#price modern warfare

[konigsblog]

John Price as a pervy stepdad will always have me obsessed

TW: INTOXICATION, NON-CON, STEPCEST. MDNI 18+

It's in Price's nature, a debauched sicko with old-fashioned and taboo beliefs. I mean, how can he not be obsessed with such a stupid, foolish thing like yourself? You're a puppet for his amusement.

Price is drawn to you due to your vulnerability, how you lack the ability to protect yourself, to think independently. You don't notice his perverted glare and the sick comments he utters underneath his breath, his eyes wandering over your figure, admiring every curve, what it would feel like to overpower you and restrain you, take you for his own satisfaction. John knows that you trust him more than anyone else, that you'd never accuse him of being twisted and deranged. To you, he's a protective and caring stepfather. Someone who stepped up for you.

You're too easy to manipulate, coerce, and control. You can't differentiate Price's love from fatherly love, to him being rotten and wrong. His large and scarred hands wander down your body, with the clock striking midnight and a spiked beer pressed against your soft lips. Price uses his authority and role as your stepfather to benefit himself, to leave you helpless and vulnerable beneath him, pleasing himself using your tight, slick holes.

You wouldn't turn down your stepfather, would you? He's been through so much, dollface.

He'll spread your soft, warm thighs after drugging you up, already apologising with a snarky, cocky grin plastered on his face for what he'll do, for the brutality and inhumanity that'll come with his rape sessions. You're compliant, ready to obey. It's like training a mutt, you're eager, patiently waiting for your next command. You won't remember a thing the next morning, that's for sure. You never do, but you feel the shame and guilt, the intense ache between your legs.

“Jus’ relax, doll. Do your papa a favour, yeah? I need this...” he whispers quietly between sloppy thrusts, already forcing himself inside your tight, wet slit while you nod and sob out drunkenly, intoxicated off of the spiked alcohol.

You accept the pain and discomfort, the stretch and disgust that washes over you with each thrust. They quicken, he hits deeper, leaves your bloodied and bruised with his ropes of come painting your body. You lay back, your body contorted into many different positions while you take what you're given, accepting everything just to please the man who stepped up for you.

[diejager]

I know I already sent you an ask but could I get something for monster!141? Specifically Dragon!Price? Sorry for asking again but I love price and your writing!

Dragon Heart

Pairing: Dragon!John Price x fem!reader

Cw: knot, breeding kink, creampie, smut, fluff, morning sex, implied somnophilia, slow sex, romantic sex, tell me if I missed any. Wc: 1.7k

You knew dragons ran hot, their bodies powered by the kindled fire in their hearts, breathing smoke and fire with every breath they took. European dragons were creatures synonymous with fire, the powerful blaze that humans coveted for warmth, protection and destruction, but Price was all but the latter with his ragtag group. You once thought that Soap - sweet, rambunctious Johnny - ran the hottest, his body exhuming heat in plumes of vapours, his body exhausting itself from rapid muscle growth. Now you knew better, nothing burned more than a dragon itself, his heart pulsing in powerful waves, warm and soothing, his body warmed by the will of fire that thrived within him. You felt it all, his body calling to yours, naked under the sheets of his bed, cradling his face between your arms after your nightly activities that would follow in the morning —a promise he whispered on your lips. 

You woke up to his soft kisses, severing his mark on your body just as his hands did on your wrists, and the rough scruff of his beard, tickling your cheek and throat as he moved down. He was hard between his thick thighs, the flushed head of his cock pushing inside you in a slow roll of his hips, your slick walls stretching around his girth. Price liked waking you up with slow and gentle sex, watching your eyes crack open while they rolled back and lips cracked open to let out a few sleepy mewls, feeling him fill you up. There was something in being woken up with Price inside of you on slow mornings, to feel the warmth of his body pressing you into the bed, soft sheets hugging you, and the heaviness of his cock, carving the shape of it inside you. 

Mornings like these were full of love and affection, unhurried pleasure and gentle caresses. Price - John, you called him behind closed doors - was a devoted lover, giving you much more than he received, finding pleasure in giving rather than receiving. He was a firm, but kind hand, soft but guiding, he took the reins and watched you unravel beneath him —much like a flower blooming, petals unfurling into the prettiest blossom he knew. Price was a strong lover, caring for you through anything with strong conviction, grounding in anything he ventured into, a strong hand reminding Ghost that you were here for him, a gentle hand grounding Gaz from his slight fears, a firm hand keeping Soap in check, and a protective hand holding you close. He was everything and nothing at the same time. He gave and never asked for more, taking what was given to him with a smile and warming eyes. 

