#her and john are so sweet 🥹 | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

cordeliawhohung · 9 months

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¡Hola! Disculpa si el mensaje es en español pero no sé como expresarme en inglés sin que parezca un curso de idiomas en nivel 1 🤡. Estoy aquí para decirte que, amo absolutamente tu AU!Mafia y ha sido de las joyas que he encontrado en este lugar. ✨ *escala las paredes y patalea en la cama*

¿Podrías darnos más de John Price x Reader? Algo como una escena de celos y posesión, pero esta vez por parte de Reader donde una mujer intenta coquetearle a su hombre y todo se pone MUY INTENSO *menea las cejas y se frota las manos*

Si no es mucho pedir, me encantaría algo de smut. Pleaseeee 🥹❤️🙏🏻

rough english translation: Hello! Sorry the message is in Spanish but I don't know how to express myself in English without it sounding like a level 1 language course 🤡. I'm here to tell you that, I absolutely love your AU!Mafia and it has been one of the gems I have found here. ✨ *climbs the walls and kicks on the bed* Could you give us more of John Price x Reader? Something like a scene of jealousy and possession, but this time by Reader where a woman tries to flirt with her man and everything gets VERY INTENSE *wiggles eyebrows and rubs hands* If it's not too much to ask, I'd love some smut. Pleaseeee ❤️🙏🏻

sorry this took so long to get out! i once again went overboard. also, never apologize for language barriers!!! and sorry this turned out to be mostly smut... i still hope you enjoy!

mafia!141 masterlist

warnings: jealous wife!reader, fem!reader, alcohol and slight intoxication, porn with little plot, some more possessive sex, oral f!recieving, fingering, p in v sex, creampie, kitchen sex, i think that's about it? 2.8k word count because i'm a freak.

It started with dinner. High profile leaders from several crime syndicates, including your husband John Price, would periodically take turns hosting lavish meals for one another in the name of good business. People would invite their partners and members of the mafia family to these events to mingle and on occasion settle disputes. Of course your husband brought you along, as he would never pass up an opportunity to show you off. The two of you were dressed to the nines in a sharp suit and a beautiful silky dress. Delicious food and appetizers had your stomachs full in no time, and a bubbling heat fizzed along your skin from all the wine you had consumed that night.

Everything went well until suddenly it didn’t. Some pretty thing in a short dress kept batting her eyelashes at John every chance she got. Which was fine. It was only natural for people to window shop. But then her fingers would graze his arm, and her laughter would ring too sweetly at any comment he made. Her voice was saccharine and she was young, much younger than you, and your blood boiled with every sickly sweet comment, laugh, and glance she threw your husband's way.

The ride home was bitterly silent save for the dull rumble of the car's engine and whatever radio station John had droning through the speakers. A hazy drunkenness clouded your thoughts and an all consuming frustration and sour jealousy filled the area in your stomach that the alcohol couldn’t. Whatever conversation John attempted to start was quickly shut down by you with short answers or cutting silence, something that had him heavily sighing as he pulled into the driveway of your home.

It wasn’t until the two of you made it through the entrance that John really attempted to figure out what was wrong. You stormed through the kitchen in search of something to drink when he wrapped a hand around your waist. It took everything in you not to swat him away.

“Everythin’ alright, Darling?” he asked.

You hated how he looked at you with such concern and adoration. There was just something so frustrating about the dark blue of his eyes and the warmth of his body against yours. Maybe you were just angry with his blatant ignorance of the situation.

“I’m fine,” you replied sharply.

By some miracle you were able to slip out of John’s grasp, but it wasn’t long before his hands were on you again. Redirecting you like some wild dog, he moved you so that your lower back was pressed against the island counter and you tried your best to avoid his gaze despite the fact he stood right in front of you with his hands resting at your hips, trapping you. The scent of his cologne was almost more intoxicating than the wine in your system, and you felt your teeth dig into your cheek in an attempt to keep yourself grounded.

“You’re not,” he countered with slight humor in his tone. “I’m not lettin’ you go to bed angry at me.”

“Who said I was angry at you?” you retorted.

“If you were angry about anythin’ else you’d be talking my ear off about it by now.”

It shouldn’t have surprised you that he was able to read you that well. The two of you had been married for a few years, and known each other longer, after all. Still, he wasn’t able to read you well enough to figure out what had bothered you to begin with. So you tilted your head as you stared up at him, and though you crossed your arms in an attempt to get some space from him, he didn’t budge much from his position.

“That girl at Shepherd’s dinner,” you said with a tight jaw.

“What girl?” he asked.

His question was so blatantly ignorant you nearly laughed. Instead, you rolled your eyes and let out a strong huff before turning your searing gaze back to him. “What girl… the one who was practically throwing herself at you! There’s no way you could tell me you didn’t notice her.”

There was a slight pause after your explanation, and it made you realize that he truly didn’t know what you were talking about. All you received from him were tense eyebrows and twitching lips. It was difficult to tell if that made you feel better or worse about the situation, but you still weren’t exactly thrilled with your husband at that moment.

“You’ve got to be joking,” you grumbled.

“I’m sorry, love, I really didn’t notice,” he said. His thumbs began to gently caress your hips through the silky fabric of your dress, and you tried to ignore the tingling sensation he caused by shifting your crossed arms.

“Seriously?” you retorted. “Oh, Mr. Price, you’re so funny! All while she’s trying to rip your arm off she’s hanging off of it so bad.”

“I didn’t notice,” he said again, voice dropping low as he leaned closer. “Why would I notice her when I’m too busy looking at you?”

Something pulled in you at that comment, and you swallowed down the dry aftertaste of wine that lingered in your mouth. John’s lips parted slightly as he leaned forward, and though the jealousy in you told you to tell him no, you stayed still as he pressed a soft kiss to your forehead.

“Been lookin’ at you the whole night; couldn’t wait until we got home,” he mumbled into the crown of your head. His hands began to wander while he spoke, fingers digging into the flesh of your hips and then your thighs. “You know you’re all mine, right? You’re all mine and I’m all yours. Do you need me to remind you?”

As John spoke, you realized he slowly got lower and lower until his knees were on the kitchen floor. Kneeling in front of you, his hands rubbed at your ankles as they dived underneath the skirt of your dress. He began to bunch the fabric up as his hands slid along your legs, exposing your skin inch by inch. It was a miracle steam didn’t pour from your body due to how warm you felt, and you found yourself gripping the edge of the island counter as the lacy fabric of your panties became exposed.

“What are you doing?” you asked as you tried to keep the tension in your voice at bay.

“Reminding you who I belong to.”

A squeak nearly escaped your throat as John slipped his arm underneath one of your legs and tossed it over his shoulder. If it wasn’t for the counter at your lower back, you certainly would have fallen, but he held you firmly in place as his fingers pulled the fabric of your panties aside, exposing your heat to him. He groaned at the sight of you as he pushed the skirt of your dress further up, displaying the soft skin of your lower stomach.

“John,” you breathed. Your grip on the counter became more firm as he planted a chaste kiss against your cunt.

“That’s right,” he said, cooing against your slick skin, “only you get to say my name like that, darling.”

He didn’t waste anymore time before his tongue began to lap at you, and he was so wet and molten hot against you, you weren’t sure how you still stood. Unforgiving, his mouth latched onto your clit and he held you in place while his tongue ravaged you, drawing breathless moans from your mouth. It was such strong and sudden stimulation that your legs began to tremble in his grasp, but John refused to let you fall.

Just as the pressure on your clit seemed to be overwhelming, his tongue slipped closer to your center before diving into your heat. Groaning at the taste of you, he shallowly fucked you with his tongue for a few thrusts before sliding back to those fizzling nerves. Eventually your hips began to rock in time with the way his tongue moved against you and one of your hands tangled in his hair for better leverage.

Despite the pressure and the friction, it still wasn’t enough. There was this terrible ache that left your cunt fluttering around nothing, begging to be filled. Biting into your bottom lip, you gently tugged on John’s hair in an attempt to get him to look up at you.

“John I- fuck, I need more,” you said in a near whimper.

His mouth moved off of your clit with a wet smack, and he stared up at you with heavy lidded and drunken eyes. A glistening sheen coated his lips and wetted the hair of his beard, and though his mouth wasn’t pleasuring you, his fingers took its place. At first he started with gentle little circles around your clit before grazing along your slit until he reached the depth of your heat. He slowly pressed two fingers into your pussy, but only reached the second knuckle before he paused.

“Tell me what you want,” he urged while he curled his fingers inside of you. “Say it. Anything; I’ll give it to you.”

His fingers moved with practiced accuracy as they rubbed against that cushiony spot that had your heel digging into his back. In a way, it felt a little cruel, as if he was trying to steal your words away from you on purpose. Instead, your grip on his hair only grew more firm as your hips began to squirm in his grasp.

“Fuck me. Properly,” you said, your tone somewhere between an order and a plea.

For the first time that night, a proper smirk formed on John’s lips. As he rose to his feet, he knocked your leg off of his shoulder and his fingers buried deeper into your cunt which had your hands pulling at his dress shirt. He continued to pump his fingers in you as his still moist lips brushed against yours.

“Here?” he asked.

“I don’t care,” you whined, nails nearly tearing through his shirt.

The sudden absence of his fingers left your mind reeling, but you were finally able to catch your breath after such a long period of pleasurable torture. His hands gripped your hips and quickly spun you around so that you were faced away from him. Bracing your hands against the counter, you yelped slightly as John pushed you forward, forcing you to bend at the waist until your chest pressed against the cool granite.

“John!” you exclaimed as he began to hike the skirt of your dress up once more.

“You told me to fuck you properly,” he said as he yanked your panties down. They fell over the curve of your ass and the swell of your thighs until they laid in a wet mess at your ankles. “I don’t plan to disappoint, love.”

Remaining bent over the counter, you listened to the familiar metallic clink of John’s belt coming undone, quickly followed by the unzipping of his pants. It wasn’t long before the head of his cock tapped against your ass which sent your cunt clenching around nothing.

“I’m all yours, darling. Only yours. Tell me you understand,” he said, voice low and deep in his throat.

Just as you opened your mouth to answer him, you felt him prod at your entrance, greedily rubbing along your slit in an attempt to drench himself in your arousal. Swallowing, you shifted on your feet slightly.

“You’re mine,” you spoke, body tensing from anticipation.

“That’s fuckin’ right.”

Without further warning, John slid into you, filling you to the very brim with a single thrust. Your hands clenched into fists, and with no bed sheets to grab, you hit the counter in front of you as your forehead came into contact with the cool surface. He gave you very little time to adjust before he pumped in and out of you, hips slapping against your ass with obscene sounds. Your strained moans only added to the symphony; beautiful legato mewls as you attempted to grab onto anything that you could while John punctuated each thrust with sharp, staccato grunts.

Already sensitive from his tongue and his fingers, taking his cock so full and suddenly nearly sent you over the edge. A blistering heat prickled across your body, causing sweat to bead along your skin as if the universe attempted to adorn you with rhinestones. John’s hands turned into fists as he gripped the skirt of your dress, keeping it out of his way and using it as leverage to pound into you with little remorse.

“Jealous thing, aren’t you?” he said through a strained grunt. “Thinkin’ I’ve got eyes for anyone other than you? No, quite the opposite, isn’t it? Why would I ever dream of that silly girl at the dinner party when I’ve got my pretty wife bent over the kitchen counter for me, hm?”

You tried to come up with a response, but each thrust tore the breath out of your chest. He continually hit so deep, stretched and molded you to his form, that it was impossible to focus on anything else. Judging by the way he continued his rambling, he didn’t seem to mind your strained moans being your only answer to him.

“No, darling, I’m all yours, always will be. C’mon, say it. Wanna hear it from that sweet mouth of yours,” he prompted.

