#lieutenant john price

[the-californicationist]

Cali's Kinktober: Day 15

Kinktober Masterlist res derelictae - "an abandoned thing" Lt. John Price x f!OC Kinks > Master/pet play, brainwashing?, EXTREMELY DUBIOUS CONSENT ON BOTH SIDES, just a wild bunch of decisions made by all characters, somno, revenge plots, idk what else to say here. This fic is only available on AO3 because of (i) the content and (ii) the length. Read at your own risk.

As a part of his deep cover in the Russian crime syndicate, Lieutenant Price wins a woman at an auction, saving her from certain death. In order to show him her gratitude, she submits to his will and becomes the perfect little pet for him.

**IF YOU OPEN THIS LINK, YOU NEED TO READ THE TAGS**

Y'all might not think it's too dark/risky but idk it was just a weird one for me so better safe than sorry I guess.

[mactavishenjoyer]

LT. Price:"One day I'm going to be a captain with only the best people on my team."

(10 years later)

Price:"NO! SARGENT GET DOWN FROM THAT FUCKING TREE! NO I DON'T WANNA SEE A "COOL TRICK"!!!"

[flowermiist]

The evolution of Captain John Price.

Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2019

[gomzdrawfr]

WHO'S THAT POKEMON????

IT'S LIEUTENANT PRICE!!

[michelasnook]

NOBODY'S SOLDIER

Sergeant Francesca Herrald doesn't like being in the military. She is one of the best snipers and the most meticulous medic. But at nineteen she desires to just live her teenage years. Inside the Fourth Squadron she just has to work. And she hates it.

Lieutenant Johnathan Price sees in the sister of his Captain a sad teen that wishes to escape that reality of blood and death. Even if she works with extraordinary focus and energy. He tries to make her life a bit more cheerful, but just when he thinks he is doing some progress, she turns and leaves. However, he just can let her go.

Now, something is wrong with her, more than usual. And he will do his best to understand her.

Words (for the chapter): 2503;

Warnings and tags (for the whole story): Lieutenant John Price, angst, depictions of violence, age gap, eventual smut, fluff, brother-sister relationship, panick attacks, minor character death, eventually more warnings.

A/N: So I started writing this story and I am now ready to start publish it all around. I fell in love with Francesca since the first chapters, and I hope I can manage to bring this story to conclusion (I've never finished a story in my life, but I feel confident). English is not my first language, but I hope there aren't any errors.

I. The Emptiness Machine

LONDON , 23rd of October, 2009. 

   I can imagine them all screaming my name, in unison, and then headbanging at the rhythm of my music. Even if my eyes are closed, I can see them all, while I move my head and strung the chords of my imaginary guitar. The riff is hard, but I know I'm nailing every note, making them all scream in awe. 

   I reach the most difficult part, my left hand going up and down the air and pressing on the right chords, with the right pressure, and when I almost nail it completely- one of my earbuds falls.

   No, it doesn't fall: Elia has yanked it out. He is looking at me, slightly disappointed.

   The pub all around me takes form again as the other people at the table chat. I sigh and pause the music on my iPod.

   "Care to grace us with your presence, Franny?" Elia asks me with a smile. I respond with a playful face, sticking my tongue out. He chuckles, turning back to his beer as the others laugh and talk.

   I swirl my shirley temple and then take a sip from the straw. I hate when my brother forces me to go out with our squad. He wants for me to socialize outside our job, but it's hard if you can't even drink alchool and all you want to do is just read and listen to music. It's even harder to try and make friend at base if everyone sees you Captain Herrald's little sister, or as the child of Major Herrald and Colonel Pearson-Herrald. Yet here I am, Sergeant Medic of the 4th British Squadron.

   I pluck the cherry from my drink and pop it into my mouth, just as Lieutenant Price sits down beside me with a dark beer in hand. I glance at it, wishing I could take a sip.

   "It's a Guinnes, right?" I ask, clear longing and sadness in my voice. John turns with shy smile and nods to me, then turns towards my brother and checks him. Slowly, without drawing attention, he slides the pint over to me. Grinning, I take a quick, satisfying sip before handing it back.

   "Thanks" I mutter, still savouring the dark tones of that good and cool Guinnes on my tongue.

   "Didn't peg you for a beer person" he says taking a drink from the same spot I pressed my lips on.

   "I enjoy a fresh Guinnes," I admit, "It's harsh to just drink it every now and then only when you pass me illegal sips." I pocket my iPod and earbuds in the big and old hoodie.

   He chuckles deep and smiles, shifting on his stool. "So, are you in on this mission?"

   Lieutenant Jonathan Price is the only one in the squad that actually tries to empatise and understand me. All the men and women at the table have enrolled because they wanted to, because they needed to give all their life to our country. But me? I don't want to risk my life only to save people I don't even know.

   I enrolled in the military academy at sixteen, but already at twelve I was trained by my father and deep in medical books under the scrutinous eyes of my mother. They wanted for me to be a military medic, a trauma field surgeon. And they got that, even if every night, at least until at seventeen I accepted my fate, I cried until I fell asleep. Under the command of my brother they now have total control of my being. Them and the United Kingdom, even if I just want to disappear in my old room in Bournemouth reading stories of dragons and fairies.

   John doesn't know the full story, but he listens when I talk. He's my sounding board when I need to vent, and I ignore his growing nicotine addiction as a form of silent gratitude. Sometimes, we share a cigarette when my brother isn't around.

   "I have no way out, so Afghanistan here I come!" I say mocking a tost and then take another slow sip. "Again, I suppose".

   John doesn't laugh, but just tries to smile to encourage me. "You can still leave, you can't stay out of coercion" he whispers, trying to not be heard by my brother that is just in front of him on the other side of the table. Elia is laughing at some joke Private MacGavin has said.

   "Except I can't if I want to stay in touch with all my family and not be disinherited" I suck even the last drop of my drink and then push it with the other glasses that have gathered from the others. "You know, I still would like some kind of family. So... I am stuck".

   I have two families: my actual blood and all family, and my gunpowder and injuries family. If I walk away, I would lose them both.

   "You wouldn't lose me, Sonne" he says, cues another one of his cute smiles. But I cringe at him for using my code name. 

   "Oh, don't worry. My brother would make sure of that" Elia thinks exactly as my father, even if he is more pleasant to be around and he cares about me more. 

   Elia and John are best friends, my brother has took the young Lieutenant under his wing, almost making him de facto his second in command. There isn't one single thing John wouldn't do under Elia's command. 

   "I have a mind of my own. Elia can make sure of whatever, but I think I'll never stop sneaking you sips of Guinnes" he chuckles at the end of the phrase and then pats me on my head, a few strands of ash blond hair falling on my forehead. I look at him, admiring him a few seconds. 

   If just he looked at me the same lovingly way I am looking at him now.

   "Thanks, Price" I say with a half sigh, then I turn to the little stage where three young teens are performing a Radiohead's song. I don't dare look at the Lieutenant for the rest of the night, not if I can avoid it.

-----------------------------------------------------

HELMAND PROVINCE, AFHGANISTAN, 25th of october, 2009.

   The base is rumbling with action: trucks rolling in and out, squadrons full of privateers marching around, weapons firing off in the distance. And the dust, there is too much dust, that is around our boots, that deposit on our faces and threatens to get in our eyes. It's not a place I like, it's not where I can find myself, opposite of my brother. 

   I look at him while he talks off in the distance with a Corporal that has orders to pass to him. His hands are on his hips, nodding and moving his hands if he needs to explain something. In his uniform and combact gear he looks the part; hell, he is the part. Elia thrives in this life. Meanwhile, I am here, just surviving it. 

   Captain Herrald returns with a piece of paper that the Corporal has given him, and looks at us with a sigh. He looks displeased.

   "The Chinook's been delayed. We're stuck here until tomorrow afternoon. They need us to work in the meantime. Franny, report to Role 3. John, head to JOC..." His voice is commanding, as always, but I barely hear the rest. I gather my gear and head to the Combat Support Hospital without waiting for further instructions.

   Role 3 is where I find a sense of purpose, if not belonging. After stowing my things in a small office, I report to Major Sheffield, the hospital's commanding officer. She's tall, redheaded, and carries herself with quiet authority. 

   "Seargent Herrald, I heard many great things about your operations. Care to walk with me?" Major Sheffield asks me, and I nod when she starts walking like she owns the place. Because she does, she owns the place. This is her hospital. 

   "So young and already putting your hands inside men's stomach to make them return home to their families, you must be proud" she says while we walk up the stairs and enter the surgical floor, where the many wounded soliders are awaiting their surgeries or to be discharged, ready to go home or back to action. 

   I mentally sigh when she saysthose words, because I don't know how to answer. But I smile, put myself practically on attention with my hands together behind my back and give her a cordial smile. "Yes, I am" I simply say, lowering my military medical surgeon mask. 