While you liked the moments of shared animosity, clawing and biting at him, pressing him down on his desk and riding the life out of his cock, milking him for all his worth while he grasped and bucked into you, holding you captive under his burning gaze; you cherished these moments of domesticity, where he was neither captain nor were you his corporal. You weren’t restrained by duty or regulations, you simply held one another out of passion, one that had his heart soar and yours skip a beat. You loved him, you knew you did as much as he did, and he loved you so much that it hurt his old heart. He whispered your name, pressing his lips against yours, a soft and sensual act drawn out in lazy mornings and passionate gazes —he never failed to look you in the eyes when he expressed himself, telling you how much he cared and how much he would give for any one of you. 

“Love you, John,” you gasped, hips bucked up, searching for his cock to hit a certain spot inside of you, the gummy part of you that made you cry and mewl. “I love you.”

His kiss tasted like cigar and smoke, a woody taste similar to Ghost’s earthy bourbon, but Price’s was more powerful, a distinct taste of him. It laid heavy with love, it clung to you with such boiling joy that you smiled, eyes closed. Your fingers found his spine, the curve that went up to his singular wing, a vestige of an accident that left him crippled in the air, you pressed down, hitting a knot while he fucked into you at a steady pace. He groaned, his pace stuttering, jerkily bottoming out, his balls flush against your ass and his wild pubic hair scratching your throbbing clit. He shuddered and you knew he liked it, the relief it gave him when you pressed a certain knot in his back, the one that released tension and gave him more leeway to move about freely and without restraint. It was your way to give back when he wouldn’t take.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” he rasped, brows furrowed and blinking away the daze you put him in, having his cock milked and his back popped felt amazing, the immediate relief painted on his face, “You’re a blessing.”

He felt like a blessing to you, his heart, his body, his mind, and everything about him was a blessing to you and his team. A gifting dragon to his hoard, keeping and protecting what belonged to him. Words wouldn’t be enough for you to show him how much you appreciate him, you used acts, favours and everything you had to show it to him. Whether it be a sudden kiss on his lips that brought a smile on his face, the skin under his eyes wrinkling from how happy he looked, or the massages you gave him, unwinding all the tension in his body after a hard mission, hearing his pleasured groan and his struggle to stay still, to stop himself from snatching you up and give you all the love he deemed you worthy of.

You murmured confessions, praises directed at his character rather than his duty, proclaiming little whispers of love. You raked your nails down his back, fleetingly touching the base of his tail, thick and robust, curled around your leg, holding it over his hip for deeper penetration, the rounded head of his cock kissing your cervix despite your prone position —a vanilla morning sex in missionary. Your hands slipped under his arm, roving over his hairy chest and pinching his perky nipples, rolling the rounded nubs between your thumb and index. You felt him twitch, a soft moan leaving his swollen lips, still kissing you with feverish need. His nipples were sensitive, especially in the mornings when his body reacted much more than at night, he’d succumb to your little tease, jerkily thrusting into you. Every drive of his cock thickened the ring of white around his cock, the ribbed girth of it catching the edge of your cunt when he pulled out, bringing you mind-numbing ecstasy. 

You could feel the coil in your core tightening, the unwinding pleasure that followed the first spasm, walls clinging onto him. You let out a shuddered breath, feeling the ribs rubbing your sweet spot and his leaky cock throb against your cervix. Slick oozed out of your hole with each thrust, the motion pushing out yesterday’s load, cream jostled out of you, squeezed around his shaft. 

“Touch yourself, sweetheart,” he groaned, bowing his head over your shoulders, his breath hot and mouth nipping at your skin, threatening to sink his teeth and mark you for the others to see, for them to strew in jealousy that he had you all night long and the following morning. He spoiled and cared for you. “I want to hear you moan.”

Moan, you did, thighs tensing when your fingers circled your swollen clit, rolling the twitching nerve in rapid motions. You breathed laboriously, panting and gasping into his ear, mewling his name with teary and burning eyes, rolling back from pleasure and the thin veil of grey smoke that rose from his lips. It smelled like cedar, a smoky incense mixed with the natural scent of cedar and his strong cigars, a soothing and bitter smell. It drove you off the edge, his smell, his warmth, his body, and his voice sent you careening over the precipice of your pleasure, an explosive fire blinding you in white light, stars dancing around your sight as you clung to him. Your walls gripped in him a vice, clenching down on his cock and hand stuttering on your clit, the bundle of nerves sensitive and slick. 