It was like he had hard reset your brain. Every time you tried to open your mouth to answer him, nothing but a squeak came out. John’s hand snaked around the front of your hips, and while he continued to thrust his fingers lazily played with your clit. Not enough to get you off, but certainly enough to grab your attention.

“Say it, love. I can feel how close you are. Say it and I’ll give you what you want.”

He was close too, you could tell by the guttural strain in his voice alone. Pressing your forehead harder into the countertop, you squeezed your eyes shut as you finally willed your voice to cooperate.

“You’re mine! All fucking mine, please John, need it so bad,” you babbled half-coherently.

No longer teasing you, the pressure of John’s fingers on your clit was purely intentional. Swirling, twisting, searing; your orgasm sucked all the air from your lungs until you were reduced to nothing but a writhing mess on the countertop below him. His torso collapsed onto you at the sensation of your cunt attempting to milk him dry, and his teeth nipped at the tip of your ear as he clumsily chased his own high. Once the pressure of overstimulation had built so high that it was almost uncomfortable, John suddenly stilled inside of you, pressing himself up against the stiff curve of your cervix as his cock pulsed inside of you. His grunts softened to heavy panting as he kept himself there, torso pinning you to the counter as he pressed wet and messy kisses to the side of your head.

The two of you stayed like that for quite some time, but eventually your hips began to ache, and your lungs burned from the added pressure of your husband attempting to crush you with his affection. John slid out of you with a heavy sigh before he assisted you in standing up straight where he let the skirt of your dress flow naturally around your legs before he pulled your back into his chest once more. Content, you leaned your head against him as you tried to ignore the shaking in your knees. But John refused to let you stumble or fall as he kept his arms wrapped securely around your middle while continuing to press kiss after kiss to the side of your head.

“I love you,” he murmured. “There’s no one I want in this world besides you. I’m sorry about tonight. I’ll pay better attention next time.”

Still trying to catch your breath, you reached a hand up over your head until you caught the back of John’s neck in your palm. A fine layer of sweat had built up there. You couldn’t imagine how warm he must have felt in his suit.

“I suppose I can forgive you,” you teased.

The two of you stayed like that for some time, mumbling sweet nothings to one another, until the exhaustion from the night's events settled deep into your bones. The shower you took together after that washed away any lingering frustration, and the bed seemed twice as warm that night as you were wrapped in his arms. As sleep began to pull at your eyes, all your brain could think about was him, your husband, John Price, and how he was all yours and no one else’s.

sorry the ending is trash i didn't know how to wrap it up ):

#mafia!price #mafia!141 #john price smut #john price x reader #captain john price x reader #captain price x reader #captain price smut #captain john price smut

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kneelingshadowsalome · 1 year

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I have an odd request… perhaps a captain price fic where the reader is much younger and edgy- likeee covered in tats and stuff,, and price isn’t rly used to that but finds it hot as hell… idk maybe they work together ?? Smut ensues …

IDK I have tatts and wonder what he’d think of that 👹👹

Just an idea 💡❤️😫

Fire it Up (John Price x F!Reader)

Word count: 7.8 k

Tags/warnings: Smut 🔞 mutual pining, flirting, swearing, older man/younger woman dynamic, forbidden love, smoking & drinking, voice kink, a tiny brat taming kink squeezed itself in here too. Reader has tattoos and works as a coder at the base. Rough ~10yrs age gap described, reader is of age I hope to god it goes without saying (Price is canonically 37) Also: no use of 'daddy' in this fic

A/N: I'm so glad for this request anon and I hope you like what I made! Also people please be gentle, this is my first Price fic 🥹 God I wish I could attach the fat scent of cigar here to give you the full experience.

You don't know what caught your attention first.

The cigar, perhaps. Or the beard? Might be his hips, the ass that tells you this man can fuck a woman for hours.

Or maybe it's the fact that he's too old for you.

No, not too old…

Just older than you. A decade, perhaps, if you were being gentle with him and lenient with yourself.

He certainly isn't old enough to be your father, but he wasn't the type of man your eyes usually drifted on either.

He looks like someone who's supposed to be fishing in Alaska, sucking that fat cigar while taking in the view of mountains while trying to catch wild fish in some wide, free stream.

He's supposed to come home to a remote cabin: to his little wife who pours him a scotch after he has shown her what he caught today. Make sweet love to her while stars shoot and speckle the indigo night.

He looks like someone who makes love to women.

You, on the other hand, want to ride with him to the sunset on the back of a Harley, clutch his jacket as he drives you to some bizarre highway motel. You want to watch him drink that scotch from your navel.

You'd do all kinds of crazy shit with him, keep his head between your legs with both hands, grind all over that mustache, and see how wet it gets. You want him to pound you with those narrow hips, take you from behind while you look back with parted, swollen lips and relish the sight of what must be a grown man's hardened body, covered with hair and scars and–

"The bug's still there."

You return to reality, look at the code on your screen, and then at your colleague, a 20-something bloke who looks at you with the lethargic stare that only belongs to techies. You've just been caught daydreaming your eyes off in the middle of a lazy afternoon. Coffee doesn't do shit after 2 PM…

"Yeah I know. I'm working on it," you say. But when the dude leaves, you decide it's time for a creative break. You tell yourself it's only because the code jumps on the screen, not because you hope to catch a certain someone smoking outside.

The leather jacket is a little too much these days, but you throw it on out of pure habit. You realize the weight of your mistake when you go outside from the ventilated building and notice the sweltering heat. Spring has finally turned into summer.

Coffee doesn’t do shit, but it’s time for another kind of wakey-wakey. And butterflies are a funny term for something that mainly feels like it’s eating your insides out of pure excitement.

Because he's here too.

Jonathan Price, although no one calls him Jonathan. Few call him John, either.

Mostly, he goes by the title Captain.

He's stressed; you can tell. But his eyes soften immediately when they fall on you, a brief look to the side, just to know who else comes out to have a breath of fresh air or a smoke. He looks like he's been expecting you, but that might only be a silly girl's daydream. You two share a vice, and you've never been more grateful for your bad habit before this place and him.

And you wouldn't call it necessarily a bad habit. It's simply stress relief if you do it once or twice every few weeks. It's not like you smoke two packs a day. It's not like you even smoke one cig per day.

Although ever since you started this odd little job in this odd little place, you've smoked one or two nearly every day… And it's not because of the stress.

It's because of Price.

John. You’d like to see his reaction to you moaning that word in his ear…

"How long have you been here?"

His eyes are still on you, mouth covered by a hand as he makes love to his cigar. And that bedroom voice always gets you. It's better than the upcoming slow drag of nicotine. You're not here for tobacco at all.

"Two weeks." You reach for your excuse and try to prevent your hands from trembling as you light the cig. Usually, you're not this shy with people. Not with men, anyway. But with him, your wits and words disappear.

You blow the smoke through the air with a quick, lively wisp where he lets it roll out his tongue in a heavy cloud. He's still watching you as if to weigh what kind of woman you are exactly.

"How about you?" You continue the small talk with nervous ease.

He chuckles; the little smile even shows a flash of teeth as he steals a look at the clouds, calculating years with those surprisingly lively eyebrows curled up toward the sky.

"Ages."

He's not that old. Perhaps well over his thirties, might be knocking his forties. The statement is merely an underline of his stress today. You can only wonder what kind of pressure the captain of Task Force 141 is under when you get sleepless nights from a stupid source code. There are a few wrinkles around his eyes, but they only tell you that this man smiles a lot. He might be the only one in this compound who smiles a lot.

"Have you ever tried a cigar?"

There's a glint in his eyes as he offers the thick roll of tobacco to you. It's suddenly difficult to breathe, difficult to even keep your thoughts together.

"No," you shake your head as if your answer wasn't enough to tell him he's the first person ever to offer you such a thing. Then you realize the word does not precisely deliver your eagerness to try that stout cigar.

"Would love to," you hurry to add with a soft smile. "Can I have a taste?"

He walks to you slowly, and your eyes drop to those hips, which sway like he's purposely trying to seduce you.

Fu–ck…

Then your eyes sink even lower, between his legs, to his fucking junk, and it's too fucking late–

Jesus–get your shit together…

You force your eyes back to his and see the little glimmer in them gain a surprised spark – you're totally caught red-handed on checking him out.

Fuck. How can you be so stu–

"Gently then, kid."

You swallow your heart and thoughts down and take the offered cigar; of course, your first thought is how thick and heavy it is. And somehow, you decide right then and there that you will no longer be the nervous, hot-cheeked woman on the corner.

It's time to make him flustered.

So you take a hollow-cheeked, slow suck on the fat cigar. A chaste, savory taste, more like, but there's nothing chaste in the way you raise your eyes to his, putting every ounce of soft seduction in that stare.

He draws breath slowly – his face is full of expression for an allegedly cold-hearted elite soldier. You don't know how often women flirt with this hunk of a man, but he sure looks taken aback by your sudden play. Probably thinks you're too young for him – and you curse the second time you put that jacket on. You want to see his reaction to your sleeves.

"Mm. It's thicker than I thought," you weigh the cigar between your fingertips and let the smoke roll out your mouth. The man switches his weight from one foot to another, speechless, and you suppress a big beam of a smile.

"The taste," you emphasize as if innocent, as if you didn't see that shocked little shift. "Round, and… god, it's almost sweet."

You smile as you give it back, and he chuffs an approving laugh through his nose – those eyes are bear-warm playful now, his mouth curves into an easy smile.

"Nice," you look him up and down as if you're talking about the man and not the cigar.

"Beats those little sticks."

His voice drops down a few notes; it's almost a husky growl. You barely make out the words he's saying. The tension in the air could form little balls of lightning around you, the flirt is over the roof, and there's even no roof because you're outside – and you take your jacket off, slowly, to make it clear it's summer and not spring.

His eyes fall on the ink immediately, and he blinks a few times, draws some more breath – you tweet your thanks accompanied by another smile and go back inside.

You know he's checking your ass in those black jeans as you walk away.

….....

It doesn't end there.

You see him again and again and again, and at some point you realize he has to walk almost 100 meters from the other end of the base to get to the little corner where the two of you smoke.

He's intrigued but decent. Holds a distance, never says anything that could be taken in the wrong way – or even in the right way. But he's fucking you with his eyes.

No… making love to you.

And it drives you crazy.

You don't want that. You don't need that. To be that little wife in the cabin. Pouring him a drink, climbing in his lap, ghosting a finger down the stubble on his chin, see how wide and proud it makes him smile to hold you like you're his and his alone...

God. When did it come to this?

You suck on his fat cigar every now and then. Look him in the eyes while you do it. Once, it makes his tongue dart out, it wets his bottom lip, and then he does that thing with his mouth... the thing where he kind of purses his lips and it makes the mustache dip, and you realize, you learn it's a sign that he's restless, he's flustered.

You make the big, burly captain of Task Force 141 flustered.

And he doesn't smell like the people inside smell. Of stale coder sweat and Joy Division and soft drinks and mommy's home-cooked meals. He smells of rich forest and fine bourbon and half-burnt gasoline. Maybe Saxon on vinyl. Definitely beats those little sticks that are your nerdy co-workers at the hacker department, as you call it.

He may have a flask somewhere; perhaps he takes a sip or two every now and then, whether at work or not. And you don't blame him. Even with those laugh lines and that brown bear benevolence, you can tell he's seen things.

You wonder what he's like out there in the field. Brutal? Or just efficient?

He never asks about your tattoos, but he eyes them often. There's a certain admiring esteem in his stare. He's checking you out, scratches his chin, and rips his eyes off when they start to drift down. He forces his eyes to stay above your neckline no matter the cost. You mourn that you got rid of the septum a few years ago: you're pretty sure he would've liked that, too. After all, it's a piercing that screams 'warrior' the most. Break after break, you return to your desk, aroused and giddy and surrounded by the rich, masculine aroma of his cigar.