   "We have one surgery where we could really use another set of capable hands. Can I count you in?" she asks, while another doctor gives her a chart. 

   "If we finish before dinner, sure" I say with a smile, she returns it and leaves the chart for me to study. 

   Here I am, back to work. And the only thing I hope is that this base has good hiding spots. Even in this place, which should feel like my sanctuary, I still feel trapped.

------------------------------------------------------

   The desert wind feels fresh on my skin, like the vanilla ice cream I'm eating while sitting on the rooftop of our barrack. I can look at the stars clearly, like they've been painted just for me. One thing that I can surely be happy about this job is that it makes me travel around the world. Sure, it doesn't let me be a proper tourist, but at least I get to watch the sky from different parts of this planet. And this ice cream is actually really good. 

   I moan quietly with closed eyes when I savour in my mouth the last spoon of this wednesday's base dessert, then sigh at the sight of the empty cup. Even the small pleasure of life are short-lived here, and I am now left with the spectacle that is the base ahead of me. 

   It's dinner time, even if in half an hour everyone has to go to sleep, the base is still alive with activity. Everyone is busy with something, and me... I am just hiding. 

   Rooftops are my speciality, just like operation rooms. It's the duality of being a sniper and a doctor. I have two hiding places, but with time even these places feel so wrong to me. I don't belong. 

   I lean back on my elbows, listening to the rhythm of the soldiers marching below. I close my eyes and I take a big breath. Trying to convince myself that I belong here, that I am doing something actually right for me and for the people. But which people?

   Behind me, I can sense someone is climbing up the pipe to reach the roof, and then I hear the unmistakable sound of my brother's footsteps. Elia sits besides me with an non-alcoholic beer in hand. I didn't realise they would give beers out at base. 

   "Ugh, are you here to remind me that I'm still to young to drink?" I ask with a sigh. In response he hands me the green bottle. I smile and take a swig, but immediatly girmace at the taste and give it back in disgust. "Why do you drink this blonde shit?" I ask, wiping the drops around my mouth. 

   "I am blonde, we are blonde. Of course I am going to like a blonde beer" he says with a chuckle in his voice, looking out the base, but his expression is different from mine. 

   I can see it in his face, in his eyes. He is surveying his domain, his land, like a King. His dream is taking our father's position, rise to his rank. So yeah, he wants to be the King of this land. 

   "Everything good at the hospital?" he asks, still not looking at me, his diamond-like eyes reflecting the moonlight as his golden beard gleams.

   "I did four GSWs, a fasciotomy, and cleaned so many burns and immobilized so many fractures that I lost count" I say, groaning as my shoulders scream for rest. I give in, lying down with a tired sigh. "I was in the OR for nine hours, then spent the rest of the time in the trauma wing." My muscles ease as my back hits the ground.

   I open my eyes and see Elia's usual proud smile when it comes to my work. When it comes to be happy about what I accomplish, Elia does it for me. He covers joy and proudness for all my family, decanting my successes in the field, from the lives I save to the enemies I take down. 

   "You've been awfully quiet, Fran" he says, setting his beer aside and turning towards me for the first time this evening. 

   "I always am" I say, avoiding his gaze. 

   I look at his forehead, his cheeks, even his lips- anywhere but his eyes. If I look at him in his eyes he'll see that I am scared to be here, that I don't want to be here. Just like how when we were kids and he could always tell how much I hated our father's training. And he would take the beatings for me. 

   Elia doesn't know still don't want to be here. He thinks I found some deep sense of patriotism at sixteen when I enrolled. He doesn't know what convinced me to stay.

   I can't let him see how scared and angry I am. It would be misinterpreted as a lack of confidence in my ability, and even though I hate it, I'm damn good at my job. This whole setup is insane, but I can handle it.

   "If you are bothered in some way, you can talk to me. I'm here as your brother, not as your Captain" he says, trying to meet my eyes. My eyes fall on his collar, where his insignias are, then his chest, decorated with medals. 

   Here, he's just my Captain. He doesn't get it. He never will. This is his land, not mine. 

   "I am fine, Elia. Just need to get through this mission" I say with a deep breath, moving my eyes back up, to the sky, to the indifferent dying stars. 

   He nods, staying by my side for a few more minutes. Then he finishes his beer, pats me on my shoulder and climbs back down. I sit back up, look down and can see my brother meeting with his Lieutenant. 

   John looks relaxed, though a bit tired from the work day. However, he looks like he could do it all over again. He's twenty-three and already a lieutenant; at this pace, he'll have Elia's job in a few deployments.

   I see Elia telling him something, and then John looks up in my direction. I stay where I am and wave. He returns the gesture, touching the visor of his cap and flashing me a small, kind smile. 

   Oh, I really liked that smile. Damn as hell I need to get to Lucy after all this shit. 

[tojisun]

There’s a tiktok by a user called styledbyclaire where her boss accidentally shaves a moustache and all I can see is lieutenant price 😭😭😭

bro help mee thats an attractive man helloooo

no but him going, "like where is it... where does it go?" man was heartbroken LMAO 😭

and op's gentle voice telling him to trim just a little bit to even it out im cryinggg no bc thats such a cute friendship

LT PRICE DOING THIS HAS ME WEAK THATD BE SO FUNNY imagine its post-op too and theyre given time off to travel or see their families or something, and this man trims the hell out of his beard on accident. its worse than the dude in the video, and i guess thats how we ended up with a painfully shaven lieutenant price 😭

"you could've kept the moustache," macmillan says, staring at john with pinched lips. "sure y'hair's so light, it wouldn't do much but at least it isn't that."

john just rolls his eyes and continues packing his bags. he does feel so bare and exposed without his beard, but he thinks he looks alright. not his first choice, of course, but it's not as bad as macmillan says it is.

...right?

[emmylous-world]

When We Were Young

Chapter 1

Captain John Price x Female oc!Reader (Emma)

Summary: John meets his captains niece and can't seem to get her out of his head.

Warnings: MDNI, Probably will be smut at some part. Violence and Mature themes. Slow burnnnnn.

2,6k words

A/N: I'm baccckkk, I hope you guys enjoy. I proofed read this myself so forgive any mistakes.

Pls leave some likes, comments and reblogs <3

British Columbia, Canada 

John dropped his bags down on the bedroom floor, letting the tension on his shoulders go, the day had been too long for him, been up since the crack of dawn and haven't stopped moving the walls were white, the floors were a tan carpet, a desk was against the wall and the bed sat across from it, the bedding was sky blue, it reminded him of summer in England, spending the days down at the river. He undid the buttons on his military jacket and threw it on the back of the desk chair. John sat down at the end of the bed and pulled his rucksack onto the bed to pull out his files and paperwork, going through the paper, trying to find that damn report to fill out. 

John was staying at his Captain Oscar Powell’s sister; Sheila's place, while in between operations, giving him a warm bed and home-cooked meals, that's all he could ask for and he was very grateful. He got up from the bed and sat down at the desk flicking on the lamp, and spreading the paper in front of him, he knew he should go out and talk with the family, get to know them, but John was too tired even to think straight, socializing made him wanna crawl up in a ball and sleep, and the bed right behind him wasn't helping him with that desire. An hour or so goes by when John finishes the report and puts it with the rest of the finished work. He checks his watch, 16:05, he gets up and changes into sweats and a sweater, which his mother made for him before she passed, it still smelt like her house; cimminon (I literally don't know how to spell it, but I hope yall understand ToT) and fresh laundry. He missed the warmth of his mother's hugs and his little sister’s pestering. He kept their memories close to his heart and cherished them as hard as he could. A soft knock sounded on the door. 

"Hey, dinner would be ready in an hour or so." Shelia says, "You’re welcome to join, I can also bring it up if you like?" He opened the door to talk face-to-face with her. Her face had delicate features, and wrinkles around her mouth and eyes, showing her age, she looked much like her brother, and the familiarity of her face was comforting. To John, the Captain was like a second father, he trusted that man with his life, he knew his Cap had his back and he makes sure he had his.   

“Yeah, of course, I’ll come down.” His voice was hoarse; he cleared his throat and knew his captain wouldn’t be too fond of him not joining him and his family for dinner. She smiled, her eyes crinkling and lit up. He gave her a lop-sided smile back, it did not reach his eyes, he was too tired to care. “Ok, great,” she said and went back downstairs to the kitchen. John’s muscles were screaming as he went to go lay down on the bed, he tucked himself under the blankets and soon enough he fell into a slumber 

John woke to his name being called and shot straight up, panicking. “Hey, dinner’s ready chap,” he heard his captain through the door. “Ok gimme a minute,” he took off his sweats and put on a pair of jeans, the most decent he could get, with it only a few pairs of jeans and a couple of black jumpers. Downstairs the Captain gestured to John to take the seat at the right-side seat at the end, John gratefully took the seat and fell into the conversation. He was asked questions and he happily replied. The food was something John was most excited about, it was hot, and it melted in his mouth, he sighed at the savory taste. He couldn’t compliment Shelia enough. 