He was sloppy, growling out praises, telling you how good you were for coming for him, confessing how he lived to bring you over the brink of relief and much farther, and mumbling how he’d ruin himself for you. It was wet and messy, he came with a single buck, snapping into you, his green-tinted balls slapping your ass wetly, and bottoming out, his knot catching and inflating with a deep groan. Hot cum filled you, ropes of potent semen shooting out of his red tip, engorged and throbbing against your gummy cervix. You felt like you’d bloat from how much he was spewing, imagining the bump of cock and cum under your skin, poking out in an erotic sight.

His back slumped over, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you towards him, face pressed under his chin and his wing covering you. You listened to his purr, a low sound meant to comfort you after sex or any other straining activity —similarly to a cat showing its joy and pleasure. Price always cuddled you while waiting out his knot, pressing his burning body against yours and spoiling you with words and kisses. His knot comfortably seated inside of you, keeping his load from going to waste, preventing his fertility from leaking out of you like the faucet-like jet of his tip, he murmured into your hair, nosing the few strands that clung to your forehead and kissed you deeply. You kissed back, fingers carding through his beard and bushy hair, nails scratching his scalp, being careful of his sensitive horns. 

“We have the day off, darling,” Price smiled conspiringly, blazing, amber eyes brimming with mirth, “Reckon we stay in bed a while longer?”

Taglist: @craxy-person @crowbird @dead-cipher @iwannabealocalcryptid @iizx7y @mxtokko @yeetusspagheetus @capricorn-anon @perfectus-in-morte @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @bvxygriimes @distracteddragoness @konigsblog @havoc973 @angelcakes-222 @cassiecasluciluce @ramadiiiisme @ramblingsofachaoticthinker @ki-cant-spel @im-making-an-effort @love-dove-noora @jinxxangel13 @daisychainsinknots @0alk0msan @mul-pi @danielle143 @virginalsacrifice @beau-min @makayla-666 @urfavsunkissedleo @kaelysia @mixplara @notspiders

[gamergirlbonestaskforce141riot]

Have you all written your wishlist yet?

Psst psst, two giddy elves and a grumpy santa right here

[madsfrank]

Ghost and König: *return covered in blood*

Price who asked them to go grocery shopping:

[mihof]

I haven't found a suitable Gaz cat, so here you go...

[ghouljams]

Hello! I was wondering if you’ve seen saagelius’ art on Reddit (r/saagelius) Especially the business and waitress art. Giving very much John Price and all the things I’d love for him to do to me lol

My personal favorites:

https://www.reddit.com/r/saagelius/s/3ciwvpJePN

https://www.reddit.com/r/saagelius/s/hRHT8it2sD

https://www.reddit.com/r/saagelius/s/ep1hzK7HkO

Oh Fuck

Goddamn

Awooga

You can't say how or why it's happening but you shiver against your boss's side in his ritzy little town car as his fingers pull at your thigh and spread your folds apart. Your underwear has long since disappeared, and despite how hard he'd been trying to get in your pants since you took this shitty job, he's ignoring the way your fingers twist in the lapel of his suit in favor of reading over reports.

"Mr. Price," You whine, only to be treated to the blunt press of his fingers against your hole. The slow sink of the thick digits into you makes your eyes roll, your lashes fluttering at the lengthy intrusion. His fingers hook and tug at your walls, his thumb digging into the meat of your thigh, and his pinky teasing the tight pinch of your ass.

He sets the reports on his knee and takes his cigar from between your lips, turning his head to look down at you. You open your mouth, hold your tongue out for him, and he blows his smoke into your waiting maw.

"Makin' me work for my meal, and now you won't let me take my time with it," He huffs, turning back to his report, his cigar held tight between his teeth, "should've fired you when I had the chance."

[giotanner]

Captain John Price formed a team, not a family. But sometimes the line is blurred in battle between "brothers in arms". And promises are like fire on the skin, because said in moments your soldiers will never forget. So when Simon “Ghost” Riley is imprisoned Task Force 141 is not just “one for one,” it is looking for a brother. And when Price finds him again the smile is all “well, I told you I wouldn't have you in this godforsaken shitho|e, didn't I?” no more corrupt COs, no men left behind.

(The hatching of the last drawing hurt my hand for a few hours, but hey it was worth it! Hope you enjoy COD fandom!)

