the confessional and tell a man his sins are forgiven when his own are still heavy in his chest?

he doesn’t let it show. not when he stands before his congregation, not when he delivers the homily, and not even when he listens to the confessions of those who kneel before him.

the words come easy. “god is love. god is mercy.” he says them with the confidence of a man who believes them. perhaps if he says them enough, one day it'll drive home.

he's decently well-respected in his parish. john speaks in measured tones, and listens with the kind of patience that makes people trust him. he’s rarely if ever unkind, never raising his voice even when the children at sunday school test his patience or when the older priests debate doctrine with a stubbornness he doesn’t bother entertaining.

the congregation admires him for it.

he keeps a well-worn rosary in his pocket, fingers brushing over the beads when he’s deep in thought. it’s an old habit, one he never lost even when he stopped saying the prayers as often as he should. late at night, when he can’t sleep, he walks the empty church, the only light coming from the red glow of the tabernacle lamp.

he runs his fingers over the smooth wood of the pews, listens to the creak of the floorboards beneath his boots, and exhales smoke into the dim air. it feels like a kind of penance, staying here long after everyone else has gone, keeping watch over something he’s still not sure he belongs to.

the first time you meet, it’s in the courtyard after sunday mass.

you’re new to the church. new to the neighborhood. moved in just a month ago, so he’s heard. he hadn't taken much notice at first— he rarely does. parishioners come and go, faces blending into one another over time.

but then he sees you. all wide eyes and bright smiles, the late-morning sun catching the warmth in your hair, laugh spilling out like a song. you shake hands with mrs. calloway, nod attentively as she chatters on about her garden, and there’s something about the way you tilt your head, the way your lips part in quiet amusement, that makes something ugly and raw twist in his gut.

john shouldn’t be looking. he knows he shouldn’t be looking.

and yet.

you catch sight of him, and your smile brightens, something open and eager in your face as you step forward. “father price.”

your voice is softer than he expects. sweeter. a fact not good for his health.

he nods. “you’ve settled in well, i see.”

“i have. everyone’s been so kind.” your hands clasp in front of you, fingers tangling. “i wanted to introduce myself properly. i should have done it sooner, but-” you shake your head, sheepish. “i guess i was nervous.”

nervous? of who— him?

he watches the way you glance down, the way your teeth catch the plump of your lower lip, the slight shift of your weight from foot to foot, and something slow and molten pools in his stomach.

and then, unbidden—

i want to fuck her mouth.

the thought slams into him. his fingers curl, blunt nails pressing into his palm. john's throat tightens, heat crawling up the back of his neck, shame dragging its claws down his spine.

he schools his expression, keeps his voice level. “there’s nothing to be nervous about.” a beat. his gaze lingers on your lips a second too long. “i hope you find what you’re looking for here.”

your eyes meets his then. for a moment, he swears you see it. the crack in his composure, the way his restraint stretches thin around you like fraying rope.

but then you just smile again— so fucking gentle— and bid him a polite goodbye before slipping back into the crowd.

he exhales, tries to control his breathing, before turning on his heel and heading inside.

it doesn’t get better after that.

oh no. in fact, it only gets worse.

because you linger. you stay. you join the congregation, sit near the front every sunday, your hands folded neatly in your lap, your lips parted slightly in quiet reverence as you listen to the sermon. you bite your lip when you concentrate, tuck your hair behind your ear absentmindedly, shift in your seat just enough to make his mind wander places it has absolutely no right to go.

and it haunts him.

creeps into his thoughts when he thinks he's already run far away from it. slips into his head when he least expects it. a slow, insidious thing, winding around his ribs, sinking its teeth into the softest parts of him.

john finds himself getting lost in his imaginations more and more as the weeks pass by. it starts with something simple. something small.

you, in his kitchen.

the space is yours as much as it is his now— he hardly steps foot in it unless you usher him in, your hands on his arms, guiding him to sit, to rest. the scent of warm bread and roasted meat fills the house, seeping into the wooden beams, the stone walls. the windows are cracked open just enough to let the breeze in, carrying with it the scent of the fields, the distant bells of the church.

you hum as you work, a quiet little tune under your breath, flour dusting your fingers, smudging along the curve of your cheek. you’re barefoot, the hem of your dress skimming your ankles, your apron tied neatly at the back. domestic. wifely. His.

"you’re spoiling me, love."

you laugh, glancing over your shoulder at him where he sits at the table, his elbows braced against the wood, his chin resting on his hand. john hasn’t even touched the sermon notes laid out before him, hasn’t even opened the book he’d planned to read. no, his attention has been on you— watching you move, watching the light catch on your hair, watching the way you fit so perfectly in his home.