“This is so good,” John said after swallowing a mouthful and stuffing his mouth with more. 

“Geez, slow down son, we’re not going back to base anytime soon,” Powell chuckled  

“Sorry Sir, just trying to get as much in as possible, can’t stand those IMPs.”  

Shelia smiled with pride and Powell shook his head. 

“Oh, Emma is coming home next week,” Shelia says with excitement, her smile growing. John was curious who that was, guess he will find out next week. Dinner was done, helping wash up the dishes.  

“Tell me more about yourself” Shelia turns to him with a smile. “I heard you’re good on the field, well the football field.”  

John gave her a warm smile. “Yah, I grew up playing on my school’s team” he put a cup on the rack “Won a couple of trophies in middle school.” 

That’s amazing,”   

“Mhm”      

He let out a breath, thinking back about his best friend from elementary. John finished putting the dishes in the rack, wiping down the countertops, and bid Shelia a good night. When he entered his room, he immediately took off all his clothing except his boxers and crawled into bed, and soon sleep consumed him. 

*** 

The following day John woke a wee bit panicked, still thinking he was at the base and had early mornings. He checked his watch; 09:23 am, that was the latest he had slept in a while, since his last leave, which was 8 ½ months ago. John crawled out of the covers and sat at the edge of the bed, contemplating if he wanted to go back to sleep or go on a run. He chose the latter, he figured that he should at least keep a basic schedule. He got up and put on his shorts and black compression shirt. After putting on a pair of runners, he ran off the road, pushing to see how far he could go.   30 mins had passed, 2 klicks in, he knows that he can go for another few, like a switch John picked his pace up. Around 5 Ish klicks, he turned around and headed back.      

When he arrived, John was drenched in sweat, his shirt sticking to his chest and back. He quickly made his way upstairs, grabbing his shower supplies, he bought a new set of shampoo and conditioner, knowing his little sister would troll and harass him for using a 2-in-1. John turned on the water, gave it a min, and then stepped in, the cool water felt amazing on his sweaty back. Soaking his hair and running his hands in it. He followed the shampooing and conditioning steps, his sister instructed him to do. The shower was done 5 mins later, he had wrapped a towel around his hips, his v-line visible, John looked at himself in the mirror, and his auburn chest hair ran down into a trail past the towel. He flexed his pecs and shoulder muscles, his shoulders were broad, and his pecs were large, he could fit into one of his sister's bras, not that he was bragging. His thighs also were massive making it hard for him to sit in tight spaces. After checking himself out, he looked at his beard, its way past the 5 o’clock shadow and not quite a beard. He was upset that he had grey hairs in some places, screw his father's genes. John let a huff out and grabbed his razor and shaving cream, getting rid of the annoying grey specks. After finishing up, he cleaned up and went back to his room. Putting on a fresh pair of clothes and deodorant, John was ready.  

Downstairs, Shelia was in the garden and Captain was out back doing yard work. Today was the day John learned about the house and yard. He put on a pair of Blundstones, and a navy blue pullover rain jacket. The weather outside was dull, and the smell of rain was strong in the air, it was April, the spring rain came during this month. He walked over to Shelia, he asked her if she needed help, eager to get his hands dirty. 

“Oh Please, the bags of dirt from the lean-on by the shed, could you bring some bags,” she points to the west side of the gigantic house “It would save both Emma and I some trouble.” and John sets off, looking for the shed in the direction she had pointed. The property was huge, he remembers the captain saying around it being 26 acres or so. It was a heritage house, that had been in his family since the 1880s, the house was a massive Tudor house, with vines growing all over the east side of the building. The whole property was surrounded by forest, the whole place made John’s heart swell, the place somewhat reminded him of home or maybe he was homesick, but he missed the country of England, the smell of cow manure, and watching the sunrise on the porch with a cup of tea. After wandering around like a lost puppy, he found a shed with a lean-on, there was a wheel borrow tipped over on its side, and by the shed, he flipped it straight and started filling it up with the bags of garden soil. Once it was full, he started pushing it back over to the gardens, the trip back over was longer than expected, and he reached the garden Shelia was puttering at, emptying the wheel burrow. He stopped and let out a wheeze, the military training did not prepare him for that. 

“Hope that wasn’t too hard,” Shelia remarks, seeing his out-of-breath state 

“Oh no, didn’t even break a sweat.” He broke a sweat,  

Shelia knew that was bullshit, but she also knew that the 23-year-old had that boyish ego that all boys seemed to have, no matter how old they are, John reminded her of her brother; Oscar, but younger, both pretty stubborn and had similar mindset.  

The rest of the week, John spent his days helping in the garden, he also found out that They also had a stable on the other far side of the property, there were 4 horses and a draft, once he found that out, he spent hours in the stable, cleaning, brushing, feeding and what not in there. There was also a barn with multiple farm animals, chickens outnumbering them all. When he asked out them over dinner, He was told that they were Emma’s pride and joy, jokingly saying that they’re pretty much Shelia’s nieces and nephews. John couldn’t stop his curiosity about this Emma growing, he would never admit to his excitement.  

When the following Monday rolled around, John got out of bed a little too eagerly. He put on his best shirt and the cologne his sister insisted on getting him, apparently “it makes the girls weak in the knees” He trusted her, he didn’t know diddly squat about this shit, or about girls for that matter. He hoped to make the best impression on her.  

The flight home was long but worth it. Emma had been waiting to come home since the beginning of the school year in august last year. As soon as she got off the plane, she bee-lined for the luggage terminal, grabbed her stuff, and headed to the arrivals, looking for her aunt, it took some time to spot her, but once she did, she quickened her pace, desperate to get out of the place. She reached her aunt and pulled her into a big hug. 

“It's so good to have you home finally,” Shelia squeezed her. 

“I know, it's nice to finally get out of the city.” 

“Well, we still gotta leave the city and get back to town,” Shelia says as she grabs one of the luggage. “Not quite a free bird yet.” Emma rolled her eyes, rushing to find the exit.  

The car ride home was long, filling her aunt in about everything that happened at UofT (University of Toronto). Diving right into her Anthropology and Archeology classes, and what she did, she was beaming at the topic of going to an anthropology excavation site. 

“We have a guest staying with us for a bit,” Shelia mentions “He’s one of your uncles men, a lieutenant I think?” 

“Oh?”  

“His name is John, I think you’ll like him.” 

All Emma could think about was a man in his late 30s and balding. She just nods, not caring much. Her uncle had some of his men stay over before, this isn’t surprising to her.  

When they finally arrived at the house, Emma couldn’t help but sigh in relief, she knew she was immediately going to go soak in a hot bubble bath. Pulling her bags out from the trunk of the SUV, she walks to the front door, she walks back to the car to grab the rest of the luggage, when she reaches for the duffle bag, a hand already beat her to it, it was not her aunts, it was too big and there were too many scars. She looked up to see who the hand belonged to, and she was taken aback, his face was young and handsome, his eyes reflected the sky, a bright blue, and his hair was short and sticking up and awry as if he was wearing a hat. He put his big hand out for her to shake it. 

“Names John.” His voice was deep, husky, and British. When he shook her hand, the biceps under his black shirt flexed. This was not the man Emma was expecting, so young and so attractive. She told herself to get it together, no need to simp over a man you had just met. 

“Emma” 

He flashed a smile at her, it wrinkled his eyes, making them bright. She couldn’t help but return the smile “Your aunt said you needed help with the luggage?” he spoke in that voice again, she shook her head yes, “Please” was all she managed to squeak out. He grabbed the heavy stuff, Emma had to look away with a bashful look, knowing if she looked any longer, she’d start drooling.  

Once everything was inside and, in her room, she figured she’d unpack tomorrow. Drawing a hot bath in her ensuite, she got out when the water got cold. She got out, dried off, and dressed, she went downstairs and into the kitchen, not realizing that she hadn’t eaten since before the plane ride. Scrounging around the fridge and pantry, looking for anything. After looking for 10 mins, she decided on KD (Mac and Cheese for u Yankee's out there) putting on a pot of water on the stove, and she went back upstairs to grab her book. She sat at the island and read while waiting for the water to boil. 

As soon as her KD was done and plated, she pushed the doors to the den, and groaned at the sight of John passed out on the couch, mouth opened, snoring obnoxiously and with a book laid open on his chest. She turned to go back to the kitchen to eat, but no, this is her house, she just got home from a long 5-hour flight and it’s late, wanted to watch her reality shows, she sat down at the armchair, flicked on the TV and happily ate at her noodles.  