Tiktok | please support me on ko-fi

[lunarw0rks]

sweet thing | part two

˖⁺‧₊˚ read it on ao3 | masterlist | last chapter | next chapter

price takes a liking to his neighbor. vulnerable, expecting, and in need of his helping hand. it's a good thing he always wanted a family.

john price x pregnant!reader

warning(s): MDNI (18+); NOT EDITED, pregnancy, hurt/comfort, small illusion to nausea/vomiting, fem!reader [wc: 2.6k]

You'd never admit to how long you stared at the wrinkled paper after John's footsteps dissipated.

And now, the digits taunted you, even when they were far out of sight.

Going about your day seemed harder than before when you had nothing and no one to lean on. Now, the mere temptation of having someone to bother was enough to gnaw at you. The handsome guy next door was just being... nice, right? Most, if not the majority, of people would go out of their way to help out a pregnant woman.

Nothing about yesterday makes you remarkable. Still, you felt otherwise.

Everything about John exuded discipline; someone dependable and safe.

A well-kept house on the outside—and inside, which you gathered from a few lucky glimpses. It's not often that you see him in the light of day, until recently. He was always gone, weeks on end, and then suddenly, he was always there. If you had the time, you might pity him for having nothing better to do than people-watch and smoke cigars out the screen door. If the circumstances differed, you might have been friends by now. You've just been preoccupied as of late, cherishing the days that you can tolerate and doing your best to forget the ones you can't.

Today is an intolerable, unforgettable one.

Another bill shoved through the mail slot that you can't pay, only to be added to the heaping pile. You're behind on laundry, and your bedroom desperately needs a reset. To top it off, the recurring aches and pains have gotten worse, proving that your body is working overtime to support its newest addition. As the months progress, it's only going to get worse. What will you do when you're fully out of commission?

Being idle is the most petrifying part of this whole ordeal. Not the idea of raising a little one on your own, but the stepping-stones along the way to get there.

It takes unlikely amounts of strength to go through pregnancy alone and you're beginning to wonder if you have enough left.

All you can rely on to tie you over is one, very predictable, pleasure.

Cravings. Sweet, savory, hot, cold, edible—even inedible. All that matters is satiating them. They may very well reserve a spot for you in the drugstore checkout since you're a recurring resident, bearing a teeming basket and stomach.

Though driven by a deep hunger for something tasty, you rush through making dinner. Dumping ingredients into saucepans rather than measuring them. Chopping with fervor, sure to make a house guest unsettled if they were looking over your shoulder.

The last step is—begrudgingly—waiting for the sauce to simmer.

It takes one glance at the couch before you plop down and elevate your swelled feet, allowing them the rest they desperately need. Flickers of the day weigh on you again. Rising before the sun, hours of tedious work, a bland, hasty lunch, and the residual exhaustion from the previous months weighing heavy.

Even less time, a blink, before you slip into unconsciousness.

The sight of your living room is back in an instant. Slightly blurry as you blink away the sleep you didn't finish. Somehow, you find the strength to scramble to the stove when the stench of char hits your nostrils. You pinch the knob, killing the heat before you dip the spoon in again like a few stirs would fix your craving. The once smooth and buttery cream had curdled, edges singed and sticking to the cheap cookware. Not salvageable in the slightest.

Even considering how hungry you are; no, especially considering how hungry you are. You can't afford to be picky, yet you resentfully scrape the remnants of sauce into the trash.

It takes everything in you to not tear the kitchen apart then and there. It fleets quickly when the exhaustion hits you again, just as abruptly as the tears. Head in hands, your eyes gloss, and your cheeks do, too. The blubbering lasts only a few minutes but feels like hours. By the end of it, your lips are chapped and quivering. It's just dinner; you can make something else. But the self-reassurance does little.

You catch a glimpse through the window when you go to the sink to pat some water on your face. Golden light looms through the cracks of blinds, spliced by flickers of a television.

No. You can't possibly bother him.

He gave you his number, though, all old-fashioned like on a slip of paper. Gave you permission to call. And... he's right next door. What can a little favor hurt?

Before you know it, your knuckles peck against the wood.

He's perplexed, to say the least.

It's late, pitch black—except for the porch and garden lights illuminating the path—and you're disheveled. Though it's obvious you made a conscious effort to fix yourself up a bit, your features are still puffy and moistened. The sunken crescents below your eyes have deepened. Your fingers twitch in nervousness or... sorrow, perhaps. There's not much you can hide from a man such as himself.

"Everything alright, love?" His brow peaks with concern, naturally.

It takes you a moment to process, partially because of the pathetic nature of your house call, and how altruistic he's been. Poor thing: only in her pajamas, he muses, allowing you the time.