"you work too hard," you murmur, turning back to the stove. "someone has to take care of you."

the words sink into him, low and warm, wrapping around something deep in his chest.

you do take care of him.

you set a plate before him, still warm from your hands, and press a kiss to the top of his head, your lips soft against his hair.

you fold his robes neatly after they’ve dried in the sun, pressing your hands over the fabric like a prayer. you pluck a stray thread from his collar before mass, your fingers deft and careful, your brow furrowing in quiet concentration.

you brush his hair back from his forehead when he sits too long at his desk, rubbing slow circles at his temple, your fingers easing away the weight of his work.

and in the evenings, after the dishes have been washed and the fire burns low, you climb into his lap with a soft sigh, tucking yourself against his chest.

"long day?" you ask, your fingers smoothing over the front of his shirt.

"mm." john presses a kiss to your hair, lets his hands settle at your waist, palms warm through the thin fabric of your nightdress. "better now."

and it is better, with you here, with your warmth seeping into his, your breath brushing his throat.

he wants all of it. the soft, easy domesticity. the routine of waking to you curled beside him, of pressing sleepy kisses to your bare shoulder before dragging himself out of bed. of watching you move through his home with the comfort of a woman who belongs there.

and, god help him—

john wants to fuck you too.

until you leaked him, until his seed dripped down your thighs, making a mess of soft, perfect skin. wants to bend you over his desk, press your face into the worn wood, break you open on his cock until you sobbed for him, begged him to fill you. he’d grip your hips hard enough to leave bruises.

he wants to whisper filth into your ear, his breath hot— gonna fill you up, love. gonna fuck you so full of me you’ll be dripping for days. you want that, don’t you? want me to breed you like the needy little thing you are?

he wants to press his fingers into your mouth, make you suck them clean before shoving them between your legs, fucking them into the soft clutch of your pussy until you cried for him.

and when he finally sinks his swollen cock inside you— he’d make you feel it.

john wants to fuck you raw, grind his hips against yours, keep you pinned beneath his weight, stuffed full of his cock. he’d press a hand to your belly, feel himself inside you, make you watch as you take a cock too big for you.

and when he’d spill inside you he wouldn't stop. oh no— he’d fuck it deeper, press his fingers to your swollen clit, make you come with him, make your body take every last drop of his seed.

because he wouldn't just fill you. he’d breed you. over and over, until you couldn't keep yourself up, too boneless to thrust back into him, too full to take any more.

but he was a man of god.

and men of god did not shove their sweet, willing parishioners over their desks, did not drag their teeth down soft skin, did not slap needy little cunts until they were wet and dripping.

they did not fuck desperate little things in church pews, in quiet confessionals, did not fist their hands in soft hair and shove pretty mouths onto their cocks, did not whisper filth between gasped-out prayers.

they did not spend their nights with their heads buried between trembling thighs, devouring the taste of sin, holding squirming bodies still as they licked deep, sucked hard, forced sweet, innocent things to come against their tongues.

they did not rut into them like beasts, gripping soft wrists, pinning them down, owning them with every brutal thrust. they did not press their hands to swollen bellies, fill their women over and over until their bodies were wrecked, too full of come to take another drop.

men of god did not fuck.

but god forgive him, he would.

all those thoughts come to this moment, this night—

john finds himself alone under the dim glow of candlelight, sitting on the pews, head tilted to the cross.

his breathing is uneven, ragged in the dim hush of the empty church. each inhale scrapes against his ribs, sharp and burning, like penance for the filth curdling in his mind. his hands tremble as they move beneath his robes, fingers fumbling at the buckle of his belt. the metal clinks, far too loud in the sacred silence, but he doesn’t stop.

can’t.

his breathing is uneven, ragged in the dim hush of the empty church. each inhale feels like it scrapes against his ribs, sharp and burning, as though the very air is punishing him for the thoughts festering in his mind. his hands tremble as they move beneath his robes, fingers fumbling at the buckle of his belt. the metal clinks softly in the quiet, a sound far too loud in the sanctity of this space.

the leather gives way, and his cassock feels suffocating now, the fabric too heavy against skin flushed with heat. his fingers slip lower, dragging the waistband of his pants down his hips with shaky, desperate movements until he’s free— finally free— from the painful confines of his underwear.

his cock springs forward, already hard in his hand, flushed dark at the tip, the skin tight and aching. a bead of precum glistens there, catching in the flicker of candlelight like something obscene in the house of god. he wraps his hand around the base, his grip firm but not enough to ease the pressure coiled in his gut. the heat of his palm sends a shudder rolling down his spine, breath hitching as his thumb swipes over the sensitive head, smearing the slick wetness down the length.