One night, he drives by when you're walking home after what was supposed to be one or two pints.

The car is a big, black pick-up, and when it slows down and starts to inch by your side, your first reaction is a silent curse of why the fuck don't you carry some pepper spray in your pocket.

"Hey, you ok?"

Your head rises from the asphalt the second you recognize that smooth, pleasant voice of a man you had compared every guy to at the pub that evening. The whole man is brimming with burnt sienna, he's hard alcohol with no ice…

You stop and turn, a little wobbly from the pint turned to two or three. Or four.

"Yeah. Had a little girl's night out."

The car rumbles softly, not two meters away, and the sound reminds you of his voice. A soft purr that can turn into a growl, even a roar if he wants to.

He looks like he's going fishing, even without the boonie hat. The dark hair is cut short, so you won't have anything to tug if he ever ends up between your legs. But you don't really mourn that fact, because he looks so damn good.

He looks you up and down, and you notice the briefest blob of his Adam's apple before he gives you another offer.

"Want me to give you a ride?"

Would love a ride.

Would fucking love to ride you.

"Sure. That's kind of you."

Your eyes must be sparkling like the fucking stars.

"No problem at all," he leans his elbow on the open window and waits while you round the car and get in. You try to tone down your drunken state, but your moves are a little too brash for a calm and collected coder lady this man has usually caught leaning against the wall of the workplace you two share.

"Did you have fun?"

He sounds like a dad picking up his girl from a school disco, and you purse your lips in slight distaste and amusement.

"Yeah. You know how it is when someone asks you for a pint."

He gives a short laugh and starts to drive. "That never ends well."

You smile and turn to look at him.

"Mm… This one kinda did."

You enjoy the brief look out the window, the sight of someone so formidable and robust and experienced trying to find his way out by feigning something caught his attention in the black, empty distance of a quiet city.

"Glad I could be of service," he brushes off your flirt like it's nothing more than a speckle of dust on his coat.

The rest of the ride is silent, too silent. He turns the music off in case it "bothers you," and it turns into an awkward, overly polite fight about whether to keep it on or not.

It's a minor shock to notice he was listening to some classical. Not 80's rock, not country, not even BBC. He was just soothing his nerves.

You can't put your finger on what makes you feel so sheepish around this man – usually, you put men on a leash with a few dry jokes and a hearty laugh or two. Now, your flirting is shy and does nothing: there's a wall built up, and from behind that wall, only a few stolen looks…

The pick-up is humming, the engine is running at idle next to your place far too soon, and it's time you get off the car – but you have vehemently decided you will knock down that fucking wall even if you have to drag him to your bed.

"You wanna come up and have a nightcap?"

Another look out the window as he raises his hand over his mouth, fiddles with his mustache, and avoids the rising heat between you two.

"Thanks, kid. But you need to sleep."

Your heart is pumping, and you feel like a harasser as you place your hand on his thigh.

He doesn't move, but you can hear the audible swallow this time. He doesn't move a single finger even when you slide your palm down that leg, then drag it over to the inner thigh, and start to drift back up slowly, slowly, to give him the time and space to stop you before you reach….

….the visible bulge between those legs, the absolutely gorgeous, ample bump pulling at those pants, something so delicious that you must fight tooth and nail not to race your hand up there and give it a fond grope.

His hand falls over yours just before you reach it.

"Kid. Let's leave it here and call it a night."

His voice is strained and tight, and he's still looking out the window. You don't move your hand away because he doesn't move it away. His warmth stays there, keeping you against him, and you feel like shit for thinking it's not a no… That it's a yes when he seems to hold your hand as a prisoner, wanting to feel your dainty little palm against him.

Your fingers curl slightly, a hopeful gesture to imagine how it would feel to curl and claw at his hips and that ass while he's fucking you.

"Listen. You're a nice girl. A very nice–"

You give a heavy, demonstrative sigh and finally draw your hand away.

"Come on Cap… You're seriously going to give me the "you're a nice girl" talk?"

Finally, he turns. His nostrils quiver as he tries to keep his breaths calm. Your lips part like it's a whole caress he just gave you – and his gaze drops to your mouth instantly. You start to see where the problem is.

You're too young.

You're forbidden.

"I offered you a nightcap," you tilt your head slightly. "You can come up or you can go home."

You wet your lips, give the bottom lip a tiny little bite, and offer him the last, inviting, soft smile. It must hold an equal amount of sorrow because you can't drown the bitter feeling of rejection, no matter how many drinks you've had that night. No matter how much he seems to want you, it doesn't change the fact that he's apparently decided to stay strong and keep his hands off the cookie jar.

You turn and get out of the car, lean on the door for the final fucking time...

"Didn't know I'd only get to suck your cigar... You're all smoke and no fire, Price."

The door flies closed with a louder slam than you originally meant.

Now that was a little bit passive-aggressive, you have to admit. But you're drunk, and he's being a pain in the ass, calling you a kid, looking at you like that, having a fucking hard-on and giving you nothing.

…But it does the trick.

You smile like an idiot when you walk to your place and hear the purr of the engine stop. Another car door opens, then closes, wide footsteps follow you…

A nightcap it is, then.

He looks even bigger when inside a place with walls and a roof. He stands inside your apartment tall and wide as if he's waiting to call attention. Those large hands are over his crotch, concealing the swell of erection you already saw in the car.

You know the tank top you wear reveals even more skin covered in tats as you throw your jacket away and go get him that drink. The glasses glide on your table, slide nearly to the floor, and the bottle of Jim Beam meets the counter with a devastating clank. You look at the excuse to get him into your place and sigh.

"You know what… Fuck this."

Offering cheap bourbon to someone like him seems a bit ridiculous. So you offer him something he might actually like. Something he actually came here for.

You walk to him and throw your hands around him – he stiffens from the middle but looks down at you with a heated glimmer in those eyes. You could've sworn they were charred brown, the same color as his cigar, but up close you see they're actually molten iron. Mercurial.

"You sure about this?" He asks softly.

"Why wouldn't I be?"

He unclasps those hands from over his groin, and the warmest weight falls to rest on your waist, even steals a caress to your hip. You want to hurl yourself at him, press yourself against his crotch and grind until you bleed from just that tiny touch he finally gives you.

"You've had one too many, love."

Love…

Shit.

The warmth spreads from his eyes, from that hand, from the word that rolls out of his mouth like a beautiful puff of smoke. It unfurls inside your heart, swells inside your throat, plummets to your groin, and you switch the weight to your other leg to feel how that hand gains more weight as it gets pressed more firmly against you.

"Doesn't change the fact that I want you."

Your voice is nothing short of a purr. When have you ever purred like that to a man? You sound like a housecat, tame and adoring, waiting for a gourmet meal.

"You really want an old man?"

He still has that reserve in his eyes, decent and distant, but underneath, you sense a terrible heat, like the glow of a cigar lit in darkness, an adamant smolder that never dies out.

"You're not that old."

Your purr turns into a deprived meow. You dangle from his neck, and the smoke, the fire that surrounds him, blends into the gentle scent of a man, the musk of a mature beast. You know he's hairy under those clothes; he fucking has to be. The vision of how his cock must look, surrounded by untame, coarse fur, has tormented you night after night.

And now he's finally here. In your apartment.

You skate your hands over his chest while slowly dropping into a squat, then languidly kneeling in front of his crotch.

He doesn't stop you, not even when you open his belt and the zipper and crawl your fingers down the waistband of his underwear. You have to stifle a delighted gasp upon seeing how his cock springs free and stands proud in front of you in all its glory. And fuck yes he's hairy – the hairiest man you've ever had.

Cigars feel like tiny little sticks when you wrap one hand around him and lick the weeping slit like it's your favorite ice cream. The groan that follows is a husky eruption above you and gets stuck in his throat as you take him in your mouth.

"Fucking hell, kid…"

He's thick, broad, and the musk fills your nostrils, but what he just said makes you pull back and whisper on the bulbous tip–

"Don't call me a kid," you breathe on his cock, swirl your tongue around him, and his thighs bunch. "Old man."

You finally manage to push some buttons.

The back of his hand brushes your cheek, then slides over to your throat. He's gentle but firm as he forces a thumb under your chin, curls fingers around your neck as if you're a cat who's about to be force-fed some medicine that's only good for her.

"Is that how you wanna play it?"

His thumb brushes down the ridge of your throat. Tentative, promising.

"Perhaps," your lips quiver with anticipation as you smile; your voice is a pitched vibrato before it drops, just to give him a reason to put you in your place... "Old gum–"

The hand pulls up, the grip tightens just enough to guide you back to your feet and up to meet his face.

"Didn't know you asked me here to tame a brat."

Fuck…

You almost moan.

The hand doesn't choke you; it makes love to you. Claims you as his.

"Really…?" You sigh. Flash him a filthy, guiltless smile.

The fire surges forth and nearly buckles your knees. His eyes flash in rhythm with your grin, like a sudden flicker of a campfire in the middle of a dark, parched forest.

"This what you want? Hmm?"

The rumble reminds you of the engine of a Harley roaring to life. His throat is burned from the fire of his cigars, the hand on your throat is used to squeezing dead metal and pulling pins from frigid grenades. But even they can't stand a chance against his woodland fire and sycamore smoke. He could bring a cold, inanimate rock back to life with all that fire.

"Yes. I want it. John."

His name on your tongue is a cat's meow. It has the exact effect you hoped for.

"Let's get the brat tamed, then."

"Hah," you finally moan. "Promises, prom–"

The fingers around your throat pull you to his mouth with a python strength. His lips spread yours with soft devouring as he coats you in fire. The coarse beard smells of sweet tobacco – nothing like a pungent cigarette. It's like an old memory: safe and sturdy and strong. Male.

You moan in his mouth – god, what will it be like when he's inside you? – and he capes both arms around you and crushes you against him. Broad shoulders envelop you like a shroud of thick smoke, the cock gets trapped between you like a hot spear, and you mewl like a slut.

Your pussy clenches, just from his warm mouth, the rich velvet of his lips. He takes everything with that kiss, and you're weak in his arms as he bends and molds you against him just the way he wants, opens your mouth with his own and breathes you, samples you like those puffs of smoke he sucks from his cigar.

Your brain short-circuits, you barely notice how your top slides up as his hands go under it. It's dragged up, up, over your breasts and then over your head as he detaches just enough to rip that piece of clothing away.

You look at him like he's Christmas, then reach for your bra while he opens his pants more to get them down. Your jeans are accursedly tight, and he's breathless, too: the whole room is dark and filled with heavy breathing and rustle of clothes as you claw your socks off, slide your strings down and away, watch him get out of his shirt and throw it on the floor too, all propriety gone.

And then…

Jesusfuck–

He picks you up, lifts you from the ground like you're nothing but a leaf, and strides with you in his lap until your back meets a wall.

The barrel-like chest presses the air out of your lungs while your back travels up – you don't know if his arms or chest do the lifting, but you're being positioned for his cock to enter. Your hands try to grasp something solid before it's too late – his back and neck – your legs wrap around him, feet hooking over his ass as the thick of his tip pokes your soaked folds, and after a few seconds of probing, slides in.

"F–uck…" you gasp, sounding so needy that it could be a voiceline from a bad porno movie. His lips find the place between your ear and neck immediately.

"Be good for me now," he gruffs, dark and round like the sweetest bourbon, although you know he's the finest single malt in the world. "Be good…"

"Ah–John…"

I'll be good…

Just for you, I'll be so, so good.

He pants heavy on your neck, grunts as he starts to fuck you against that wall. You knew he might be intense, but apparently, you had no idea. The man is needy as fuck, and has concealed it up until this point.