John woke to a clatter, jolting up and knocking off the book that was lying on his lap. He looked up at Emma, she had her mouth full, and the TV was on, playing a trashy reality show. He rubbed his face with his palm, drowsy from sleep. 

“Sorry did I wake you?” She looks at him with her round eyes, her hair wet from a shower. He stopped his mind from wandering to far from the subject, of this beautiful woman in the shower.  

“No, no s’alright.” He yawns, gets up from the couch and picks up his book. He stood there awkwardly for a second, he checked his watch, 21:14, bedtime. He bid her a goodnight and went upstairs.  

Chapter 2 here

[vanilla-moon-fairy]

childhood girlfriend trope but with simon-ghost-riley. In his eyes you're everything to him and everything for him. you both grew apart years ago when he left for the military, yet you still remember the heartbreak that you had when he showed you a college selection letter? no it certainly wasn't and you were definitely clear that it wasn't a college selection letter after seeing the infamous SAS insignia with the motto 'who dares wins'. you wanted to slap simon square in the face, he was only 19 and so were you; promises you made about moving in together, building a small little family together which were either forgotten by him or abandoned by him. sure you sobbed for a few weeks after he left and maybe hated him for the a few months but after a while you grew tired of it, because if he did care for you and your love he would have atleast sent letters asking about your well being, so you set out to find love within someone else's embrace. and after 15 years, when your husband decides to invite his team over for dinner,now imagine the sheer shock on simon's face when his captain introduces you as his wife.

[skauni]

They Had The Wrong Traitor….

!!WARNINGS!!: Torture, Explicit Descriptions, Gained Trauma, No Happy Ending.

They didn’t know.

How were they SUPPOSED to know..?

Two months ago, Task Force 1-4-1 realized they had a traitor amongst themselves. Someone giving information about them to Shadow Company. They didn’t know who, until all signs started to point to you. Since then has been hell.

They tied you to a cold metal chair with ropes so tight they rubbed your ankles and wrists raw. You still remembered the day it started. Waking up with a splitting headache in the cold, dim lighted, concrete room. A table in front of you. On it you saw a hammer, pliers, a metal bat, sets of knives—even a damn corkscrew.

That first day was hell. You shrieked at the top of your lungs that you were innocent as your main tormentor, Ghost, broke your fingers slowly. Knuckle. By. Knuckle. When you still didn't confess he took the pliers and slowly ripped your nails from your broken and mangled fingers. Making you scream louder in agony.

The rest of the days blurred. Hardly any food or water; just barely enough to keep you alive. Every time a wound scarred they re-opened it. Soap held your jaw open today as Ghost slowly ripped out your teeth. Your voice long gone from hours of shrieking before this. No fight left in you when their radio's crackled to life. "Soap, Ghost, hall. Now." Price spoke. His voice sounded uneasy.

When they left you tilted your head forward. Letting the blood from your removed teeth drip slowly from your lips. It was painful to breathe. Bruised, cracked, and maybe even broken ribs and a broken nose they kept targeting so it never healed. A broken hand and forearm from three harsh strikes of the hammer. Several deep gashes from some of the knives Ghost used on you. A dislocated kneecap from being bashed in by the metal bat.

You couldn’t hear what they talked about out in the hall. But you knew it was something shocking based on the dead silence that came after Price’s muffled voice. In all honesty, over these two months, you started thinking it was your fault this happened to you. Thinking it was your fault you were framed; you just made yourself too easy a target to frame as the traitor.

You heard rushing feet and the sound of vomiting in the trash can down the hall. You guessed Gaz since you heard Soap ask Price something, you heard Price’s gruff grunt and Ghost’s Manchester accent as he swore under his breath. Your eyes fluttered in exhaustion but snapped open on instinct as you heard the door open again. They’d caught the real traitor, a newer recruit who had everyone wrapped around her finger.

Price had entered the room.

“I didn’t do it…” You whispered hoarsely. Your captain nodded. “I know, Y/N… I know…” he whispered softly. You flinched as he unsheathed his knife from its holster, he moved slowly as he cut your hands and legs free. He tried to pick you up but you cried out. He carefully set you back down and radioed for a few medics. They arrived a short while later as Price kept you awake to be sure you couldn’t slip away before everyone could apologize at the very least.

The medics came soon enough and moved you carefully onto a gurney so as to avoid shattering any bones further. They moved you to the med bay as fast as possible to get your wounds tended to and disinfected. Ghost, Soap, Gaz, and Price all sat outside of the med bay as they listened to your agonized shrieks and whales of pain from the medics setting your already healing knuckles back in place.

It took a few hours after your corrective knee surgery for the boys to be allowed to finally see you. The medics said you’d be out for a few days so your body could regain a small bit of strength. None of the team wanted to leave your side. They all had set themselves up so they could sleep by the cot the medics placed you on. In and out, they would individually go on missions or go in pairs so two of them could still keep their eyes on you incase you woke up.

A few days turned into a few weeks. And you finally woke up. But not as easily as the team would have wished. A cold sweat soaking your forehead as you groaned in agony in your sleep until you woke up shrieking and tried to curl into yourself for comfort, only causing yourself more pain. The boys had to pin you down so the medic could inject the pain killer.

Through the times you were awake, you refused to let any of them remotely try to touch you. They could see it. The distance you put between yourself and them. The distrust in your eyes. The anger and hurt in your furrowed brow. You had trusted them with your life. And now you were beginning to think you should have never let your guard down. Not for one damn second. But a small part of you thought it was somehow your own fault…

Gaz spent the most time with you. No touching, just trying to get you to talk. Even if in anger. He was slowly piecing your trust in him back together bit by bit. When physical therapy came around you asked him to help you because your knee hurt too much to do it alone and the medic seemed busy with another soldier. The rest of the team saw this, beginning to hope they had a chance at forgiveness as well. They weren’t aware that you never forgave Gaz. You just trusted him enough to count him as a person you will let help you. Not a friend. And not a teammate. Not anymore.

Soap was the second to earn the right to help you, then Price not too long after that. Ghost… was a different story. All he did was glare at you, as if he still thought you were the traitor. To which you returned the hostility. He hadn’t let it show, but he was devastated. He wished he’d have never believed that false evidence. He couldn’t even look at you because all he saw was his work etched into your body. That was why he glared. It wasn’t meant for you, it was directed at his work that scarred your body.

When you could walk on your own without crutches, you went to Price in the break room where everyone was. Expression cold and dead serious as you handed him resignation papers. He froze. “You can’t… we need you on this team Y/N—“ he started but you cut him off. “Need? Or want me here because you loathe yourselves so much you need me to reassure you that you’re forgiven with my presence?” He staggered back. “I never forgave any of you.” You added.

“There isn’t a day we’ve woken up without regretting—“ he tried again. “You don’t get to play that card! Do you know how many times I woke up crying in agony from wounds that are already healed because of you four!? Oh, or how about the fact I can’t stand to be touched by ANYONE anymore!” You snapped back. “Y/N…” Price started to beg. “No. I hate you. All of you. For what you did to me. Don’t even contact me. If you have something to tell me, keep it to yourselves.”

The team was silent. You walked to your barracks and packed. Booked a flight back to your hometown. And walked out the doors of the base. Giving none of them the time of day to apologize or try to fix things between you and them. You hadn’t even told them you neglected to sleep most nights out of fear someone would come out of the shadows and beat you half to death again…

[gomzdrawfr]

log entry

[reynisxxsimart]

Big boy with the skullface 💀

[octopiys]

Thinking about King!Soap who can defend himself if he wants to, but he's lowkey getting tired of consistently arguing with his council and members of other kingdoms.

So he goes out and finds the worst court jester he possibly can.

Jester!Ghost who's only a court jester because he's seeing how close he can toe the line before he's executed. He's okay at being funny, but he just ends up insulting everyone he encounters.

King!Soap who nabs him by the scruff of his neck and pulls him to the palace like a wet cat he found on the street.

Ghost is just like "okay, I can deal with this" until MacTavish brings him into a council meeting, knowing that he's not gonna keep his mouth shut, and when another king from a much smaller kingdom says something to put the king down like:

"You know.... I could've easily taken the kingdom when you were all dangly legged and know-nothing.... but yet I still work with you. You've succeeded because l-"

"So you're a pussy is what you're saying." Ghost says at the other end of the table, and a tense hush falls over the room. All eyes look between the jester and the other king, and the other king opens his mouth to have the jester executed, when King MacTavish breaks the silence with a heavy, true laugh.

Like shoulders shaking, chest heaving, gasping laughs erupt from the king, and he knew then and there that he was keeping this jester. Jesus christ, he hasn't laughed in so long.

So whenever MacTavish has some bullshit meeting, the Jester is brought in to put the council back in his place. Now, of course, as much as MacTavish wants to say it all himself, he thoroughly enjoys the looks on their faces when they figure out they can't make the King do their bidding to get what they want, for fear of being socially ruined by his court jester.