his cock is long, veins pulsing along the shaft, the kind of thick that demands attention. his foreskin still covers the swollen head, slick with the evidence of his own arousal, precum smearing against the soft skin of his lower stomach. he hisses through his teeth as he wraps his hand around the base, fingers barely closing around the girth, feeling the steady throb of blood pulsing beneath his grip.

his balls hang full and tight, pulled close with need, the skin sensitive to the faintest brush of fabric. every movement is torment, the soft rub of his cassock against his bare thighs sending a shudder through him, making his hips jerk forward, seeking relief.

he strokes himself slowly, dragging his foreskin back to expose the flushed, leaking head, then rolling it forward again, savoring the sensitivity. his thumb swipes through the slick wetness pooling at the tip, smearing it down the length, adding just enough glide to make his fist slip easier over his cock.

his grip tightens, dragging the pleasure out like a prayer he’s too ashamed to speak aloud. the church is silent around him, the air thick with the scent of burning wax and old stone, but all he can think about is you.

on your knees before him.

john sees it so clearly, feels it like it’s already happened. the way you’d sink down, your eyes looking up at him through thick lashes, expectant. your soft lips parted just enough for your tongue to wet them before stretching around his cock. the thought makes his stomach clench, his fingers twitching as he strokes himself tighter, his foreskin gliding over the swollen head before he pulls it back again.

you wouldn’t be able to take all of him at once. he knows that much. He’s too thick, too long— your jaw would ache just trying, your tongue pressing firm against the heavy weight of him, struggling to make space. the first inch would be easy, maybe even the second. but when he pushes deeper, when his tip nudges the back of your throat and you gag, just a little, he knows he’d lose whatever control he has left.

he swears he can see it— your fingers curling against his thighs, the little choked noise you’d make when he holds you there, when his cock throbs against your tongue. your throat would flutter, swallowing around him, trying to adjust to the stretch. and oh, god, the way your lips would look wrapped around him, swollen with abuse and slick with spit and precum. john nearly loses himself at the image alone.

his hips jerk forward into his own grip, chasing the fantasy, breath coming through the vaulted ceilings of the church. he’d guide you through it, hand buried in your hair, tilting your head just the way he likes. gentle, at first. Letting you set the pace. But then when you get too comfortable, when you start to tease, pulling back just to trail soft kisses along his length— he’d snap.

he’d pull you down, bury himself deep in the hot sleeve of your mouth until your throat clenched around him and you whimpered against his balls. his other hand would cup your jaw, feeling the bulge of himself pressing against your cheek, watching as tears bead at the corners of your eyes, shuddering from the effort of taking him.

he wonders if you’d try to pull away, fingers gripping his thighs in a silent plea. would you struggle? would you whine? would you let him break you like this?

john groans, his grip tightening almost painfully. he pumps himself faster now, the obscene slap of skin against skin filling the empty church. his balls are drawn tight, aching with the need to spill, and in his mind, he’s not coming into his own palm.

he’s coming down your throat.

you’d swallow, wouldn’t you? just for him. he can see it— his cum thick on your tongue, your lips parting to show him before you close your mouth and swallow it down. maybe a little would escape, dripping down your chin, and he’d swipe his thumb through it, pressing it back to your lips.

“messy thing,” he’d murmur. “but you took it so well.”

the thought sends him over the edge.

his hips stutter, cock jerking in his grip as his orgasm crashes over him, hot and sudden. cum spills over his knuckles, , dripping onto the cold stone beneath him. his breath comes in harsh, broken gasps, his thighs trembling as he rides out the aftershocks, his vision hazy with the force of his release.

and when it’s over— when he finally stills, his body spent, his mind heavy with guilt— he drags his gaze upward.

The cross looms above him, watching.

if this is damnation, he’ll sin again.

[bunny-jpeg]

"if you don't shut up. i'm going to shut you up." was a common phrase that captain jonathan price would often say to you. inconsolable brat. he had just gotten home, can a man not relax in his own home. you stood there with your arms crossed. you looked almost cute when you were angry, you looked like you could take him. maybe you could take his cock, but never in a fight. no matter how much he smoked and how angry you got, price could easily keep you from doing too much damage. he eyed you up and down and said, "don't give me that look. you'll get lines." his words were bordered by poison.

a drag from his cigar before he grabbed you by the arm to pull you into his lap. you were whining against about him smoking in the house. you had no room to talk missy, you were the spouse of breadwinner. you hadn't work since you got 'fire' from your job right before your wedding. and, you had been looking into another job. but nowhere is hiring in the town you live. so keep that damn trap shut. let the man of the house do as he please. he'd even be petty and knock some ash from his smoke and onto the hardwood floor. "clean it up, love or i'll make ya lick it up." john was domineering, aggressive to a fault.

but yet you stay firm on your stance. you hated the lingering scent of smoke that forced you to open most of the windows the next morning. and john had just enough of it. those cheap sleeping shorts you wore were now on the floor, split down the seam. "stupid whores don't need these." he added as the panties became scrap fabric in john's grip. he was soon fucking you, that big fat cock of his. as he held you by the throat. you made sharp noises as the air got restricted. he wouldn't bruise you up, he wasn't a monster. but his monster-like cock was already bruising your poor little cervix. be hard to get your own job when you're all fat with john's kid. but all in due time. he continued to hold your throat and fuck you with the pace of a stallion. even at his age, price was far from feeling his age. he could keep up with a cock-hungry dog like you. he squeezed a little tighter and heard you choke a little. he groaned against your skin. it only made it hotter when you claws at him and whimpered.