You could cry, scream from joy from the thickness that spreads you, fills you with every fat glide of a thrust. The sex borders on rough but is so incredibly tender too, so needy it makes your heart collapse, compress into a taut knot in your chest. It's the softest rocking, the gentlest fucking as he retreats, then ruts into you again and again with sharp, rusty moans. You're in a slow but steady rodeo with this man, your breasts pressed against a solid chest covered with hair, and it tickles, even if his pecs threaten to crush your ribcage.

"You're one hell of a girl," he gruffs in your ear, beard grazing up and down your neck. "Taking me so– Fucking hell, look at you…"

His eyes are embers as they sweep over you: your abundant ink, the helpless, adoring look in your eyes, the little mouth that opens with a gasp, the trickle of sweat that forms between your breasts and meets the hair on his chest.

He doesn't have to look down to see how greedy your cunt is for him. He can feel it.

"This is what you wanted the whole time? Huh?"

He's all smoke. All fire.

"Yes…"

"Wanted me to take you against a fucking wall? Eh?"

"Yes…just, just take me," you moan and purr some more, giving him everything he wants. "Fuh–fuck me good…"

"Ahh shit..."

You know you're a drug to certain decent men. But to him, you're a forbidden fruit in all its aspects.

A calm, collected captain who enjoys wide respect, eyeing an edgy, younger woman from the tech department? That's not how this was supposed to go. Thirsting for someone who did what they wanted, looked just the way they wanted, walked this earth like a dark fairy – that's not his usual go, surely. He was supposed to settle down with a proper lady. If he were to settle down at all.

"I've dreamed of this," you whisper in his ear, lips moving just enough to deliver your secret to him.

"Yeah..? Me too," he gives your throat more love with a velvet growl. "Know I shouldn't, but–"

"Shh. Don't–don't…" You grip him tighter, taste the spruce and salt as you breathe his neck. "It's good. It's all good."

He rumbles in approval. Your skin is raw from his beard; even the coarse hair dusting his thighs feels too rough on your skin. And your skin is used to being needled, shot full of ink right inside the dermis. But this… This is branding.

You're silk in his rough embrace, and plundered with no remorse. You sigh and moan, hug him... And then he dares to stop, panting and throbbing inside you.

"Darlin'. Where's the bed?"

The soft question makes you panic. If you go to bed and let him push inside you while you're lying on your back, if you brave a look into those eyes while he takes you, you'll develop more than just a horrid lust for this man. If he collapses on top of you, spent and spoiled while you're at your most vulnerable, you'll tie a string from your heart to his, and you can't, you just can't allow that to happen.

Because he's untamed too. He's not a man who settles down, he's not up for domestication; he's a wandering fire.

"No–no bed," you pant on his muscles, the shoulder that keeps you safely pinned on the wall. "John…? Please."

He's breathing wild too, disguises his surprise well.

"Alright."

He sounds disappointed, and it's not because he doesn't have the strength to maul you against that wall. The rejection stings him too. It makes you want to offer a truce, a little something. When he rocks you again, you graze your fingers up the back of his neck, knowing he will feel ripples across his scalp from your caress.

"We can smoke a cigar after," you propose, not knowing why your voice still comes out as an airy whisper. "Together. I'll pour you that drink…"

His chest swells with a deep breath, he huffs fire on the hollow trench between your collarbones.

"Fuck, woman…"

It's dense syrup that surrounds you much like those shoulders and arms, that coarse hair, that bold male want.

"And after that I want you to…" You catch your breath and sound like a mouse with your next shy question. "Would you go down on me, John?"

It's like you're under a bear attack, but he stills; his head tilts a little to the side and meets your temple.

"You wouldn't tease a man like this," he says. A soft warning, brimstone coated in velour, but the core of it is despair. So much need, so much forbidden, distant want…

"Right? No more teasing."

He's still thinking that you're teasing him… That it's some kind of a joke that you want him.

"I'm serious... I want your mouth on me. I need your–"

"I'll put my mouth on you as soon as we're done here, love."

You have to bite your lips, suck them between your teeth to prevent another deprived moan from escaping.

"Want you to fuck me all night," you continue to whisper on his neck. You should shut the fuck up because it doesn't take a bed to tie that string from your heart to his. After all, they're right there, beating against each other through bone and skin and chest.

"Yeah? That's what you want?"

"Want you to… F-fuck me slow and good from behind and–"

You sniff. Whimper.

You should be ashamed: mewling for more when he's already buried inside you. What kind of a brat are you, wrapping your thighs around that narrow waist like you never want him to pull out?

And you're not crying.

It's just that the cock inside you is throbbing against your walls as if he's making a home there, his hands dig into your ass cheeks like you're his already, the breath upon your sweat and skin feels far too affectionate. When exactly did a raw wall-fuck turn into such an affectionate, gentle taste of love?

And it's not enough. You want to climb on top of him every morning, ride him slowly and watch him unravel as the sun climbs the sky and coats that fur in gold.

"Could you do that? Please… John, please," you whimper and whine, beg like you're tame already.

"I'll fuck you all night if that's what you want. Fill this pretty, tight cunt up every way you like."

It's coarse smoke. It caresses you until your legs start to shake. He adjusts his grip, drags the pull-outs like he drags those pulls from his tobacco. Keeps you nicely in place for him to drive back in–

"I'll fuck you 'till you cry, love. Yeah?"

He punctuates that promise with another good, fat thrust. You moan all tame now – a rippling stream, laughing and crying in his molten hold.

His cock fills you while your thighs quiver and tremble in his hands. Your pussy throbs; it sucks him already, the orgasm is seconds away, and your fingertips search for support but only slip over sweaty, hard muscle.

John. John.

"Fuh-…"

He spreads you a little. Those arms are pure iron as they mold you for him to plow. You know he can feel the waves, the way your cunt grips him with longer, deeper pulls as you start to sound downright pathetic.

"Just like that, just like… hah…"

"M-hm. Yeah," he bends the vowels, daubs them with smoke. "That's it. You're doing good. Doing so well my love."

He huffs between the thrusts that have turned into slow, intense love-making. He's making love to you – god, why does he have to be like this…

"Cum for me. Nice and pretty, yeah? Come on."

He encourages you with words, but you can't hear them anymore.

Heat coils in the pit of your core just before you burst with a heady scream.

The spasm is so sudden you almost hit your head on the wall. He's at your throat the minute it's exposed, and your scream turns into a weak wail when his tongue grazes your skin. It's blazing, and dips into the hollow between your collarbones like it's a shot glass full of scotch. Next thing you feel is fire, even some teeth on your neck.

And you thought Price might, just might be intense…

Your head drops as the blunt of the orgasm leaves you. Your feet unclasp, and next up would be some soft waves, but the man continues to fuck your shattered cunt and marshmallow soul with a good, intense pace. The words that pour out of your mouth are those of a brainless person.

"Ah–hah, God–"

"Where's that cheek now, mm..? Pretty little thing."

"John–h…"

The thrusts rub you against that wall like he wants to staple you there.

"So nice and good for me now, ain't ya? Cummin' on command…" An amused chuff right on your poor, chafed skin… "Begging for my mouth and cock."

You travel up and down in a limp heap, trying to hold on to him with weak limbs as he drives into you with a tight series of half-thrusts. Your legs hang loosely on the side, but he has no trouble carrying the full weight of you.

"Slow–slowly, Cap…"

"Ahh fuck–"

He swears on your ink, right on the trotting pulse on your neck. Through the vapor of man sweat and rich smoke and a whiff of cedar trees bending in the wind, you feel him tense and thicken.

"The fucking things you do to me…" he pants with a low growl, hushed but intense. Your pussy answers with a good, demanding pull.

"Fuck… fuck–!"

You're a limp doll between him and the wall when he comes. Pressed between a rock and a hard place, literally. His chest being the rock, an entire boulder that whips the oxygen from your lungs as he drives deep, his balls giving a few taut pulls against your ass as he empties himself into you with a satisfied, dry moan. A dark, ripe blossom, shooting straight to your core while you're sealed tight around him.

The world goes still after that; the only thing that moves is your breath and his, a refreshing hot breeze coursing through the stale air. The darkness of the room isn't half as snug as the safety of his arms.

Your fingers find his neck, the short-cut hair and the skin pounding with a rush of blood. He lets you go reluctantly, bends a little to set your feet back to the solid ground. He doesn't pull out, keeps huffing all over you even when you're returned back to the earth.

And you never want to come back. Your cunt still throbs around him and cries a tiny, thick stream down your thigh. His upper body still pins you against that wall, his breaths still mist your skin, caress the red burns of his beard.

He feels so good. Too good…

When he pulls out, he does so with intense care. He gives you some space to catch your breath, and you finally notice he has fucked your legs into splinters.

"I'm…" You break the hush of heavy breathing with a soft laugh. More viscous load pushes out of you with it. "I don't think I can stand."

"Yeah? Tried to take you to bed," he muses softly, sounding annoyingly content with his achievements.

"Gotta admit it was a good idea."

"As was the nightcap," he rasps, voice drenched in soft smoke.

"We'll get there eventually."

"I have no doubt about that."

You give him a soft, warm chuckle as you cast your eyes between the crest of his pecs. Rough, tight muscle meets your soft breasts with heaving breaths, and teases your nipples to taut little points. The wet hair on his chest looks good paired with your inked, smooth skin… You two look so goddamn fine together.

"I hope I didn't make you deaf with that scream."

He stands at his full height, but tilts his head down and slightly to the side as if you were a new, interesting species he's just found on his travels.

"Wouldn't complain, love," he says. More wet syrup, just for you. He weighs you with his stare, curious and appeased, and you feel shy. For fuck's sake, you still feel shy even though this man was inside you just a moment ago.

"The bed. Now be a good girl and tell me where it is."

"Down the…hallway."

A delicate little whisper, again.

It's laughable, how the veteran of Task Force 141 turns you into something so dainty and meek. Captain John Price takes you against a wall like you're nothing but a doll, makes you purr and beg, reassembles you into a weak-willed woman who gets carried to bed.

This is not how it was supposed to go...

He lifts you back in his lap while you continue to hold onto him like he's your prince Charming. A laugh spills on your lips when he tries to lay you gently on the bed and you manage to pull him down with you. You end up tumbling there in a sweaty, messy heap.

"Knew you were trouble," he's smiling too as he settles beside you. You curl and wrap yourself around him, your bodies mold and curve together like they're made for each other.

He's so solid, so warm, the kind of man you'd love to fall asleep on every night. No more cold sides of the pillow, no more tossing and turning and trying to get the code out of your head. Just… this chest, those ember eyes burning in the night. Some soft breathing, a roaring engine standing still, waiting for you, just for you…

"I hope this wasn't a one time only occasion," you test the waters.

"No." He shifts a little, disentangles from you slightly. "Unless you–"

"No."

You bend in his arms like a young willow, cut his doubts off with a kiss. It's passionate, and so sloppy it threatens to make the same sounds as your cunt and his cock a while ago.

The hand on your hip tows you closer, then steals its way down your leg. You hike your thigh up, perfectly willing. You're a sticky mess, but so is he: his rock-hard thigh meets your still soaked pussy like these two have always belonged together. And this man's full fire has escaped you until now. There are so many hidden, wild things in him too.

He would look so good on a Harley… He would look good on a motel bed after riding for days and days with you attached to him like an eloped dark bride. The nights would be smeared with hot sex and cinder and smoke, a dash of scotch on top, he could drink it from your lips. You would serve it to him from your mouth, round the taste a bit so that it wouldn't burn so much…

"Have you ever been to Alaska?"

The liquor is leaving you, but you don't feel any more sober. The lava in your veins has only been replaced by another kind of fire.

"No."

"Would you like to go?"

"What'ya mean," he murmurs on your tongue, and you know he's hard again just from the thick lust coating his voice. "What kind of question is that?"