[elysianightsss]

Vicissitude | Part One

You’ve always been the apex predator in today’s society. An animal that naturally hunts others. A wolf enjoying the sight of pretty prey quivering with their tail between their legs; it brings a sense of peace to your mind. You’re the top of the food chain. The royalty of the wolf hierarchy. The better option.

That’s, what an Alpha is.

The only thing that differed from you and other Alphas was military rank. Big muscles or not, you were all on the same level until it came to your rank in the work place. And for you as a Lieutenant, life was pretty good.

Alphas towered above others, top tier. first class. Betas were the middle class, not useless. In fact they were very helpful, pushing their calming pheromones out to those who needed it most. They were usually the ones who became medics, Alphas too intimidating for a patient to handle.

Omegas in today’s society are lower class, pushed under someone else’s thumb. Born to be less than. Regardless of the time any effort they put into a career or life, they were only really viewed as one thing; breeding stock.

Unless of course they were mated. Mated Omegas that had an Alpha wrapped around their little finger were dangerous. Not respected, but walked on eggshells around out of fear of upsetting their Alpha.

You’ll never have to worry about that, you don’t want an omega and you’ll certainly never take one as a mate. You prefer to stay a free butterfly, to flit around and flirt. You were simply not wired that way, you didn’t want to own someone.

You just wanted to simply be.

When the pretty beta medic in front of you starts to speak, you realise you’ve been daydreaming. She blushes under your gaze and stutters telling you that you have the all clear for the upcoming mission. She flutters her lashes at you, heart jumping in her chest when your arm brushes against hers as you walk out of the room with a smirk aimed in Johnny’s direction.

“Y’might wanna lay on the charm mate, she’s a sweetheart.” You say, opening with an air of confidence, the sort of attitude and amusement twinkling in your eyes that only an Alpha can possess. Something Johnny shares when he hears the squeak of the medic behind you, her cheeks burning red with his animalistic grin aiming itself at her when he stands.

His fist bumping yours when you begin to walk past him and down the hall. The building is stale, void of any real colour, greys and blacks and whites. The nothingness of grey brick buildings gives a certain stability you find calming. The constant state bringing an ease to your Alpha.

You feel the respect, rolling off of the people on base as you walk past in your military issued boots. Tight cargos that shape your curves, a gun shoved in one of the holsters strapped tightly to your thigh. You don’t feel the need to hide, never have, it’s something quite spectacular when you’re not afraid to show off. Not scared of someone looking too long and staring too hard. You don’t worry about what they might find.

Not when you’re sure you can win the fight, gain the upper hand. The only threat that really mattered was that of another alpha, but you usually stuck together. All of you understand your place unlike the others in the hierarchy who believe they hold the power. You turn your nose up at the omega barrack bunnies who believe they can claw their way up just because you use them for a slight relief during a rut.

It’s pathetic.

Your alpha is one you can control, in your head she is free of shackles or cage, wings spread wide, she roams free. Prowling back and forth, watching for any warning signs that you may be in danger. A good wolf, the best inner beast in your opinion.

John’s is far too serious, so strict and all about the rules. No exceptions. Johnny’s is a little sinister but an excitable puppy all the same. Kyle’s wolf is interesting, quiet yet deadly, easily able to crawl under your skin and fester there. Simon’s, on the other hand is loud, screams non stop, how Simon can remain so silent is truly a mystery to you all.

But you’re all bonded, in a way that no one else on this base understands. Bonded like how an Alpha and an Omega bonds during mating, but it’s not romantic and blissful. It’s in your bones, connected like where your humerus meets your radius and ulna. Bending as one, moving as one. You’re all still unsure how they did it, how they made it this way but you’re not to question it.

It’s the job.

Walking into the mess you grab a tray, piling your food on and making your way to the usual table. Kyle’s there stirring his coffee with one hand, a book open in the other, nose shoved in it as usual. John’s sitting next to him, a file open in both hands as his eyes scan the white paper that’s mostly redacted with black patches all over.

You drop your tray on the table, grinning a little when they both grunt with disapproval. “Where’s iron giant?” You ask as you sit, picking up your spoon and taking your first mouthful of rice.

“Prepping the jet.” Kyle answers without looking up, an air of uncare sitting around him.

“You get the all clear?” John asks his head lifting in your direction but his eyes don’t move either, glued to the file.

“When do I not?” You smirk, biting off the end of a sausage. John’s eyes lift to meet yours finally, a smirk of his own; definitely more cocky than yours.

“Easy was she?” John tilts his head slightly.

“Relatively.” You reply with a shrug.

“Easy on the eyes.” Johnny comments smugly as he drops his own tray onto the table, his food bounding slightly causing Kyle to tut and cover the top of his mug.

“Priss.” You scoff, but it doesn’t affect him. Kyle simply removes his hand and brings the coffee up to his plump lips to finish it.

“Finish up you two, wheels up in fifteen.” John points at you and Johnny before leaving, Kyle leaves too grimacing a little when he sees you and Johnny inhaling your food like wild animals on his way out of the mess.

You race Johnny to the jet and beam with pride when you beat him; you may have tripped him up but that’s by the by. Johnny is so animated in his annoyance that he may as well have a cartoon black cloud above his head. Muttering to himself about how you cheated as he trudges onto the jet, you follow closely behind.

“Everyone set?” John calls out, each of the guys responding with a yes sir. You nod with a pat to John’s arm as you move into position, sliding into the pilot seat. Flicking a few buttons here and there before you deem yourself ready for take off.

Being a pilot was just one of the many things on your mostly redacted resume that got you picked for task force 141. It came as a shock to you that you were the only woman when you first met the guys and they already had history with one another whereas you had spent your years of service either undercover or hidden away in remote areas of the world doing the kind of things that you don’t even have access to read the report of.

You thought you’d be the outsider, the odd one out and a little part of you didn’t mind that too much as you’d spent so most of your life alone. You rather enjoyed it at times. But when bonding was mentioned and then became a direct order all of that went flying out of the window.

Bonding with them was painful. Being scented by another alpha was hard to swallow, then the bite which is usually done when the height of pleasure is achieved during an omegas heat to mask the pain.

But having to do it with another alpha in a cold, sterile, white room was excruciating. Eight sharp canines piercing through your skin, a pair at a time. You felt weak when you whimpered at the last pair, the guys having not made any noise at all. But John was quick to comfort you with a soft smile and a pat on the arm while a drop of your blood rolled down his chin.

The scar you carry is not pretty but it is proof of your loyalty to not only your task force but to the military. Each of you bears the same mark. You were bonded, it allowed things to run smoother out in the field though. It had even saved Johnny’s life at one point so you were all begrudgingly grateful.

You feel what they feel, just dulled compared to your own feelings.

Their scenting being the only one you accept, the smell of others, even the thought of being scented by someone outside of your pack made you feel sick. One time a private tried it on a dare and you actually threw up all over his shoes, a migraine weaving its way behind your eyes and only did it go away when Johnny scented you.

A curse and gift.

The flight wasn’t long, the usual pre mission rituals happening behind you. Soap praying and pressing his fingers to his body in a cross. Simon with his headphones on, Cello Suite No. 1 in G major blaring so much that you can all hear it over the hum of the jet engine. Kyle reading a few chapters of whatever book he is currently engrossed in. And John’s eyes are glued to the building blueprints on the table in front of him, not moving, not even a glance away from the paper. Studying it like that will make every aspect of the mission go smoother.

You huff a small laugh at the sight over your shoulder, “Whatever is meant to happen will happen Cap, giving yourself a headache won’t make it any easier.” You hear John grunt but relent, stepping away from the table with a sigh.

His hand lands on your shoulder, standing next to you. There’s appreciation pulsing through the bond, aimed at you from all of them. It pulls a small smile from you.

“Approaching the drop zone.” You comment, eyes on the hologram map that hovers in front of you. You hear the rustle behind you of your pack readying themselves to leave the jet. Body armour strapped on tight, weapons at the ready as you land the jet, slotted carefully between some trees and turn off the engine.

Slipping out of your seat you put on the bulletproof vest that was set out for you, the Great Britain flag in black and white printed on your chest as you strap it on. Grabbing your M249 SAW, not standard issue but you gave Simon the puppy dog eyes and he convinced Price to allow it for you. Even if the rounds are unreliable and it jams a lot, you love it.

“Stick to the plan. Nothing we haven’t done a thousand times before. Rendezvous in two hours. Minimum casualties. Let’s move out.” John is sharp with his words, something that makes your Alpha scratch at your brain, a challenge brewing in her belly. But you shush her, letting her simmer and hiss at you.