"I, uhm," you quiver, "am not sure how to ask you this."

John leans forward slightly, tilting his head to let you know he's listening.

Considering how rough you look, the hour, and how antsy, he knows he needs to step in. Whatever it is. The worst scenarios begin to bubble, making his head spin until he forces himself to stifle them. It could be nothing. Still and all, you're clearly not here for the conversation.

After more than a beat of silence, you release your bottom lip from between your teeth. "I burned my dinner."

"And I hate to ask, but— I-I didn't want to run to the store so late." It's even dumber when the words are out in the open. Seriously? Bothering the nice man over burnt sauce? You consider sucking it up and waddling home to choke down a frozen meal or something equally as unfulfilling.

Maybe even moving out and changing your name.

Echoes of your conversation prior come back to him. He told you to call him, damn near groveled, if you ever need anything. Though he didn't expect the first favor to be a late-night food errand, he couldn't possibly leave you hanging midair. A swaying, fictile little mess on his porch. One who needs him. It's been weeks since he felt that, no doubt missing leading his team. Being depended on like life and death. And it is.

He has to remind himself now that it isn't anymore, at least not right now. Forces himself to muffle his savior instincts.

John forces a squint, coupling a faint smile. "You did the right thing. What do you need?"

You stammer as you explain yourself, despite the neighbor showing no sign of irritation. Mentioning your cravings, how tired you get, that you let things at home get out of hand—

These things are all expected to Price. He gives you a supportive nod, raising a thumb to wipe at your wet cheeks. It soothes you instantly. Makes the hysteria feel less.

"It's alright, it's alright... Why don't you go back inside, hm? Can't be out here this late."

His palm finds purchase on the small of your back, matching your slow pace as you turn, slippers scraping along the pavement. Pathetically, you step inside your entryway again, facing him when he doesn't cross the threshold behind you.

Before you can unfetter the meek thank you festering in your throat, he points his index at the sofa. His effortless authority makes you fold instantly. Despite its soft nature, John is not a man you want to clash with.

The plush cushion dulls the thorns along your spine and tailbone, allowing the extra baby weight off your muscles. You don't even try to conceal the grunts and groans when you sit down. Coyness, subtlety; there's no room for it. And you're certain the gruff man next door has dealt with worse and dirtier.

"These your house keys?" He inquires, only to inform, since he nabs them right after.

John pays little mind to your answer. Either way, he's making this errand his mission and he knows better than to disappoint. The keys chime when he gives you one last glance, giving you a sharp glance that says stay right there, or else.

You had no intention of moving, but that alone made you feel like you were already in trouble.

The half-hour he was gone was the longest wait of your life. Stomach grumbling, eyes drooping, you gazed mindlessly at the television until you heard the lock releasing. A paper bag crumbles as he cradles it, and you whip your head around to catch a glimpse. You're not sure of him or the food. Without so much a word, he strolls into your kitchen and gets to work, like he owns the place. Internally, you cringe at the thought of the mess he'll have to work around.

"What did you get?"

"You'll see," his voice echoes from the other room but drifts closer mere moments later. Over your shoulder, you're handed a variety pack of sweets. "And 'm sure these will keep you and the rugrat satisfied until I'm done."

The words sound so gruff that you almost chortle but pull yourself together with an appreciative nod. (Once his back is turned, your self-control is a different story. With a handful of M&Ms in your mouth and the mental image of him fretting over what candy to buy you, the wait isn't so bad—)

The faint clambering continues, and you do your best to focus on the television. Trying not to picture how good he must look right now, focused heavily on the spread of ingredients, cooking them to perfection; all in hopes of appeasing you, the burden next door, to whom he owes absolutely nothing. The aroma soothes your nostrils, the ones still clashing with the stench of charred food. Spewing into the trash bin isn't entirely unlikely, though, regardless of how good of a cook he is.

Plates clink in your peripheral, jostling you out of the daydreams. His eyes are still immersed in your mien, long after he hands one off to you and cagily lowers himself onto the edge of the coffee table as if hand-feeding a ferocious animal. Praying that it won't lunge and tear him apart. You lean back and pick up the fork, giving the meal an oversee. Some sort of salmon seared to perfection, and a side of veggies that you can tell were pre-cut. He is yet to dig in either, you notice, by the lack of movement.

"It's okay for baby," John reassures, eyes flickering from yours to your bump, "I checked."

You brush it off with a shy smile, deciding to focus on stabbing into a little bit of everything to get a full bite. The staring doesn’t stop, but doesn’t feel odd, either. It’s nice to be the one considered first. Cared for.