"I was just thinking."

"What were you thinkin', kid..?"

"Don't… call me that," you laugh. In truth, you're growing quite fond of it. It reminds you of old movies. "Here's looking at you, kid" and all that.

His laugh is a charred roll in his chest. To him, you're a brat – an unruly kitten – no matter what you say.

"Kid. Why Alaska?"

He's curious. Borderline hooked. You steal a peek into those vulcan eyes.

"You'd look good in Alaska. Old man."

"Really," he rumbles a soft purr against your heart.

Another soft kiss follows. Affectionate… He plays time, but he's also a probing, scanning. You bloom in his embrace, unfurl on his lips like he just wrenched you wide. He could haul you to the cabin right now and you would only cook him dinner.

It's too late, even if you try to shift after such a kiss. Escape to press your cheek against that place between his pecs, the spot where the hair is darkest and thickest. You want to lick that valley where his heart meets his musk. That scent must be born from a good, stout heart.

"Would you take me with you…? If you ever decide to go."

It's a fragile question. A baring of the heart. It holds so much more than an inquiry about whether he would whisk you away on a secret leave. It's strings, pulling from your heart to his, taking root.

"Sure. But you're quite a handful, love."

"Is that so…?"

You crawl over him as gracefully as you can. He allows you to straddle him, and of course he does. You're no threat; you're only a one woman show. The only thing he's probably missing right now is a glass of scotch and a thick roll of tobacco.

He takes in the view with hunger: not satiated by that pent-up fuck, just like you're not...

But then his hands come to rest on your thighs to check if they're still shaking. The touch bleeds possessiveness: it's a thoroughly absent-minded, instinctual attempt to reach for you. It tells you you're exactly where you belong.

"You seem like the kind of woman who's not for the faint of heart," he says like you didn't just mewl in his arms like the tamest fucking housecat.

And perhaps that's what intrigues him. Contrasts. And even more than that, the odd place where black fuses into white, the gray area where everything is possible. The split-second moment when the skin accepts the ink and traps it in.

Everyone always says you get buried with your tattoos. That you should think twice before staining your skin with such permanent hookups.

But the thing is, you get addicted to it. It's like standing on the edge of a cliff before a bungee jump. You know you'll never be the same person after you jump, and you know you can't leave that cliff without jumping. It's a stalemate until you clear your mind of doubt and just plunge.

And you don't want to leave this earth without getting stained and sweaty, without dipping your soul into the full experience. You're supposed to get a little dirty. This is Earth, after all.

Your fingers disappear somewhere in his slick fur. Sunrise is hours away, but his eyes spark aflame. They're always, always smoldering like the butt of his cigar. He's a man who causes wildfires at the end of the world – he's a reckoning, a flicker in the dark forest, roaring into a bonfire as soon as the wind passes through the trees.

And you've always loved fire. Wild, and free. The only thing that competes with such freedom is a wide, wild stream.

"But you can handle me. Right?" Your fingers curl softly around the hair surrounding his navel. "Tame me and everything?"

It's an offering that causes even fire to tilt its head in curiosity. In the end, you're not sure who tamed who.

"Someone has to," he grabs your hips with rich promise.

You'll pour him that drink. Light him a cigar after his mouth is full of your taste, see how well it pairs with fire and smoke. You'll toast to the Harley, the crazy motel…

And Alaska.

#john price x you #john price x reader #john price x female reader #captain price x you #price x reader #captain price smut #captain price x reader #john price smut #john price #mw2 smut #captain john price #john price fanfic #cod fanfic

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babydollmarauders · 9 months

Text

FOREVERMORE — JOHN MARINO

part of the Maraschino Cherry! AU

y/nmercer

liked by john.marino97, nhl, and 5,743 others

y/nmercer sorry daws, i think john’s gift has your stuffed dino present beat

i can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with you, i love you forevermore, my sweet cherry 🤍❤️

tagged john.marino97

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dawson1417 he one upped me!

y/nmercer i think he triple upped you, bubba

dawson1417 that bitch 😒

dawson1417 but fr, i’m happy for you guys! congratulations, bubby ❤️ you’re getting the happily ever after you deserve

y/nmercer DON’T MAKE ME CRY AGAIN, PLEASE! I CAN’T KEEP FIXING MY MAKEUP

john.marino97 so enchanted by the thought of forever with you 🤍

y/nmercer stfu and kiss me before i cry into your pillow and leave mascara on it

john.marino97 why MY pillow?

y/nmercer so that every night you have to sleep with the reminder that you made me cry

john.marino97 GOOD tears! but i’ll always kiss you regardless

user87 did they not JUST start dating?!

y/nmercer we’ve been together for 8 months, known each other for 14! but when you know, you know 🤍

user63 shotgun wedding???

y/nmercer haha no! not pregnant! just hopelessly in love and eternally grateful to be able to marry him!

user90 your love is so pure 🥹

jackhughes WHAT?! WHY DIDN’T I KNOW HE WAS PROPOSING??

naterbastian i did

jackhughes @/john.marino97 YOU TOLD BASS AND NOT ME??

john.marino97 you would’ve let it slip in 0.5 seconds

jackhughes congrats, i guess 😒

y/nmercer thanks, i guess ?

naterbastian congratulations, can’t wait to be the best man!

john.marino97 i hate to be the bearer of bad news, but Paul is gonna be my best man

naterbastian that’s chill, i’ll be the man of honor!

y/nmercer well this is awkward…. dawson will be being my man of honor 🫶🏻

naterbastian damn twins

naterbastian fine, i’ll settle for groomsman

john.marino97 THAT, you can do!

nicohischier congratulations ❤️ wishing you two nothing but happiness

y/nmercer oh buggaboo 🥺 thank you!

njdevils A CHRISTMAS ENGAGEMENT!! WE LOVE TO SEE IT!!

user12 imagine meeting your future husband through your twin brother… brb crying

nhl congratulations to the future Mr. and Mrs. Marino! 💍❤️

user28 a quick engagement…. either she’s a gold digger or she really moves fast

user93 he’s the one who proposed?? also, she wouldn’t need to gold dig, she’s an independent woman with her own job. and even if she wasn’t, it’s pretty obvious she and her brother (who is also in the nhl!) are super close and he would probably be more than happy to pay for everything for her lmao. she and john are obviously just in love and know that they’re it for each other. and for all we know, they could have a long engagement, but even if they eloped tomorrow it would be none of our business

liked by y/nmercer

jesperbratt does this mean i have to call you “little Marino” instead?

y/nmercer well, eventually yes! but not yet!

lhughes_06 MRS. MARASCHINO CHERRY COMING 2k24???

y/nmercer we’re not sure on when yet, but MRS. MARASCHINO CHERRY!!

john.marino97 my future wife 🤍

lhughes_06 @/john.marino97 are you my new dad?

john.marino97 i don’t know how to answer that

y/nmercer yes he is! be kind to him!

john.marino97 so our first child is… a 20 year old that already has parents of his own?

lhughes_06 daddy!

john.marino97 don’t.

#maraschino cherry! au #john marino #john marino x reader #john marino fic #john marino imagine #john marino blurb #nj devils #nhl fic #nhl imagine #faithlynn’s writings <3

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aliaology · 11 months

Note

hi!! could i request a social media au where hughes!sister is a type of gracie abrams type singer and then she releases ‘dear john’ and i hate to say it but the non taylor’s version JUST for the fact that taylor’s voice is younger👍

but yeah if you can please do that it would be great but if you can’t that’s okay🫶🏻🫶🏻

btw your new quinn fic ATE😁😁

ofc babe!! and ty 🤭🤭🤭

this is not apart of my older sister!hughes au! this is all younger sister 🤍

do stream taylors version, but for this we are using the old one just for her young voice!!

hughes.yn

liked by jackhughes, trevorzegras and 387,736 others

hughes.yn hi everyone!! over the past few months, ive been radio silent to everyone, including my own family, and all for personal reasons that i felt i had to go through on my own. here right now, is the first time anyone has heard from me for awhile now. im here to announce that ive made another song! and its currently out now on all streaming platforms!

the song is called ‘dear john’ and i honestly put all of my raw emotions into it. i went through a lot these past months and singing, producing and overall making this song has helped me immensely.

i love you all. especially my brothers and my parents, all to the moon and back.

p.s im sorry this song isnt like my other ones. i took the even sadder root and dug to my core for this one.

comments

user OH MY GOD??

user her voice is HEAVENLY.

user LITERALLY

trevorzegras LIL HUGHES OH MY GOD.

trevorzegras im actually in shock cut it out

trevorzegras look at lil hughes go 🥹🥹

user no bc this song so perfectly shows how denial feels. how she immediately felt like whoever the boy was, was her soulmate, but ultimately wasn’t but she kept denying it. how shes finally accepting everything after realizing it wasn’t real.

user bro made it even MORE sad.

jackhughes come home please

jackhughes and tell me who tf did this shit

jackhughes i’ll literally bust his fucking face in ❤️

user protective jack 🔛🔝

user THIS IS SO SAD NOOOOOOO

user this is so lyrically genius for a nineteen year old, im actually in shock

gracieabrams gorgeous girl this is so good 🤍

user YOU ARE AN EXPERT AT SORRY AND KEEPING LINES BLURRY

lhughes_06 bub come home and tell us who did this

_quinnhughes ❤️❤️ proud of you kid

hughes.yn

liked by markestapa, edwards.73 and 276,287 others

hughes.yn you burnt me out, but he lit my flame right back up 🤍

comments

user WHO WHAT WHEN WHERE WHY

user it should be me… holding your hand 😞

user dramatic ass

jackhughes happy ur happy sissy 🤍

user why does she not reply to comments?

user is she obligated to or sumn? hop off her dick

lhughes_06 still so upset abt this

edwards.73 you lied and you know it

lhughes_06 i know 😞

markestapa ❤️

user MARk?

user shes happy… so im happy… 🥹😭

_quinnhughes great, now come to vancouver!

user he paints her skies blue and keeps them clear 🥹🥹

liked by author, markestapa and 726 others

elblue6 so proud of you sweet girl 🤍

user i love the entire hughes family.

user SHES MINE NOOOOOO

okay so idk how i feel abt it but i hope u like pookie

tags (perm!) @hockeyboysarehot (text or wtvr if u wanna be added babes!)

#hockey #jack hughes #nhl imagine #nhl #nhl hockey #new jersey #new jersey devils #quinn hughes #luke hughes #jack hughes x reader #luke hughes x reader #quinn hughes x reader #hughes sister #mark estapa #answered 🤍

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jade-green-butterfly · 8 months

Text

'Stars In His Eyes~'🌌(💚John Dory x Amalthea🪐)

As promised in my recent post -> https://www.tumblr.com/jade-green-butterfly/739625758724685824/got-some-more-johnalthea-jd-x-amalthea-my-space?source=share I finally get the chance to share more goodness of my newest Trolls ship, John Dory x my Space Troll OC, Amalthea and...~ 👀👀👀 BEHOOOOLD~!! 😍🌟😍🌟😍

Done by the sweet and epic @fernistired~💕🌿

Done by the lovely and amazing @jaguardorado16~✨🔥 The true magnificent beauties of two stunning masterpieces you see before you~!!💖🤩💖🤩💖

They're both just so, so gorgeous - I could cry!!😭😭😭 I am absolutely love, love, LOVING them both to the stars and back~!!🥰🥹🌠🥹🥰

Speaking of stars, both commissions of this tenderly romantic scene were actually inspired by the famous Aristocats' sapphire eyes scene and a romantically exciting RP me and my dear bestie, @x-elyssa-x are doing of how JD and Amalthea met in an explorer AU - where Amalthea is experiencing life in Troll Kingdom for the very first time after travelling from her Space Kingdom, finds herself in Troll Village during a huge storm and is taken in by Grandma Rosiepuff (yes, she is alive and well in this AU, along with BroZone still together, yet living their own lives but still visit their dear grandma~😌) Amalthea and John's relationship begins to grow over time and JD, feeling love, finally plucks up the courage to propose to Amalthea, which she happily accepts, for she really loves him back for who he is~💚😊The two of them then travel with Rhonda, back to Space Kingdom so John can experience life there, just like Ama did in his kingdom✨ Hope you all like, my lovelies!👍🏻😁💞And a MASSIVE thank-you in a million to my awesome Fern and Jaguar for these wonderful treasures - you have both done such a fantastic job and I am ever soooo happy, over the moon and grateful for them both~!💝🫂🌟🫂💝Bless you both, my dears~!🌹😘💕🫶🏻xoxo.