As soon as your feet hit the dirt you first bum Johnny and head west, gun tight in hand. The forest you landed in was the perfect cover, it was tall and thick and covered with moss. Big Douglas firs taller than the sky gave you and your team plenty of camouflage, the wide trunks were enough for you to hide behind.

The dirt beneath your feet was damp, cold winds blowing gently even though the twilight sky is completely clear with stars shining almost as brightly as the moon. If you were someone else, you might even stop and admire them. If you were something else.

But your only focus was the leaves and twigs crushing beneath your boots as you surveyed the area surrounding you. The concrete compound reared its head when you made it to the tree line. Crouching, you brought your gun up and looked through your scope, watching. Waiting.

The moment came when one of the men on guard became distracted. Knocking him out with the end of your gun to the back of his neck. Once he was down slipping inside was easy, fighting the men in your way was easy, reporting to your team that you’d made it in was easy. Finding the gas canister was not easy.

It was eerily quiet, the only rustle of life came from you. Goosebumps prickled on your body as you walked slowly forward trying to push the memory of that stupid horror movie Johnny had made you watch to the back of your mind. ‘This is always how the first girl in the movie dies, alone and in the dark’ You think as you open a door on your left, thinking you’d find it empty again but to your surprise and slight relief it’s there.

The red swirling gas glowing inside of a glass canister, you’d never moved so quick. Your gun at the ready, you survey the room. It’s still eerily quiet- then the hair on the back of your neck stands on end after a shiver runs down your body.

You feel like you’re being watched.

Fingers twitching against your gun, wanting to switch on any light you can to get a full glimpse of the room. To take in that you’re alone and there’s no reason for this feeling. But even when you’ve checked every inch of the room you still feel it.

Someone’s eyes on you.

You radio your team that you’ve found what you’d been sent there for but their reply is static, unreadable. You feel panic begin to rise in your throat like bile, it pushes you to rush toward the canister and grab it before something, you don’t know what, happens.

But when your fingers wrap around the handle, the thing rumbles, vibrates, like it’s protesting your touch. You have all of two seconds to recognise the cracking sound before the canister explodes. You jump out the way. Fast, agile but the gas is already flowing out and spreading towards you quicker than you can move.

You do your best to hold your breath, ignoring the ache inside your chest. The nagging feeling that comes with no air as the red mist fills up the space around you. You’re suddenly frantic, eyes searching for a way out through the thick gas but you cannot see an end. The door is shut. You’ve no way to escape.

It’s only when your vision starts to blacken at the edge and you know you’re going to pass out do you take a deep breath in, coughing and spluttering on the suffocating red air. You feel the effects immediately; a feeling akin to headrush shoots its way inside your skull. Your body feels weaker, like your muscles relax against your will. A shooting pain rolls itself through your abdomen. A lightening sensation pulsing in your cunt. A stabbing agony passes over your body before it’s gone, just like that.

Like it never happened. Like you had hallucinated all of it, except you’re on the floor panting. Sweat clinging to you, sticking a few bits of hair to your forehead. But the same as the pain, the gas is gone too.

And as if by magic, “Veil come in! Veil come on talk to us!” You hear your Captain’s panicked voice in your ear, comms no longer static, no longer silent. A coincidence?

Your hand shakes as you lift it to your ear, tapping on the device a few times, you hear that familiar buzzing that means it’s on. It’s working even if when you needed it, it wasn’t. You go to speak, to say something, anything even if it was just a noise but out of the darkness, like an angel, Johnny is there in the doorway panting heavily. Only when he sees you on the floor does he let out a huge sigh of relief.

You were alive.

But his big hopeful eyes aren’t what get your attention…….the door is open.

Taglist | @aldis-nuts @gazsluckyhat @evans-dejong @bearyark @tinythebunni @ramp-it-up

[adnauseum11]

The ending!! SWOON! I want to quote my favourite line but don't want to give the ending away lol

useless, part three

Part three (and the finale!) of my submission to @glitterypirateduck's O, Captain! Challenge. As a reminder, I rolled a d100 to select three prompts. I finally used my third prompt.

42. The story spans over a period of 10 or more years

14. Opposites attract

66. Price or Reader is auctioned off for a date as part of a fundraiser

cw: one pregnancy mention (Reader does not get pregnant, has never been pregnant)

Read Part One, Part Two. Tag list: @v1x3n @kiranezra

~4.2k words, Price x f!Reader. This is the most self-indulgent shit I've written in awhile. Please enjoy.

It's past midnight when you limp through the front door of your flat, dropping belongings and articles of clothing alike, shedding both the weight of personhood and your eighteen-hour day. You set your keys down on the end of the counter, ignoring the thin folder for the umpteenth time. James will undoubtedly text about it in the morning, his patronizing messages more reliable than any alarm clock. A half-hour commute home, and you didn't even glance at your phone in fear of accidentally seeing another email from his lawyer. Solicitor. Whatever.

Hamhock slinks out from his lair beneath the bed, weaving between your ankles when you drag yourself into the bathroom.

"Hello Hammy," You whisper, eyeing the newer crop of gray hairs near your roots with a weary neutrality. Definitely the fundraiser's fault. Your hair started to change long before this year's planning began, but this is the longest period you've gone without dyeing it. One thing to thank James for. Not only did his departure give you a crystal clear focus, it freed you from his ridiculous expectations. He'd've commented the moment he spotted the wisps of silver, then casually worked something like anti-aging cream into the conversation.

The prick poisoned the well, and now the only man in the world for you currently lies at your feet. How it should've been from the start, really.

After checking the orange menace's automatic feeder, you slip into bed, allow him to assume his nocturnal throne—your armpit—and plug your phone in one-handed. Your eyes glaze over at the sight of notifications, thumb swiping by muscle memory, and set an alarm. With two weeks left until the big day and more than a hundred unsold tickets, you need every moment you can get. You sigh, counting the tasks of the day ahead instead of sheep.

You'll sign the divorce papers tomorrow.

~~

Naomi practically forces the granola bar into your hands. The assistant stage manager and the props lead—the younger woman is the glue to your glue. A newer fixture at the Bramble Theatre, she was you to an extent, maybe a decade ago: fresh-faced, eager, and optimistic.

"I didn't like how you were looking at the wax fruit."

"We should swap the oranges for plums. Or pears."

"We've been through this. The oranges fit the palette, from the paintings to Dotty's–oh, quit pulling my leg."

You grin, then jut your chin at the stack of slips in her hand. "Are those the waivers? Did all the volunteers sign?"

"Yes, I can post headshots today on socials, so that should boost sales."

"Good. That's one fire extinguished," Rubbing your temple, you lean back in your chair. "I feel gross about it, though. I mean, we run shows that are hundreds of years old, but a date auction? Why don't we raise a guillotine out front and sacrifice effigies to raise money?"

Naomi blinks and whips out her phone. "...Okay, one, I'm noting the effigy idea for next year, but two, the auction won the vote, and everyone participating volunteered."

You grimace. "I know, it's just–"

The sudden opening of the door to your shoebox office interrupts. Theodore, business manager, director, and occasional movement coach, bursts in. Everybody's a multi-hyphenate.

"Terrible news!"

Wonderful. A new fire. You squint, chewing, and watch Naomi try to stifle a laugh valiantly. "Whatever could this be about?"

The older man slams his palms onto your desk, his layered pendants tinkling. "I've punched the numbers, including a best scenario, stars aligning–"

"Teddy. Out with it."

"–we're going to be £40,000 short. Even if we sell out, even if we raffle off the company like cattle, we are circling the drain!"

The tired amusement leaves your body, and in its wake sits a five-digit number and the distant idea to schedule a salon appointment.

The annual fundraiser for the theater, your hard-won home, is a dramatic, demanding, and near-disastrous event every year. The theater has continuously operated a hair above the red, but the laundry list of expenses from the last year cannot be ignored. The new light rig, the stage flooring replacement, the curtain repairs—they never stop. Sponsors and grants only go so far.

Originally, you took this job for its laughable but slightly higher pay and because running around like a madwoman between four gigs at a time wasn't as thrilling or charmingly bohemian as it was in your twenties. Your livelihood depends on the playhouse's success. And the economy. And the general public's attitude toward the arts. All wildly variable. It made you resourceful, and already, you were composing a mental list of people to politely bully for pledges promised in years past. You need time and a phone charger.

"Teddy," you set the half-eaten granola bar down. "Go get ready for afternoon rehearsal. Naomi, cover for me today?"

"'Course."

Theodore swipes his spindly fingers over his brow, nodding fervently at your resolve. "If anyone can pull it off, it's you. Do tell if there is anything yours truly can do." With a flourish, the director departs your office, but Naomi lingers.

"You know if it's donations we need…"

You shake your head, immediately knowing what she intends to suggest. "Out of the question."

"But think of her–"

"I'd rather debase myself and resort to dinner theatre."