"that's it. that'll shut ya up." before he gave you a messy kiss on the lips. <3

a/n: "and what do we say, bunny?" "sorry women."

[peachetteprice]

42-year-old John Price;

Who gets a cramp in his bottom when he's knee-deep inside you and can't keep his grunting at bay. You find it hilarious how he instantly seizes up and mutters that he needs a minute, panting heavier than he did when he was pounding away at your poor cunt, bless him.

Your sweet John, who lets out an anguished whine and a hushed 'Christ on Earth', as he pulls from inside of you, cock turgid, pulsing and slick with the scent of your mingled cum, who stays on all fours all throughout the duration of the cramp, huffing through flared nostrils, occasionally relinquishing one hand from the mattress to clutch his left buttock (it's always the left buttock, never the right), exclaiming 'I'm not the man I used to be, love,' which, in any other regard would have been downright upsetting, but is ultimately what sends you into a fit of laughter.

And, when the muscle finally relaxes, and you give it a massage to make sure it's loose, pliable and ready for action again - dare a smack - he crawls back over the top of you, gives his cock a light pump or two to ensure the peak of its stiffness before sinking it back into your cunt, with a little more vigour, this time, thanks to the mid-coitus breather (that he later suggests should be mandatory on these nights, for the sake of his old bones), praying that he won't seize up again just before he's about to spill himself inside of you.

| Masterlist |

[simonriley09]

Having rough sex with Price until his leg cramps 😭😭🙏🏻🙏🏻

He's just plowing your hole, making you whine and beg until he stops, making you confused. He hasn't cum yet, plus he's silent. "Price?" "One sec luv..." "what's wrong..?!" You thought he was having a heart attack. "Leg cramp." "Oh." You relaxed a bit, waiting for the leg cramp to pass so. Then he just started continuing like nothing happened-!?

[penguinbuttcheeks]

sugardaddy!price x gn!reader

(slight nsfw)

₊˚.༄:፣ 𓏲࿐࿔ ˚˖°☾☽ °˖˚𓏲࿐࿔ ₊˚.༄:፣₊˚.༄:፣ 𓏲࿐࿔ ˚˖°☾☽

sugardaddy!price can’t keep his eyes off of you when you’re all dolled up in the finest pieces he can afford.

extravagant pieces adorning your neck, ears, fingers and wrists, all thoughtfully planned out to suit your style and preferences. they gleam softly in the light, accentuating all your defining features.

he never holds back, showering you in anything and everything you could ask for, even when your desires never leave your lips.

he keeps a keen eye on you, watching the way your eyes linger on a specific item of clothing, perhaps a pair of shoes or a pretty necklace.

if you’re shy about his materialistic gestures, price takes pride the way your eyes widen when he hands you each gift, your brows furrowing in concern - his little pet always so worried about the amount he’s spending. he simply shakes his head, gently pulling you closer to clasp a new shiny bracelet around your wrist.

he fails to hide his pleased smirk each time he glances at you, finding any possible chance he can get to compliment you in your new accessories.

it’s no secret his favourite purchases are the plethora of jewellery pieces adorning your body. seeing you sprawled beneath him, clothes discarded carelessly on his bedroom floor, left in nothing but glittering diamonds and delicate, precious metals.

his own little doll to dress up and care for.

he prefers to buy his gifts in person, rather than online. it’s better that way though. seeing the quality in person, nodding in approval at the sales assistant who hastily wraps the expensive pieces in sleek designer brand bags.

he’s about to leave the store, keen to decorate you with his new purchases when a display of glittering diamonds catches his eye.

at this point, he’s bought you enough rings to decorate each of your perfectly manicured fingers. all except one.

he turns around, pulling out his wallet and flagging down the poor sales assistant once more, lips curling upwards as he nods in the direction of the glass case, not a crumb of doubt in his mind.

₊˚.༄:፣ 𓏲࿐࿔ ˚˖°☾☽ °˖˚𓏲࿐࿔ ₊˚.༄:፣₊˚.༄:፣ 𓏲࿐࿔ ˚˖°☾☽

[eccentricallygothic]

| Older |

Pairing: Boyfriend's Dad!John Price | Son's Girlfriend!You.