*~Reblogs are also deeply appreciated as well, so please do reblog as well as like! Thank-you kindly!~*

Space Trolls (c) @x-elyssa-x~💜 Amalthea (c) @jade-green-butterfly (Me~!) John Dory (c) DreamWorks Trolls/DreamWorks Animation

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nothingbutnowhere · 3 months

Text

Hockey player au! John "Soap" Mactavish headcanons

Note: extremely suggestive of ghoap and a little hint of ghoap x reader if you are so inclined to read it that way (she/her used)

...

Defenseman. Loves getting dirty in the d-zone corners, double teaming opponents and getting his stick in there, but still good at penetrating the o-zone and he's not afraid to drop down and hammer it in. The puck that is. (these are all things I've heard on broadcasts of NHL games, the innuendos that the play by play guys use are insane).

Menace! Absolute fucking menace!!! Mean bastard on the ice, intense in the locker room during games. Sass and tough guy act during media availability, all part of his rugged charm. But practice with the boys? He gets silly. Watch out! You could be getting pranked.

Backcheck, forecheck, paycheck. Heavy hits along the walls, BIG open ice hits, and killer hip checks (my personal favorite). Throws the type of hits everyone is always arguing about on twitter 🙄 He can be found in front of the net pushing and shoving opponents around. If you want a stick in the back he's your guy. Many, many a player has ended up in a headlock, getting a face wash after the whistle. On the shorter side for a hockey player which broadcasters always bring up but you'd never know by just watching him on the ice (they just hate a short king (anything under 6' is short in the NHL)).

He'll fight anyone, including the refs because that was a terrible icing call he absolutely had the guy beat! No he was onside! Tripping?! He dove!

Constantly dropping the gloves and getting into trouble. He'd be an enforcer if he wasn't a damn good player too. It's a good thing the players union keeps the fines low.

There's a whole YouTube page dedicated to his fights and hits with paragraphs of arguments on the legalities in the comments.

Scar on his chin from a skate cut during a game. Very scary in the moment because it bled a lot. Needed a ton of stitches but no major damage.

Has more points than you'd think for a non-offensive defenseman. He really is good in the corners and swiping pucks off sticks, popping them out to the offense. Many goals have been scored by a Soap takeaway and a stretch pass to spring Gaz for a breakaway.

He'll tackle his teammates during their or his celly. He really truly cares about the boys. It's evident in the way he plays, how intense he is on the bench, and the helmet kisses. Wait, what? Yep, hockey players will sometimes show physical affection via helmet or even a kiss on the cheek. Not often, but it's all very sweet 🥹 Drives hockey twitter wild.

Chews on his mouth guards like they owe him money and he can extract it by destroying them.

Oh, you wanna fuck with Ghost? You're gonna have to go through him first. Will go feral on a guy for so much as breathing in the direction of his goalie. Ghost appreciates him very much. Probably. The bond between a goalie and his defensemen is so special, something you'll hear (in not so many words) from Soap himself. At the end of a win he'll have the longest head bonk to Ghost. Saying what? We'll never know cause neither of them will ever be mic'd up.

I say this for Gaz too but THIGH. This man's thighs are tree trunks. Rucks up short shorts on purpose. For the media. And the guys. Ask twitter and they can provide many examples.

Mic'd up status: You cannot. Under any circumstances. Mic this guy up. You'd have to bleep the whole thing for broadcast. Shorsey levels of explicit, he's gotten unsportman like conduct penalties for it. He and Gaz are a dangerous duo when it comes to chirps.

Hockey hair status: Excellent. Mohawk is 10/10. Starts a new trend with the kids. Absolutely does warmups without his helmet to show off the flow. (Could also see him with a mullet 100%). Ends up with so much facial hair during the playoffs

Roster pic: kinda bad :( why does he look surprised? Why is his face so red? His hair is fucked up?? They didn't even fix his trademark look?! Where the fuck did they just pull him from to take this photo??? (I love when players have shitty roster photos idk it's so funny to me)

WAG status: only recently in a serious relationship. She's sweet and pretty, instantly good friends with the other WAGs and taken under their wing since this is all very new to her. Surprisingly, has dark hair (most hockey WAGs seem to be blond??). Posts a lot on social media, generally seems to be having a great time. Always seems like Ghost is in the background of pictures of her and Soap? Hmmm.... Don't ask twitter about that.

...

I do NOT consent for my works, part of my works, or my ideas to be used for ANY form of AI.

More hockey au: Ghost | Soap | Gaz | Price

Note: WAG stands for wife and girlfriend or the plural, used to refer to sports guy's significant others. Yes it is heteronormative.

A/N: I didn't factor nationality into this. There have been very few Scottish-born NHL players and all of them were raised in Canada. Do with that what you will. I'll never actually write fics for this, but I have headcanons. I know a moderate amount about hockey and next to nothing about cod so apologies. Completely unserious. Just some silly little thoughts :) plus letterkenny reference!

#john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #kyle gaz garrick #ghoap #hockey au #my writing #letterkenny reference

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marionettedupaincheng · 4 months

Text

I think Violet’s love for her wacky kids is so sweet. She just wants the best for them. One of the moments that stick out to me is her worrying over Fran but trying to understand and respect her boundaries for marriage prospects.

Like she’ll respect Fran’s approach to having a practical marriage, but also want her to be in love and be happy.

She wants to work it out with the queen’s choice and is very stressed when Fran isn’t interested but the look of happiness and relief she gets when she sees Fran truly loves John? That all flies out the window for her and she’s just happy that her daughter is happy 🥹

#francesca bridgerton #bridgerton #violet bridgerton #goated mom #I hope she gets her garden watered lol

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j-restlessgeek · 5 months

Text

Look who arrived :3

My @kaarijazineofficial arrived 🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹

I absolutely love the cards, reading and looking at all the details and the backside is so pretty too 🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰.

The art inside and outside the zine is insane too. Putting my gushing under the line in case you want to see it once your own zine arrives :3.

Gushing begins, weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

The back of the zine is so pretty, look who is there 🥹🥹🥹🥹. They are all there 🥹🥹🥰🥰.

Oh same about the backside of the cards

The notes have sunglasses 🥹🥹🥹🥹🥰🥰🥰, also the tape is such a cute nod towards Jesse 🥰🥰🥰🥹🥹. The amount of detailing in the entire zine is so impressive. Was squealing all the time while opening and going through the pages.

The art inside is so edible like wow 🥹🥹🥹🥹. So much detailing, the colours are so fun and like wow the skill 🤯🤯🤯🤯🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥. The textures are so good 💛💛💛💛💛💛💛

Some examples:

^Look at this, little chelsea 🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹😻😻😻😻😻😻😻😻😻. The one and only. Awwwwwwwww her little bandana looks so cute and häärijä 👀👀👀🥰🥰🥰🥰. Insane how many people are in this without it being crowded 🥹🥹🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰. They are all there, the dancers, the daltons, frank 🦩, häärijä, the bojan and our fluffy queen chelsea 💛💛💛💛🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰.

^This piece even has joker out (they are adorable 😻😻😻😻🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰 and so small 👀👀), insanely detailed absolutely love the colours and the lighting. 👀👀👀🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥 Also Jere has fangs 👀👀👀. The poses are so sweet and energetic.

^You can see the freaking texture in the fabric, i am going insane over it. Like aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH. Wow, also the eyes 🥹🥹🥹🥹. They hold so much light and warmth. The colours are so neat. 💛💛💛💛💛💛

^Hell yeah, Häärijä Show Time, i freaking love the mash up of the dancers and the daltons outfits, absolutely love that, also jere's watafak is everything. The colours are so good too. 💛💛💛💛💛💛🥹🥹🥹🥹. And all the little details like i want a pair of häärijä earrings as well 👀👀👀👀, love that they are in the style of häärijä's merch 😻😻😻🥰🥰🥰🥰

So many jere's/one john (who got a very fancy hat, seriously i love the hat💛💛💛💛)/ one häärijä 🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰. Absolutely lovely. So many memories come up seeing all the outfits 🥹🥹🥹. Love the colours too. 😻😻😻

The stickers from @mitamicah are super cool too🥰🥰🥰🥰. A sticker with Jure is there too, i absolutely love the honorary slovene piece 🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰💛💛💛💛💛💛💛💛💛.

Look at these, i am stunned and in awe. 🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰😻😻😻😻😻😻😻😻😻😻😻😻😻😻😻😻😻😻😻😻😻😻😻😻😻😻😻😻😻

#käärijä #käärijä fanzine #so freaking happy it arrived here #🥹🥹🥹😻😻😻😻😻#the art is amazing #this fandom is so talented #going a little insane #pretty art #🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹#so very pretty #💛💛💛💛😻😻😻😻😻😻😻😻😻#absolutely love iz #🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥

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theemporium · 2 years

Note

if you’re still up for the obx requests!!! how do we feel abt jj x kook!reader sort-of-enemies to lovers because jj initially hates that r keeps joining the pogues bec of sarah but r doesn’t hate him in fact they have the biggest crush on him

love ur writing a lot mwah mwah mwah

hiya lovely, thank you!!🥹🖤you are so sweet, i hope you enjoy!!

“She’s here? Really?”

“Wow, JJ, don’t make your distaste too obvious. I almost spotted it there.”

The summer heat hummed around you as you approached the boys. Sarah looked unamused from her spot next to you, the boneyard buzzing with drunk and stoned teens alike. Speakers were placed along the derelict beach, though nobody was quite sure who brought them and, right in the middle of the kegger chaos, stood John B Routledge and JJ Maybank on keg duty.

“Really, JJ?” Sarah commented bluntly as she slid beside her boyfriend, his arm wrapping around her shoulders automatically. “Stop being immature.”

“I’m not,” the blond boy scoffed as he gestured towards you. “Not my fault she keeps showing up!”

“It’s a party,” you stated bluntly.

JJ shrugged. “Still.”

“I was invited,” you added.

“By me,” Sarah supplied as she shot the boy a look of warning.

“Play nice, Jay,” John B said, ever the mediator as he thrusted a cup of cheap beer into your hand and flashed you a smile. “And ignore him, he’s just pissy because he needs to get laid.”

“Oi!”

“It’s true,” John B grinned.

You didn’t bother sparing the blond boy a glance as you took a large swig of the beer, letting your nose scrunch up a little at the taste. But it was cheap and it did the job, and it didn’t give you as bad of a hangover as the vodka Sarah would sneak you so you’d take it.

The couple cheered as you emptied the rest of your cup, a small dribble running down your chin as you wiped it away with the back of your hand, holding the cup out to John B as he quickly filled it up.

It was easier this way. It stung, but it was easier.

It was easier to just roll your eyes and pretend like his comments didn’t bother you. It was easier to match his snarkiness rather than try to be the bigger person. It was easier to pretend you didn’t give two shits about JJ Maybank when everything about the boy made your stomach erupt with butterflies.

It was easier because accepting that he hated you no matter what you did wasn’t.