"I'm just saying–"

"Naomi," You stress. "I am not calling my mother."

She frowns. "Desperate times call for desperate measures. Are you really so proud you wouldn't leverage your family's connections to save the Bramble?"

It makes you pause. As usual, she's right. Irritatingly so. You could take another salary cut, but you'd need to find a flatshare, a humiliating idea. Hammy wouldn't survive it, the sensitive thing. You sigh and dismiss her with a wave.

"Fine I won't rule it out. But I'm going to shake down half the city first."

~~

An hour later, you've managed to secure a percentage. Not too shabby, but far from the goal. You take a break to read James's team's latest, vaguely threatening missives and entertain the idea of withholding your signature until he makes a donation. What's a little extortion in the name of art?

You know it's wrong to delay this ugly process. How close relief is should you simply sign the papers. But it's another failure, another black spot in your life's ledger. Another dream crushed beneath the boot of reality. With a wave of bitterness, you type out a curt reply, ensuring you will sign the papers and ask them to arrange for a courier tomorrow.

Naomi's suggestion takes advantage of your mind's lethargy, testing the strength of your will and stubbornness. The last time you phoned your mother was months ago, on the anniversary of dad's death. The old man took his last bow five years back, and it destroyed the last bridge between you and your formidable mother. In retirement, she still holds court with major political players stateside…and across the pond.

Before you let your loathing catch up, you pull up her contact card and dial. It's after noon in D.C., the middle of the week. You might get lucky and reach her voice–

"Is everything alright? You're not in the hospital, are you?" Her donnish, sharp voice hurtles you through time and space to your teenage years. 

"No," You answer with gritted teeth. A headache waits in the wings. "No, I'm fine, mom."

"Then why are you calling?"

This is why dad handled conversations. You stand, swiftly shutting the door to your office and locking it. "Can't I just call my mom?"

"Of course. Historically, you do not," There's a low murmur of chatter in the background. She's at a luncheon or at the club. "So I assume there is a reason."

Having an ex-ambassador for a mother is a joke. All that practised charm for everyone else in the world, none of it reserved for you. "Okay, yes, there is a reason."

"Thought so. Well, darling, what is it? Is it James? Don't tell me you're pregnant."

You return to your desk and eye the bottle of bourbon on the corner. "No. James and I are divorcing, remember? This is about my work."

There is no acknowledgement of the separation. Instead, your mother pulls the phone away from her mouth, excuses herself from wherever she is, and the background noise dissipates. 

"Your work."

"Yes, the Bramble? Look, we're two weeks out from our big annual fundraiser, and–"

"Oh, you need me to write a check." The clicking of her heels halts abruptly, and if you didn't know any better, she wilts. "Fine. How much do you want?"

Your face heats with a mixture of frustration and embarrassment. "I am not asking for money. If you would stop interrupting me…Ugh, mom, I need help contacting some of your old friends here. If there's anyone you know looking for tax deductions or a pet project to brag about, the Bramble is in a bad spot financially."

In the past, whenever the theatre and, by extension, your chosen profession came up, your mother took the opportunity to lecture. She reminded you of the wasted opportunities she afforded you. She brought up your old schoolmates and their current positions. And most insulting of all, she always, always compared you to a certain soldier. Bracing yourself for her monologuing, you reached for the bottle.

"Why didn't you open with that, darling?"

Your fingers close around empty air, and you nearly pitch out of your seat in surprise. "What?"

"Send me the information. I've been meaning to reconnect with some old friends. When is the fundraiser?"

"In two weeks," You repeat, scrambling to pull up your email on the ancient desktop. "Tickets are–"

"Email it. I'll book my flights today and let you know when I'm getting in."

Your hands hover over the keyboard, and your neck protests the angle it bends to keep your phone lodged between ear and shoulder. "Oh, no, mom, you don't need to come."

"Nonsense. I'll, of course, make my own donation, and as a donor, I ought to see where my money is going."

Christ. For the Bramble, you remind yourself and exhale. "Okay. You do that. Listen, I have to get going…but mom?" It kills you to say it. "Thank you."

"You are very welcome. Oh, this will be so much fun. I haven't visited since before your father. You know, on the topic of reconnecting, I happened get an email from the Prices the other day, and John–"

There it is. You kick into fourth gear, rattling off your exit. "I've really got to run. Thanks again mom, send me your flight info. Love you. Bye!"

You feel like you've run a marathon and dodged a bullet. And yet, as you send the email and file the waivers, your mind snags on your mother's words. On a name. His name. It's not the first time your unhelpful brain's waylaid you with a trip down memory lane. Admittedly, it's happened more since James asked for the divorce. Most nights, if it isn't life's stresses hounding you, it's an endless parade of what-ifs behind your eyelids.

What if you studied economics instead? What if you stayed in America? What if you hadn't gone to that stupid New Year's party? What if you hadn't kissed John? If you didn't get on the train? 

The people in your circle frequently speak about living life without regrets. It's a romantic notion and a highly unrealistic one.

Your phone buzzes—Naomi. You're needed. Pushing the past where it belongs, back on a dark shelf, and head out to put out another fire. 

~~ 

Three days before the fundraiser, your mother lands in London and hosts you at her hotel for dinner. Playing catch-up is a professional sport with a whirlwind of names you barely remember and memories you remember very differently.

You pick at dessert, listening to another story.

"–and he was so insistent that that school of yours was a breeding ground for monsters, and I told him, isn't that what's needed in today's society? People need thick skin in politics and business. You'll be happy to know, though, he bought four tickets to the fundraiser."

You don't remember who you're talking about but smile and nod. It's a tough pill to swallow, your mother's success at rallying old friends with deep pockets. Teddy's practically in love with her despite having never met her, popping his bald head into your office to sing her praises whenever another pledge arrives.

Your response is rote. "That's wonderful, mom. Thank you."

She prattles on for another half hour before you decide it's time to return home to Hamhock and burn the midnight oil on the fundraiser's date auction. You asked the company for fifty-word bios and actors, bless them, struggle to contain their self-praises. When she finally pauses to take a sip of wine, you rise. "I should head home, lots to do–"

Ignoring you outright, her head turns, and she grins. "There you are!"

Following her gaze, your brow lowers in confusion until you clap eyes on a trio headed in your direction in the company of a server. Very briefly, you consider the melodramatics of matricide. You've been set up.

Mr. and Mrs. Price look well for their age, puttering toward your mother. They are greyer and a little shorter, but the warmth is there.

John, however…

The universe is intent on humbling you.

The hair is the first thing you notice. Short, kempt, and annoyingly a dark shade of brown. It's crept southward onto his face in a beard of a choice style. There is comfort in the finer details that clarify as he nears. He hasn't escaped time's passing with a face marked by crow's feet, frown lines, and forehead furrows. Beneath his shirt, there's a slight suggestion of a belly, though, with his thick arms and the narrowing of his waist, he's clearly a wall of muscle.

The worst part is how infuriatingly kind his smile looks. It's the beard. Softens him. Once an arrogant prick, always an arrogant prick.

John rumbles your name in a whisper, reeling you in for a polite peck on the cheek. "You're a sight for sore eyes."

You're years beyond fifteen and twenty-five, but how swiftly the impulse to snark resurfaces is alarming. Maturity tempers you. "You look good, too."

After a few minutes of greetings, the two of you are tasked with heading to the bar to fetch drinks. Wholly unnecessary what with a server, but it's a clear command to let the 'adults' talk for a spell. Nevermind being shy of forty. John's quick to try conversation when the order's in.

"You haven't changed a bit," He observes, leaning against the bar beside you. 

"Now there's something a woman wants to hear after a decade." You huff, casting your eyes across the restaurant, finding it difficult to look at him. The dark blue of his sweater makes his eyes pop.

"Fourteen years, actually," He corrects. "Drinking martinis, actin'…"

You snort. "You're half right. The Martini half."

His elbow gently knocks into yours atop the bar. "Apologies. My mother told me you'd been in My Fair Lady last summer."

That draws your attention. "No. The theater put it on, but I'm the stage manager. I haven't been on stage in ages." Your eyes flicker to the table, then back to him. Heat crawls up your collar. What other information has your mother passed along? Glancing down at your bare ring finger, you turn the conversation. "Not so different from a Captain, I reckon. How's that going?"

John squints a little, and his mouth pulls into a familiar smirk, tugging at old strings in your stomach. "Can't complain."

"Riveting stuff," He chuckles at that, a deep rasping sound, and you find yourself grinning. "Don't suppose that bit of clandestine, secret agent-type shit your mom's talked about?"

"Secret agent?"

"Yeah. Mentioned it in a Christmas card maybe three years ago?" You smile triumphantly into your glass. Seems both your mothers have a penchant for dressing up the truth.

His jaw works a tick, and something heavy passes behind his eyes. "Well, 'm not. Not exactly."