Description: Guys your age just aren’t the same.

Warning(s): Infidelity, age gap, Cap being a badass, teasing, thumb sucking, stuffie riding, Daddy kink, Cap smokes, allusions to biting, little boob play, lowkey intimidation kink bc it's me, power imbalance-ish. MDNI. 

Note: I, infact, am not sorry. I guess the son and Reader are in college/uni? Ps, Barry Sloane is becoming an obsession. HELP!  

MASTERLIST

. . . 

It wasn't supposed to happen and you didn't mean for it to.

Not at first, anyways. 

But your boyfriend's good natured, authoritative, brave and yet mysterious dad was always so calm and cool and laid-back with a cigarette dangling between his lips and his thick maney arms and tattoos that often hid under his shirts. He always knew what to say and what to do. Nothing was a big deal to him and he always had your boyfriend's back in the most warm and wholesome way. He was a man who understood how to take care of things and he knew everything and you were convinced there was not a problem he didn't know his way around.

At first it was curious glances on your part, then it was friendly and innocent grazes on his. It moved onto lasting looks and then longing touches. The two of you never said a word, though. No. There was no address, no discussion. Just a chilly day when you had been a little cold and your boyfriend hadn't been home. 

Class had been a little too upsetting and your boyish partner had been too caught up in his own worries. You had been in need of comfort and some big love and John had been your knight in shining armor. He had come around looking for his son in that truck of his, sensed your distress, sat beside you and reassured you like no one had ever before. His gentle voice and careful caressing was something you'd never forget. However, your other memories of that day were foggy, you were not sure whether it was out of how small your mind had become or due to the burning guilt of what it had started. But one thing had led to another and one moment you were nuzzling into his warm arms, then your soft cheek was rubbing against his beard, next your noses were touching and then your lips were on each other’s, his mustache tickling your skin as he had went about exploring you with his scarred manly hands. So on and so forth, it hadn't stopped from that day on.

Time was against the two of you and every minute was valuable. 

But that didn't stop the Captain from being an absolute tease who often brought tears to your eyes. 

Like he was doing right now. 

“Daddy, please…” You whined as you rocked yourself harder on the soft toy, your baby blue dress bunching on your thighs that were covered in his bite marks -thank God your boyfriend was out of town on a school errand- as your hair fell about your face. “Hnng…” Your hips ached a little from the strain you were putting on them but the heat scorching your loins was way too compulsive for you to even think about stopping. 

John's heavy form was relaxed against the headboard as he lazily took another drag of his cigarette, cool eyes watching you almost casually. “What is it, babygirl?” You whined at the name he used and how the baritone of his voice drilled into your soul as he did so, causing for more slick gush out of you as a result. “Hm?” Your pussy was so puffy and needy. 

“Need you, Daddy, please!” You cried out your plea, feeling yourself on the verge of tears. 

“You do?” You vigorously nodded to his raised eyebrow. John snorted before tilting his head to one side and shrugging. “I don't know, baby” you pouted at his words, gulping a thick bile down your parched throat. Your lips were so dry. “Mr. Octs looks quite cozy tucked in between your pretty little thighs” it didn't matter what you looked like, he had a way of always making you feel like the smallest most precious thing alive. 

“But Daddy!” Your protest transformed into a moan midway.

The soldier exhaled a white cloud of eye watering smoke, his eyes squinting as he did so. “Aw,” he chuckled, leaning forward to finger your hair away so he could look at you better. “But what, precious?” His eyes darkly flickered down to your flushed lips and he connected the poisonous stick to his lips again, its lit end glowing a bright amber as he did so. 

“W- Want you!” You were dangerously close but it wasn't enough. “Want you o- only!” You needed him most, always. 

“You do?” He feigned surprise as his voice strained due to how he pushed the cloudy venom into his lungs.

“Yes!” You couldn't believe it. You were doing a hell of a job at showing him what he appeared to be dubious about. He was too mean. But that was exactly what you loved so much about him; the perfect mix of strict and soft.

John shrugged. “I don't believe you.” 

Your eyes widened. “Please!” Your voice became a little too agitated and the man looked at you a bit dangerous now. 

One of his eyebrows raised. “Please… what?” 

Your pussy clenched. God. He was too much. Your chest that spilled over the neckline because of how he had pulled your dress down ached from how it was heaving. “Please, D- Daddy…” A satisfied half smile quirked one side of his mouth up. “Please, n- need you…”

“Yeah?” He cupped one side of your face and collected the half tear that threatened to trickle down your face. 

It was a sign. You must show him. Daddy needed to be earned.