You let yourself escape in the cheap beer and buzzing music, pretending that nothing really mattered in the world. In the boneyard, kooks and pogues and classist bullshit didn’t really exist. You were all just drunk teenagers looking for a good time and pretending that you had a single fucking clue what to do with yourselves.

Somewhere in between the third beer pong game and your fifth cup, some brunette with pretty eyes and a prettier smile had slid up beside you, his accent making it clear he was only here for the summer and something inside you panged with envy and desire.

Envious to be able to escape this island. Desiring those soft lips he kept licking to lean in and kiss you.

You were sitting on the logs beside the burning fire, the heat winning the battle of the summer breeze that made you regret not bringing a light jacket. And you swore, in those same pretty eyes, you could see the same gleam of desire and you waited for that kiss to come but it never did.

You barely registered the hand gripping your upper arm until your feet were stumbling through the sand and you found yourself trying to catch up with legs longer and faster moving than your own. It took a few seconds for the blond curls and ripped tank to really register in your head, but the second it did, your heels were digging into the sand and you were stepping out of his hold.

“JJ, what the fuck?”

You were on the outskirts of the boneyard now, close enough to still hear the music but far enough to stay out of people’s earshots. An array of cars and bikes were parked around you, no doubt staying there until the early morning when people would make their way back.

“You’re going home,” he told you and the audacity in that sentence alone made you raise your eyebrows at the boy. “You’re too drunk.”

“I’m too drunk?” you repeated before letting out a snort. “That’s rich coming from you.”

JJ let out a heavy sigh. “Just…go home.”

“I don’t want to,” you stated simply, arms crossed across your chest. “Just because you can’t get laid, doesn’t mean you get to cockblock me.”

His jaw tensed. “Were you going to sleep with him?”

“Like that is any of your business,” you scoffed and shook your head. “Why? Gonna go run and tell him not to sleep with me because I’m a kook?”

JJ rolled his eyes. “Whatever.”

“Why do you even care?” you asked with your eyebrows furrowed together, alcohol running through your veins and a newfound confidence that came with a lack of a filter. “Jealous or something?”

JJ stayed silent.

Your lips parted slightly, a noise mixed between a gasp and a laugh escaping your lips. “Oh you are,” you murmured as a smirk tugged at your lips. “Huh, Maybank, you jealous that I was gonna fuck him?”

He didn’t say anything but you could see the way his eyes darkened.

You closed the distance between you, one step after the other, until you were close enough to see the blown out pupils in his eyes. “Do you want to fuck me?”

The question made him gulp, his eyes darting downwards but your hand reached out to grip his chin, keeping his gaze on you.

“Do you want to fuck me, JJ?” you repeated, a little lower this time as you stared at him through hooded eyes. “It’s a simple yes or no question.”

“Yes.”

You grinned. “Then unless you want me to turn around and go back to that boy, I suggest you fuck me like you hate me, Maybank.”

#jj maybank #outer banks #obx #jj maybank x reader #jj maybank x you #jj maybank x y/n #jj maybank one shot #jj maybank fic #outer banks x reader #outer banks x you #outer banks x y/n #outer banks one shot #outer banks fic #obx x reader #obx x you #obx x y/n #obx one shot #obx fic

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hunterbunter3000 · 2 years

Note

Can we have more with sweetheart and Kruger plssss 🥰

P.s I love your writing ❤️

EEEEE OF COURSE ♡ (and thank you! 🥹🥹 that means alot to me♡)

I'm so sorry I used Google translate for some of the language 😔

Content under the cut!

Tiny headcannon of mine that König is Sebastian Krueger's younger step-brother.

Krueger: Hallo again, kleine Göttin. (Hello again, little Goddess.)

141 Sweetheart, a bit nervous that this man is TALLER than König: Uh, hey Krueger!

Another dumb headcannon of mine is that Krueger is 7'1.

141 Sweetheart, whispering: König what the hell did he call me--

König grips her waist and pulls her close to him.

König, frowning: sie wird dir nicht gehören, Bruder! Dieses Mal nicht! (She's not going to be yours, brother! Not this time!)

Krueger: Oh? Und du denkst, sie wird dir gehören? Ich weiß bereits, dass hier viele Männer um ihre Zuneigung kämpfen. (Oh? And you think she's going to be yours? I already know that many men here are fighting for her affection.)

Krueger, stepping closer to the two: Glauben Sie dass es Ihnen gelingen wird, ihre Liebe zu gewinnen? (Do you think you will be successful in winning her love?)

König: Es ist mir egal, ob ich gewinne oder verliere. (I don't care if I win or lose.)

König, looking at Sweetheart with love in his eyes: As long as she is in my life, I couldn't be more happier.

141 Sweetheart: I am so confused--

When Krueger met Sweetheart, he was still apart of Chimera. Nikolai said he needed to provide Task Force 141 some new weapons for a 'messy' mission. Krueger had the urge to come with him when Nikolai said his old friend was bringing someone along. 'For protection.' As Krueger explained his reason to his leader. Nikolai snorts and shakes his head. He agrees anyway.

When they arrived at the meeting spot, Price drove up not too long after them. The Capitan got out of the car first then a tall woman who made Krueger's heart stop beating. Oh, how Krueger folded so hard when he saw Sweetheart.

Nikolai explained that she was still quite new to SAS, but moved quickly up in the ranks. She was gonna be a Sergeant in a couple of months. Krueger was quite intrigued. Nothing was new that she moved up in the ranks quickly, many good soldiers have done that. But what intrigued him was her knowledge of weapons. She broke them down like she was reading a children's book to you. Pointing out which thing does what with manicured hands and fluttering dolly eyelashes. The proud look on Price's face mixed with admiration made Krueger's hair stand up.

"Very knowledgeable, young lady!" Nikolai said as he looked up at her. She chuckles as her hands clasps together near her meaty hips. "Thank you kindly, sir! Sorry, automatics get me in an explaining mood."

Nikolai chuckles. "Not a problem, Sweetheart."

Sweetheart?

Sweetheart.

He called her Sweetheart.

Krueger's eye twitched. Nikolai and Price started talking again while she stood there, eyeing the big loadout with her hands behind her back, resting on her behind.

Stop it, Krueger. Enough. Stop looking. Stop walking towards her. Stop.

He couldn't control himself. His feet moved him out of the shadows and made a stop right behind her. Her perfume swirled up to his nose, the sweet and airy cocoa aroma teasing his willpower.

Her scent travels through his blood stream, wraps around his nerves and tangles in his brain. It's apart of him, forever.

Fuck, he wants to devour her.

Her high pitch yelp snaps Krueger out of his trance. He looks down at her wide eyes and her figure crouching behind Price. "Krueger! I thought you were staying behind." Nikolai asks. Krueger doesn't answer him. He's too busy staring at her pretty hands resting on her Capitan's shoulders.

They shouldn't belong on there.

His gloved hand hangs out for her to shake. "Sebastian Krueger. Apart of Chimera. Nice to meet you."

Price shakes it instead. "Capitan John Price. Task 141. Likewise."

That wasn't meant for you.

Sebastian's grip tightened in rage. Price narrows his eyes at the tall giant's sudden hostility. He could tell that handshake wasn't for him. Krueger lets go and moved his hand to her. She stares at it until her brain cogs move again.

"Oh!" She steps from Price and Krueger's shoulders relax. "Call me Sweetheart. Nice to meet you, Krueger!" She says with a smile.

Her smile...

Oh he's fucked.

That was so long for no reason omg

I'm still trying to get used to writing like this- like full on fics? So this is like practice! Lol let me know what you think!

#modern warefare 2 x reader #modern warfare incorrect quotes #black fem reader #cod oc #krueger x reader #cod krueger #sebastian krueger #call of duty mw2 #konig x reader #konig x oc #x reader #black!reader #cod x y/n #cod incorrect quotes #141 sweetheart

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imrowanartist · 6 months

Text

Gaz dances with Rosie, while also realizing how fast his little girl is growing up 🥹

Tags: toothrotting fluff, humor, established PriceGaz, SFW

About 1200 words, continues under the cut

—

Afternoons like these, Kyle has found, are quickly becoming his favorite. He’s settled at the kitchen table, going over some paperwork, while over in the living room, there’s the soft rustling of paper as Rosie is keeping busy making drawing after drawing at the coffee table.

It’s peaceful. The sound of an animated film on the telly plays softly in the background and provides just enough white noise to keep Kyle’s focus on his work.

Today’s pick is Anastasia, and Kyle actually remembers that movie from his own childhood. It’s a sweet story and it’s even sweeter to see how much Rosie loves it. She’s been on a creative streak lately, redrawing her favorite characters from films, shows, and books alike. It’s something that Kyle and John have been supporting wholeheartedly, nurturing the imagination that she seems to have in abundance.

Lost in thought, Kyle doesn’t notice it when Rosie gets up from her spot and pads over to him until she’s suddenly pulling on his sleeve. He blinks back to the present, looking right into his daughter’s questioning face.

“Dad? Will you dance with me like they do in the film?” she asks and Kyle looks from the puppy eyes she’s giving him to the scene currently playing out on the telly.

It’s a ballroom scene with a whimsical song playing over it and he smiles when he remembers some of the lyrics.

“Of course,” he replies, in the most posh accent he can manage as he gets up. “May I have this dance, Princess Bee?”

He bows dramatically then swipes Rosie up in his arms as she giggles, “Dad, it’s Princess Rosanna—“

“Deepest apologies, your Highness.”

He turns up the sound of the telly, then starts swaying around the living room to the rhythm of the music, taking one of Rosie’s hands in his to mimic a ballroom dance. Her other hand is warm on his shoulder and her laughter in his ear is infectious.

Someone holds me safe and warm Anastasia sings and Kyle can’t help but press his daughter a little closer against him as they make another circle around the coffee table. They hum along to the song together as Kyle tries to take it all in, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. She’s growing up so fast and he’s all too aware that moments like these will not last forever.

He dips Rosie down, then pulls her back up, her cheeks flushed red and eyes wide with joy.

Things my heart used to know, things it yearns to remember

Kyle swallows against the lump in his throat as he suddenly remembers another instance of swaying around their flat with Rosie held in his arms. Though that had been in the middle of the night and she’d been only a few weeks old at the time; he and John sleep-deprived as they got up every few hours to feed her. It seems a lifetime ago now.

He’d do it all over again, knowing that it means he gets to have this.

“Do a pirouette!” Rosie demands and Kyle grins as he spins around in place until they’re both dizzy and breathless with laughter. As the song ends, he hugs her close and kisses her cheek over and over until Rosie giggles and pulls her face away with a mock grumble.

Behind him, Kyle can hear the front door of their flat opening and closing.

“Da, we’re dancing!” Rosie calls out and Kyle turns with her still in his arms to see his partner shrug out of his coat, back from running his errands.

“Are we now?” John smiles, toeing off his shoes and stepping towards them.

Kyle leans forward to snatch the remote from the table, rewinds to the start of the song, then drags John in by his sleeve.

“Her Highness Princess Rosanna-Bee demands it,” he says, gently swaying his hips as the music slowly intensifies. John holds his gaze for a moment, eyes twinkling and a smile pulling on his lips.

“Haven’t danced in a while, might step on your toes,” he comments, bringing his right arm around Kyle’s back to join them in their dance.

Rosie pats his shoulder in consolation. “That’s okay, Da. Just try your best.”

Kyle has to keep himself from snickering at her completely honest tone and the affronted look on John’s face in return. Then he pulls his partner along in a repeat of before, swirling around the living room to the beat of the music.

It’s clumsy and unpractical, with Rosie on his hip —who’s definitely not a toddler anymore, John’s arm around his back, and all three of their hands held together, but Kyle doesn’t care. All he cares about is the pure joy on his daughter’s face as he sings along to the lyrics this time, pitching his voice to reach the high notes.