"Let me guess. If you told me, you'd have to kill me?"

He refocuses some, and a short laugh leaves him. "Something like that."

It's all painfully familiar, but it feels different with a little more life under your belt. His mere presence keeps you on your toes, yet you haven't felt this comfortable in months. For all the history and tension, talking to him is easy. A silence passes, the drinks arrive, and you ferry them to the table.

The night passes better than you expected when you first saw the Prices. They express belated condolences over your father, you chat about the fundraiser, and John politely navigates questions about his work. It frightens you when he briefly mentions Piccadilly to know he'd been there in the carnage. Part and parcel of military life, you guess. 

"John, be a gentleman and walk her to the station," His mother chides as the five of you congregate in the hotel lobby.

"He doesn't need to do that," You hastily say. Not again.

"'Course."

There is something dreadfully giddy to how your parents wish you both goodnight.

At least you do not need to take his arm this time. Still, there is no way John isn't thinking about that night. Not when that look of quiet desperation he wore is seared within your memory. It's silly, but you peeked at his hands earlier, and like yours, they're naked.

You break the silence to fish. "How long are you on leave?"

"A week. Got in yesterday."

"Do you normally visit your parents?"

"Often."

Doesn't mean there isn't a woman in his life. 'Often' is not 'always'. 

"Visit anyone else? Friends?"

He chuckles. "Sometimes."

You roll your eyes. "You know, you haven't changed much either. Aside from the beard and smoker's lung. Still a stunning conversationalist."

John smirks down at you. "Picked it up in the army."

Oh, yes. He remembers.

The conversation lulls, and the walk is short. You figure John's keen on a repeat when he wordlessly escorts you to the platform. But today's not a holiday, and the station is reasonably busy. He watches like a hawk, nonetheless, when you check the time.

"Brings back memories," He quietly comments.

Nodding, your thumb rubs where your wedding band used to rest. "Sure does." You respond and meet his gaze.

You studied theater, moved back to London, went to the party, and kissed John. You didn't regret those choices—only one.

The invitation flies out of you as your train emerges from the tunnel.

"Do you want to meet Hamhock?"

~~

"He's…certainly orange."

"Don't rush to spend all your compliments at once," You glare, arms full of Ham, then coo at the cat. "John's jealous because he's going grey in the beard."

"I am not."

"Saw them on the Tube. Can't those from me," You tease and set the cat down, giving your kitchen a quick glance. A silver lining of work eating up your schedule is that you last cleaned two weeks ago, and it's held.

"What're those on your head then?" He gestures with a finger and toes off his shoes. 

"Details of a person ageing gracefully." You play it confidently, but part of you holds a breath.

He hums and sidesteps Hamhock. "Suits you. It's pretty."

Maybe inviting him over is a mistake. The bolt that runs through you from the compliment pokes at something you thought buried. "What a gentleman," You try to inject as much sarcasm as possible, but your voice quivers. "I'll be right back. Sit tight?"

You leave John in the kitchen to retreat to the bathroom to regroup. Come on, you scold yourself over the basin for getting worked up. It's just John. 

And yet, what remains of your confidence perches on a cliffside at the sight of John pointedly staring at the folder of your copies of the divorce papers on the counter. Fantastic.

His small smile is genuinely sympathetic. It's enraging.

"Y'know, I knew you were married…When I didn't see a ring at the hotel, though, I wondered."

Your chest tightens, and you shove the folder into a bookshelf. "Yep. Finalized the divorce two-ish weeks ago."

You're not in the mood to be reminded of your failures.

"Sorry it didn't work out," John murmurs.

"That's life. That's how it works sometimes," You exhale, then force a smile. "Want a drink? Bourbon? Wine?"

He lets you change the subject, and you let him have a glass of whiskey.

You sit on opposite ends of your short couch, Hamhock acting as a gentlemanly barrier. The conversation rekindles itself after a few fingers of liquor, and eventually, John migrates to the floor, idly playing with the cat. You confide in him about your worries about the event and whether the funds raised will be enough, and he listens. There is no condescension, no bulldozing. Not a trace of smugness at all when he makes suggestions. You don't realize how you've slipped into an old, practically ancient formation until he peers back, eyes creasing from laughter. You're fifteen again, and it is useless to deny it – you are regrettably in love with John Price.

"Can I confess something?" He suddenly asks as your cat waddles off with a catnip toy in his mouth.

Your heart lurches. "If it's a crime, I'm a terrible conspirator." 

"No. Nothin' like that, but I lied earlier." He chuckles, craning his neck to look over his shoulder. "My mother didn't tell me about My Fair Lady."

"What do you mean?"

John turns sheepish. "I came an' saw it when I was on leave last summer. Thought I'd surprise you, but I got to the theater and lost my nerve."

Instantly, you pick through scraps of memories from the production. There is no way you would have known he was in attendance, not with how hellishly busy you are. 

"You, Captain John Price, lost your nerve?"

Color blooms high on his cheeks, and he turns on the floor, rubbing his neck. "I knew you're not acting but I didn't know how to mention it without soundin' like a prick." His eyes look soft. Different from how they looked that night in his parent's garden. Steady, unwavering, but soft. "I know I'm not good with words. I seem to have a talent for making you angry. But I really am happy to see you. Didn't think I'd get another chance after how I bungled it all those years ago at the train–"

At your grown ages, the angle of the kiss is inadvisable. The two of you fix it without parting, and his hands cup your face when you're finally standing toe-to-toe. 

He touches your foreheads together when breathing becomes necessary. "Change anything?"

You don't answer. You lead him to your bedroom and exile the cat.

~~

The fundraiser goes off with a predictable amount of hitches. The caterer is an hour late and forgets half the hors d'oeuvres. The bar runs out of red wine early. Two actors from the children's company slap-fight on stage. Nothing you, Naomi, and Teddy can't fix with elbow grease and stage magic. The caterers re-course. Naomi calls in a favor from her bartender girlfriend. And the children forget their quarrel when they're called upon to defeat Captain Hook.

What you are not prepared for is one of the actors calling out sick, leaving you one date short for the auction. You waste an hour trying to convince one of your fellow techies to step in.

Naomi corners you when you stress-eat a comically tiny piece of toast swiped from a tray. 

"You know, if one person is all we need…"

"Your girlfriend won't be mad?"

"Ha-ha, don't get cheeky. C'mon, isn't it time you got back out there?" 

You suppress a smug smile. Naomi has no idea. Nobody does. You've gotten back out there and then some. 

"Did I not tell you I was grossed out by the auction?"

She's relentless. "Are you really so proud you wouldn't debase yourself a little for the Bramble?"

"Absolutely not."

You'd said it with such conviction, so it's a puzzle when you find yourself waiting in the stage wing, makeup hurriedly refreshed. It takes all your courage and grace not to stumble to Teddy's side when he calls your name. He improvises an introduction on the fly, and you nearly laugh when you realize this is the first time you've been on the stage, under a spotlight, in years.

The bidding opens, and you hold your breath, letting it go when a few unfamiliar voices call out numbers. A humbling embarrassment clutches you by the throat. But then a paddle raises more confidently in the front row. The light is bright, but you know whose hand hoists it high.

~~

He collects you at the end of the night as you lock up.

"There's my prize."

You can't stop the grin that splits your face. "It's just a date, John."

"Yeah, doin' things a bit out of order, aren't we?" A glimmer of his younger, puffed-up self shines through, and his hand envelops yours.

As you walk, your elbow digs into his ribs, "What will our mothers say?"

"That a big deal to you?"

"To some people."

"Well, love, you're not 'some people'."

[on-a-lucky-tide]

Price about to eat a Snickers bar and then Nikolai tilts his chin to the side with a single forefinger, leans in as if to kiss him and Price goes an' closes his eyes for it, because a snog from Nik (narrowly) beats a Snickers... only for Nik to quickly redirect and chomp the entire chocolate bar in one mouthful. Man basically deepthroats that shit right out of Price's hand. Simon, Johnny and Gaz promptly leave the room because cap and daddy soviet are about to fuck or fight and, either way, furniture is getting broke and they don't want to be in the firing line.

[rookiesbookies]

Saw this (🌽) link on @konigsblog (in the p link masterlist, its price eating out 2)

All I gotta say is not only does it look like Barry (the actor)

But he looks like YOUNG Price like lieutenant Price.

You cannot tell me this man does not fuck like an ANIMAL in his prime he probably had more than a few gfs but like, you cannot tell me otherwise.

He’s the best pussy eater. He is king 👑 like he would totally come back and be all pent up, especially when young, and just not be further than a step from you for the next 24 hours.

Done fucking? He’s sleeping next to you.

Also here’s one for older price having lazy sexy with you

This may or may not be the next installment of my old cod meets new cod having all the three Price’s meet… we’ll see tho if people want it