So you obediently wrapped your lips around the thumb he pushed in your mouth after tracing its shape with his rough thumb pad, exhaling through his nose as his eyes squinted again and the sight made you moan. You felt your cheeks hollow as your lips made an embarrassingly loud squeaking sound but you were way too far gone. 

“Oh, baby” John chuckled as he looked down at how you were animalistically grinding against the plushie. Your knees were getting tired and you were desperate. You needed him to lay you down or bend you over or put you on your side and take you until you were full and sore from his girth. “You are drowning Mr. Octs down there” his dirty words both added to the heat in your cheeks and between your legs. You moaned out loud and your eyes rolled to the back of your head. 

“Pweeee—” you tried to plead but his thumb alone was too much for you. You were just a little girl after all. You gagged. 

“Is that how you'll suck me dry, baby? You will be good like that for me?” He watched your glittery lip gloss coat his digit as he took a small suck of his dying cigarette. You hoped with everything you had for him not to light a new one. You eagerly nodded. “Gonna be good for your Daddy?” You meweled out a yes, feeling a cold droplet of sweat trickle down the side of your face.

“Mmm” he snuffed out the cigarette in the glittery ashtray that you had bought for him in secret and hid in your boyfriend's presence -since he didn't smoke and neither did you- like your life depended on it. “And how would you like Daddy to be good to you?” The remainder of the smoke escaped his mouth as he spoke.

“Nnng” John pumped his thumb in and out of your lips now. You settled the plushie in a slightly different position so you could free one hand. “Dada~” you lisped out through his digit as you cupped your pussy before moving to your ass and squeezing it before giving yourself a light spank, the twinge of pain bringing you to your orgasm and you threw your head back, feeling your thighs violently shake as you rubbed your cunt hot on Mr. Octs' belly, feeling your insides boil over with the sweet turbulent pleasure.

“Good girl,” the Captain praised as he unplugged your mouth to shrug his flannel off. “You did such a good job for Daddy” your hands desperately darted to your boobs as you squeezed them and pinched the nipples to show him how you wanted them to be treated. Although you knew right then that John would do better and more. He always did. It was the reason why you betrayed your loving boyfriend the way you did. “Now lay back for Daddy and let him take care of you.”

You obeyed but your mouth began to run from the sensitivity and need. “I— Daddy— I—”

“Hey,” the old(er) man pushed you further down with one of your boobs and then crawled over you like a vulture. “Shut up” he softened the blow of his words with a soft kiss, making your upper lip tickled with his bushy mustache. “I got this” he knew you had nothing valuable to say. Your mind just ran too fast sometimes. Fortunately, you had your boyfriend's dad to take the weight off your shoulders. “I got you.” 

. . . 

I appreciate feedback, reblogs and thots. Let's cry about our Daddy together <3 

[chamomiletealeaf]

Thinking ab Price fucking you after seeing you so upset from a really bad day to help cheer you up. You’re on your back as he’s fucking you so good that your eyes are unfocused, you’re panting, and have a big dumb smile plastered across your face, which was his final goal, other than making you cum so hard you forget your name.

“Yeah that’s right lovey dovey.” He coos. “Smile for me baby. Lemme see how happy this cock makes you hm?”

He’d smile himself, proud with the way he has you dumb on his dick, happy that his pretty girl is happy again.

“Aww see baby?” He coos at you again. “All you needed was a nice thick cock.”

[duck-a-doodle]

COD IMAGINES

TACTICAL BUDDLE BUG 4/4

Chapters 1 / 2 / 3 / 4

TF141!reader x 141

WARNING: Angst, Death, Comfort

A/N: I could not think of any other way for Ghost to accept your hug. I apologise for the trauma in advance. :'-)

Masterlist

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The most serious member of the 141 is secretly a very affectionate person.

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The mission was rough, one that pulled you under and dragged your bloodied knees through dirt and gravel.

It was a ground search and rescue operation which lasted for weeks on end, and one which tested the limits of the human body, bending your sanity to the brink of a clean snap.

The streets were coloured in violence, and the grounds were a tangle of rubble, vehicle parts and severed bodies.

Wherever you stepped, there would lay a limb or a head, of which you could no longer tell if they belonged to an enemy or hostage. It no longer mattered, not when your boots must travel the roads of a thousand stripped souls.

You saved several hostages from the scene, but there was one that you know would haunt you til the end of your days.

It was a little girl. Small, young, with her favourite doll that was caked with remnants of dirt and coagulated blood, the latter of which should never have made its mark upon such a pure soul.

You had to coax her to climb down from the roof, to bring her to safety, and you had failed to realise that you were not the only one to notice the child.

A bullet tore through her chest, and another through her side, bringing her down from the roof, soft and limp into your arms.

Not every hostage can be saved. Not every enemy will be found. Ghost, who buried the young girl you in the aftermath, had watched you ruin every unfriendly sight with a fury unmatched.