They do another spin, and just before the song ends, Kyle trips over the coffee table and with an exaggerated cry, lets himself fall onto the sofa, on top of John, Rosie still held in his arms.

John lets out a loud oomph as he gets stuck underneath them, causing Rosie to laugh so hard she has tears in her eyes. She wriggles in Kyle’s grip till they’re face to face.

“A real Prince wouldn’t have dropped me,” she says pointedly and this time it’s Kyle’s turn to look affronted, feeling John chuckle underneath him.

“Excuse me,” he returns dryly, “A real Princess wouldn’t have a table in the middle of her ballroom.”

She scoffs, then climbs down from the both of them, dusting off her clothes like a real pretend royal. Before Kyle can get up too, he feels John’s arm snake around his waist and his beard nuzzle his neck.

“You’re still a real Prince to me,” his partner mumbles and Kyle just about melts in his grip. He shuffles around until they’re side by side, the sofa barely able to hold them. Kyle takes a moment to study John; the added grey in his hair and the wrinkles around his eyes. It only makes him look more handsome in Kyle’s humble opinion.

“If I’m a Prince, what does that make you? My dashing Knight?”

“Sure,” John hums, before leaning in for a kiss that Kyle returns happily. He could stay in this moment forever, just enjoying his family.

His daughter has other plans though.

“Ewwww,” Rosie groans, already tired of their mushy behaviour. She throws a pillow at them and they break apart with a laugh.

As she skips past the sofa, Kyle reaches out on a whim and pulls her back into his arms. He kisses her hair and the freckles on her cheeks and her nose, despite the loud protests in between her laughter.

She’s growing up so fast. It feels like Kyle has just blinked and here she is, eight years old already. With a curious mind and her own opinions, while it feels like yesterday he was still changing her diapers. He’s afraid that if he blinks again, she’ll be a teenager already.

So he presses her close against him, as he feels John’s arms around his waist, enjoying it all while he still can.

#kyle gaz garrick #captain price #pricegaz #gazprice #call of duty #modern warfare #Rosie garrick price #ro writes

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sagesolsticewrites · 4 months

Text

Pen Pal

(John Brady x Juliet Thompson (OC))

Jules gets a letter from her boy an ocean away— as well as a message from a new friend.

This is just a little blurb about Jules getting the letter Olive wrote to her in Part 7 of @winniemaywebber’s masterpiece Honeysuckle Rose! It’s all coming together 👀🤭 If you haven’t read Winnie’s stuff, go do that NOW, she’s absolutely incredible 🥹 and don’t worry, more Jules & Brady is coming soon!

@winniemaywebber @ginabaker1666

Juliet unlocks the door with a sigh, juggling the pile of essays she has to grade in one arm and her keys and purse in the other.

“I’m home!” She calls, knowing her father would be in his study and her mother would likely be in the kitchen preparing for dinner.

“Hi, sweetheart,” her mother grins, poking her head out as Juliet drops her purse onto the small table in the foyer, “How was your day?”

Juliet mumbles something about quizzes and essays and missing homework as she follows her mother’s voice back into the kitchen to dump the essays at the end of the table; she’ll take them up to her desk later.

“Oh, Jules, honey, there’s a letter from John for y—”

The envelope is snatched out of her hands before her mother can even finish her sentence, Juliet’s eyebrows rising at the thickness of it. It was usually her sending him long-winded letters, not the other way around.

“I didn’t know John started writing a novel,” her mother teases, prompting Juliet to roll her eyes playfully.

“Ha ha,” she deadpans, “Is it alright if I…?”

Her mother nods as Juliet glances up towards where her room is, waving her off with an indulgent smile.

“Go on, I’ll call you when dinner’s ready.”

Scooping up the pile of essays once more, she scurries up to her room, dumping the papers on her desk and eagerly tearing open the envelope as she settles on the edge of her bed.

Lounging in the golden light of sunset, ready to let her sweetheart’s words wash over her, her heart flutters and her smile grows as her eyes land on the words he starts every letter with— My darling Jules.

Her nagging curiosity soon gets the better of her, though, and she can’t help but peek at the extra pages. It was rare for him to write more than two or three pages, and there were easily at least six stuffed in the envelope.

Her curiosity only increases upon seeing the last four pages written in an entirely different hand, and she flicks back to the first, scanning for an explanation.

My darling Jules,

I hope you’re doing well, and the hooligans you call students aren’t running you too ragged. Just say the word, I’m not afraid to scold a few teenagers when I get back, okay?

I got your last letter along with Ma’s, and I know I keep saying it, but thank you so much for being there for my parents, sweet girl. Ma can’t stop gushing about how wonderful it is to have you over for dinner and according to her I’m a frequent topic of conversation— which is incredibly flattering, sweetheart, but I hope she’s keeping the more embarrassing stories of my childhood quiet? If she hasn’t, please, please forget about them for my sake.

Things have been mostly quiet here, though I imagine you’d like the new Red Cross girl we’ve acquired on base. According to everyone else she showed up out of nowhere, but she’s settled in remarkably well, especially for a Brit being surrounded by Americans. DeMarco and Douglass especially have taken a particular liking to her, which, well… It's been interesting, to say the least. Her name’s Olive, and would you believe it, she’s also a fan of our friend Shakespeare! When I ran into her reading The Tempest of course I had to tell her about my best girl, the Shakespeare expert, and when she asked about sending along some of her thoughts on his work I told her you’d be more than happy to talk about it with someone much smarter than me.

She happened to run into me this morning and handed me something I’m sure you’ll love: an analysis of the balcony scene from Romeo and Juliet. Enjoy, sweetheart.

I miss you more than words can say, honey. You’re on my mind all day and in my dreams every night. I have plenty of things here to keep me occupied, but every once in a while I get a swell of missing you, and I find myself sitting outside my barracks, watching the sunrise and imagining you��re there with me.

As always, I’m counting down the days until I’m back with you, Jules.

Sending all my love,

John

She takes a moment to clutch the letter to her chest, sending up a grateful prayer for every word she got. It meant he was safe and whole for the time being.

Then she promptly turns her attention to the letter from… Olive, Johnny had said?

There were three pages, covered front and back, of delightfully insightful analysis in increasingly erratic, though legible, penmanship, and some part of her scholarly brain lights up at Olive’s ideas, already forming a reply in her mind.

The last page was a letter from Olive, which Juliet devoured eagerly. Anyone who had such wonderful ideas about The Bard was someone she was eager to be friends with.

Jules,

Let me know if I've still got it in me to study our favorite man; it's been a long time. I wrote this in a restless rush, dying to get the words out of my brain and onto the paper after a night of little sleep.

I don't know how much Brady has told you, so I will give you a quick synopsis: Dougie and Benny both made it clear they had feelings for me weeks ago, and I felt quite stuck in the middle, my friend. Benny, however, came to the realization that he saw me as a friend and told me so last night as he walked me home. Can you believe who saw the whole thing happen, both of us wrapped in what I saw as a platonic, friendly embrace to mark the start of a lasting friendship? Dougie has gone absolutely ballistic and I'm not quite sure what to do with myself. I have tried to reason with him, but he will not listen, nor can anyone make him. What would you do, my dear? Leave it alone? Keep at it?

My brain is full of so many foggy thoughts that the only thing that settled them was writing this for you. I do hope we can be friends, Jules. You sound like my kind of person.

Hope to hear from you soon,

Your friend,

Olive.

“Oh dear, the poor thing,” Juliet murmurs to herself upon reading about Olive’s predicament. Grabbing a pen and paper, she begins drafting a reply to what she hopes will turn out to be a regular pen pal.

Olive,

It’s lovely to meet you! Your words about what is personally one of my favorite scenes in the entirety of Shakespeare’s works are utterly exquisite, and I look forward to hearing more! (Frankly, it’s a breath of fresh air after hearing what some of the high schoolers I teach have to say on the subject— but don’t tell them I said that!) I’d love to hear your thoughts on The Tempest if you’d be so inclined?

As far as your Benny and Douglass predicament… unfortunately I’m not very experienced in that field, but hopefully the small bit of advice I can give can help.

Keep at it, Olive. Douglass will surely see reason soon, and if he doesn’t, well… if he refuses to listen, perhaps that means he simply doesn’t deserve you. But keep trying to get through to him. Sometimes all we can do in these circumstances is keep trying.

I wish you the best, Olive, and do keep me informed on how things go if you wish. I believe this is the start of a lovely friendship.

Your friend,

Juliet

She steps back for a moment, considering something, before adding a postscript, and then another:

P.S. I’ve attached a brief summary of my thoughts on Twelfth Night— while my namesake may have her origins in one of Shakespeare’s tragedies, I’ve always been fond of his comedies. I love a good happy ending, don’t you?

P.P.S. I know John doesn’t always tell me everything that’s going on over there. He says he doesn’t want me to worry, but at the very least I need to know if he’s taking care of himself. If it isn’t too much to ask, would you mind keeping an eye on him and letting me know how he’s really doing? He puts on a brave face, which is admirable of course, but I wish he knew he doesn’t have to do that with me. It would mean the world to me but please do tell me if I’ve overstepped, dear. I’d hate to mess up our new friendship just as it’s getting started.

Setting that aside, Juliet scribbles down a quick, rambling essay on her thoughts about the connections between Viola, Olivia, and Duke Orsino and sets it atop the reply to Olive.

Her pen is hovering over yet another blank sheet of paper, ready to begin her reply to John, when her mothers voice drifts up from downstairs.

She sets her pen down with a sigh, mentally filing away her half-drafted letter to her beau— correspondence would have to wait until after dinner, it seems.

“Hi Daddy,” Juliet says, pausing to press a kiss to her father’s cheek before taking her place at the table.

“Hi sweetheart,” he smiles, taking her hand as Juliet takes her mother’s to lead them in grace.

“How’s John doing?” He asks as the meal commences, “Seems he had a lot to say this time.”

Juliet playfully rolls her eyes at his teasing, “He’s fine. Actually, it wasn’t just a letter from him. He says they’ve got a new Red Cross girl on base— her name’s Olive— and somehow the topic of Shakespeare and, well, me came up in one of their conversations. Apparently she’s a fan, and asked if she could send along some of her thoughts on some of his work, so I guess I’ve got a new pen pal,” she chirps.

“Oh that’s wonderful, sweetheart,” her mother beams.

“That’s very nice,” her father nods, “Not enough young people these days appreciating the classics.”

The Thompson women exchange a look at the beginning of a familiar rant about the new generation’s lack of interest in classic literature, and quickly change the topic.

“Any other news from John?”

Jules shakes her head.

“He’s said it’s fairly quiet over there. Most of his letter was about Olive and thanking me for making sure his parents are alright while he’s away. Then again,” she adds, “I’m not sure he could tell me what’s happening even if he wanted to. I did ask Olive if she wouldn’t mind keeping an eye on him. She seemed very sweet in her letter, and…” she sighs, “If I’m being honest, the idea of having someone there who can tell me if something does happen makes me a little less worried.”

“Honey,” her mother reaches for her hand, “I think that’s a wonderful idea. Don’t you think, George?”

“Hm?” Her father looks up, clearly lost in his mumbling about the problems of this generation and not having heard a word they said, “Oh, um… yes, wonderful idea.”

Juliet and her mother exchange a smile, and the meal continues in relative silence until Jules excuses herself to finish her letter to John.

Settling at her desk with a fresh sheet of paper and a smile, the light of her small lamp illuminating the one picture of John she has— from his graduation day, when they had just started dating— she begins to write:

My dearest, Johnny…

#love’s light wings #love’s light wings: brady & juliet #oc: juliet thompson #oc: olive lewis #john brady #john brady x oc #masters of the air #mota #masters of the air fic #masters of the air x oc #mota oc #ben radcliffe #winnie!!

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