He witnessed the angry flames that swallowed up every dead man as you pulled them straight down to hell with you.

Your body had moved blindly when you heard the roaring sound of your captain's orders to return to the plane.

Gaz was adjacent to you, resting quietly while Johnny sat on your other side, watching you carefully; you refused to look at him, knowing that his eyes would look right through you.

The captain said nothing, and Ghost, who propped himself opposite to where you were, was unreadable.

There was no banter, no questions, and only a silent prayer remained.

You cannot remember whose hands have rested on your arms or shoulders in an attempt to calm you; all you recall was the chill and bile that rised from within you. You could not remember the debriefing that felt like seconds but passed like hours.

You could not remember how you got back. Not how you got into your fresh clothes, not how your wounds — once bloody and inflamed — were now patched, and not how you found yourself standing at Ghost's door, waiting.

Why were you there? What were you waiting for? And as soon as the question arose, the answer made itself clear; because of all people, he would know.

As if sensing a presence, the room opened with a click, and Ghost appeared in the doorway, taking a moment to register your presence. He moved to one side. Stepping in silently, the door closed shut behind you, enclosing you in a box of white noise.

He stood before you, saying nothing. He did not need to say anything. In fact, he need not even ask. He simply knew.

"You did what you could."

The reality of his words were a dagger to your beating chest. You lived. You lived, and you were grateful. But you lived at a cost, with the price of blood on your hands.

You took one step. Then another. And Ghost, who did not anticipate what you were about to do, stilled as you wrapped your arms around him, holding him tight.

Fingers tangled tight into the fabric of his shirt, and you press your face deep into his body, seeking — begging — for a reprieve. The darkness was a comfort. He was a comfort.

For once, you want to feel a life that you can hold in your hands, that will not disappear under your touch, that is living and breathing. To hear the heartbeat of a soul, to get rid of the memory of cold, colourless skin that rest unmoving against your arms.

"Breathe, cub."

You could not move. You did not want to move. You cannot bear to move. Not an inch, not away from him who you knew understood better than anybody. His hands were placed on your back. Warm. Alive.

There were no use for words as both of you held each other in silence, resting in the comfort of a feeling near-forgotten.

That was your last memory of that night before you knocked out cold, and in your sleep you dreamt of a hand that wiped the warm corners of your eyes, rough yet gentle.

Unbeknownst to you, a storm in Ghost had calmed when you chose him of all people to seek comfort in, and silently grateful he was for the team to have a most sensitive heart on board.

You were the most affectionate person of the 141, and you cared and loved unconditionally. Those qualities made you the most lethal one of them all, for despite any rankings or titles, you commandeered them all with a piece of your heart — and the day your heart dies is the day they raise hell in your name.

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FOOTNOTE(S):

Ghost likely has only hugged the captain once or twice and Johnny, several times but not of his own volition.

Your heart reminds him of his better days with his brother Tommy and it makes him want to punch you (cuteness aggression), but he will take that knowledge to his grave.

[lyeofhell]

╰┈ .𖥔 ݁ ˖ MDNI/18+ ONLY, f!curvy!reader x nikprice

oh to be the plump little treat devoured by nik and price. sandwiched between two bulky, beefy, bears of men. kept warm by their burly chests, both their bodies pressed into your sides. their whiskers tickle your cheeks and ears, murmuring accented praise through kisses and long drags of cigars. all while thick, corded arms wrap around you from all angles, eager hands searching, squeezing -- savoring how deliciously ripe your plush thighs are...and then your tummy, your tits, your ass...

it's so hard to focus :( smoke utterly hazes the room, that spicy, oaky smell so heady it slows your breath. and when he deems you relaxed enough, price gently grabs you by the chin and kisses you deep, tonguing you into subservience and exhaling into your mouth while nik sucks at the side of your throat. ugh their musk, their whiskeyed breaths that they pant and grunt against your skin as they use you at the same time...oh you're sure to reek of them by the end of this.

[spurbleu]

oldman!price x reader angsty (?) drabble

‧︎✳︎༚︎‧︎⁎︎°︎

age leaves john price in tantrum.

he despises what it’s done to his body. the creak in his knees when he walks, the strain in his shoulder when he reaches across the table. steam engine, ironclad and coal hot, neglected the rust on the belly of its stirrups. adopted a sudden fragility he cannot stand.

takes a literal force of nature to get him to retire, and he grieves it like a father. it, in all honesty, was one. taught him how to shoot straight, how to hold his men, how to be without feeling like he’s an imposter in his own skin. forced him to grow up- which is ironically exactly what ended their alliance.

nursed whiskeys, fattened ice kissing the base. smoked like somehow- fossilized in ligero- he’d find his youth again. blistered under reluctant mortality, indulged in fatal vices because if anything is putting him in the grave it’s a gun or a cigar.

a pot never boils watched, yet you stay at your designated post by the doorway while he broods (he’s a dramatic at heart), storm clouds stamped on the collapse of his shoulders.

if you were one of his soldiers, you let him fester.

but you were his wife.

it wasn’t like you hadn’t aged yourself, silver linings sprouting from your scalp, sun spots and bleached knuckles. even so, you found time to pick up his medications, comb through amateur food blogs for gut health and bone pain, roll the aches out of his shoulder before bed. you were kind- and it was insulting.

spitfire catching on the burs of his muttonchops- unfamiliar with dependence. he was a captain for Christ’s sake- alloy lighthouse, built by cement and sheer fucking will. he didn’t need to be hand fed vitamin C and dragged to yoga class. he pitched barbed wire, dug his shallow trench and intended lay in it.

until, one evening, thunder strikes him out of dewy acrimony. he clambers up the stairs, musk of tobacco and spite plants a grimy boot in the oak. he glances over the railing, and stills.

bathroom door, cutting swaddled atmosphere with thin bisque, a pyramid down the center of the hall that created the illusion of darker corners. centered in the odd, domestic scaffolding was you- shower damp and concentrated.

it was like watching a bird preen feathers. tugging at the sags, yanking at the silvers, skin pitching at the nostril and eyes narrowing into thin keyways. and if he squinted, sniper accuracy rendered tears. sallow river bed on your flushed cheeks, clumped lashes, a frown that broke hearts.

“you’re never struggling alone, John,” you had said one evening, when he had been foolishly apathetic, “i’ll make sure of that.”

he hadn’t said anything.

guilt squirms at the base of his neck. the stranger named comfort that swelled within your embrace unnerved him so much he had forgotten to introduce himself. and now, milking moonlit lighting, with a wife who thought he was hiding from her, he called himself what he had never been as a soldier.

a coward.

you were making tea the next morning, windows surrendering a warmth when the day was still docile. it was while you were humming that your husband, sneaky bastard, folds you into the plush of his chest, drowsy lips dragging on the cusp of your shoulder.

“you always look so beautiful in the mornin, darlin.”

and it was true. you’ve never looked better to the old man.

[woods-and-adlers-left-hand-dude]

Whenever I read a fic that's like "he/she was bent over the table" this is all I have in my head

(it's weaver)

[sapchat]

141 head cannon based off irl story

So my brother-in-law’s brother was telling us how he met his current wife, (he’d been married 10 years then she cheated and they divorced.) they’d been coworkers and had hung out outside of work with others and stuff. Well one day he was like “hey a group of us are going to ‘local pizza place’ after work, wanna come?” And she was like “yeah sure I’ll see y’all there!”

Guys she got there and it was just him. Was a complete set up and he was just chilling. But she was like “eh whatever let’s eat”

He moved in with her 2 weeks later and they’re married with 2 kids.

It’s 141 coded. You can’t tell me that Soap wouldn’t be like “hey lass me and the boys are going to the pub later, wanna join?” And showing up to Johnny just sat at a table like ‘😄’

Gaz is a little more subtle… he invites you out but when you show up and no one else is there he’s just like “☹️ they ended up not being able to make it…” ‘😏’.

Price is also a little more subtle, he’s all “hey we’re gonna try and go try this place! I’ll even drive you!” Just for people to slowly start dropping out/getting called back to base until it’s just you two.

Simon honestly probably doesn’t even give it 2 weeks until moving in. He’s probably putting his socks in your dresser that night. He isn’t subtle about the invite either, “going to the pub later, wanna come?” Not his fault you just assumed the others were coming too…

[peachetteprice]

John Price, who - on your eighth date together; yes, eighth - dons himself in lavender oil in an attempt to smell like something a woman would feel at peace to be around, for fear that, when he tells you of what he does, who he is, you might wish to run for the hills, but it's okay if you do; it's okay if you don't want to want him after that fact, and it's okay if you leave him now and don't look back - he won't hold it against you.

John, who - for the first time in a long time - permentantly turns red in the face from embarrassment as you crinkle your nose, laugh a little, lean across the table, and ask;

"Is - is that lavender I can smell, John?"

And whose worry dims as you take more notice in the fact that he smells like your grandmother's back garden than the fact that he's just told you that he kills people for his monthly wages.

And, when you probe about whether it's his shampoo or a bottle of perfume from the women's aisle in Sainsbury's - it's a beard oil, in case you wanted to kiss him that night, but you don't learn that until years down the line - he has the slightest inkling, but doesn't want to undo all of his effort and believe in it so much that he gets himself too indulged by the mere thought of you;

That you might just be the one.

| Masterlist |