It‘s an unprecedented, too-good-to-be-true sensation that you figure you will only savor as long as it lasts. Maybe just tonight.

The first bite quiets your buzzing ears and nagging abdomen. Not too pungent or fishy and the texture doesn't make you gag—a rarity nowadays. You... actually feel a wealth better, despite not craving any of this in the first place. How he pulled it off is a mystery.

You chew intently, giving compliments with a mouthful. "It's—"

"Good? Good." His posture livens as if the praise is what he'd been waiting for. He takes it as an incentive to begin eating his half, too. There is no way he would've without your blessing.

Making progress on helping is no issue when you aren't feeding only you. The sliver of awkwardness that lingers in the air is obstinate, though. A good, hearty meal doesn't distract once all is said and done. John is nothing more than 'John' to you; the (potentially unlucky) empathetic guy next door, and you're the pest that keeps finding its way in.

Too piteous to squash between his fingers. They smooth the fissures, soothing and lulling into a sense of shelter.

"What's on your mind, love?" He probes, leaving a few bites behind on the plate. Suddenly, your aspect adjusts and takes in the closeness of this all. He is across from you, palms on his knees like they're ready to extend at a moment's notice.

A small, willfully dense hm? escapes before you can recover, but his demeanor never splinters.

"You went somewhere."

You blink. "Just thinking... The baby, and well, everything else. I'm a mess lately. And... and, there's so much to do and I feel like I'm out of time, I guess." His eyes survey you, brows knitting with perturb. It's obvious being willingly vulnerable is a new taste for you. But you can't stop the burdens from spilling.

The same goes for tears.

It's his moment to swoop in, to feed his instincts. Seeing you was enough to send them into overdrive, but now, with glossy cheeks and desolate globes— the swell knocks the wind out of him.

Gnarled pads of his fingers smooth along your skin again, more tender than on the porch, because this time, it isn't soiled dinner you're teary-eyed about; it's your future.

Somehow, some way, he's already picturing his home in it. He doesn't listen to the nagging voice telling him it's too soon or doomed from the start, like all his lovers.

"None of that, lovie. Please don't say that." You lean into his hand, treating his homage like evangel.

Another sob racks through you and your cheek's against his heart. Rushing; hammering; thumping, so loud you can't make out his comforts until you settle your breathing. Small, defenseless protests threaten to leak, each time cut short.

"No use in getting yourself worked up, eh? Doesn't do either of you good." Your head nods along, soaking in every word. The motion grows weaker the longer he sits you in limbo, forced to accept his support. Talking is... futile, pointless, now. He's right and he's got you pinned.

Achingly, he leans forward until you're resting against the cushion again, no longer straining your back to maintain the embrace. You're too drained, merely sagging backward and accepting it. Too tired to resist gentleness.

You can get a good look at him this close.

The humanity seeping through a hardened gaze. Muscled, forbidding limbs tingling with the unfamiliar sensation of benign. Though you can almost hear the thoughts race through his head, John remains placid for your sake.

His gaze lingers on you for a moment, head tilting when you finally reciprocate the eye contact, satisfied. "You need rest." Off to the side, he lifts the corner of the throw blanket and begins draping it along your frame, tucking in around your bump. The gesture doesn't go unnoticed.

"And 'm only a knock away," he adds, bracing his knees to come to a stand, a muffled grunt escaping his teeth.

Something's missing. He has more to say. Instead, he distracts by turning on his heels. It's too soon. Not yet.

Part of him buzzes when you speak up again, hoping, praying that you'll prove his thoughts wrong.

A groggy 'thank you' fluxes his way instead, and he can practically hear the droop of your eyelids.

"No need." He replies, patience stifling the fury. "I'll be in tomorrow, see how you're doing."

A shameless self-invite he regrets once it's in the air, but sway is the one thing he can't—won't—lose. If there's one lesson that stuck with him all these years, it's that you take what you can get.

Minute milestones. A slow smolder. Baby steps.

That's what it will take.

[st4rgrl4l1f3]

Alejandro who would watch you sway to music as you washed the dishes, humming the lyrics, focused on the task at hand. He’d come up behind you, placing his hands on your hips. It was almost like his hands were meant to be there; snug on either side of you, warmth radiating off his body as he smiled softly, swaying to the music with you.

“No te importa que me una a vosotros, ¿verdad?” (You don’t mind if I join you, do you?) He’d whisper softly in your ear, his penetrating, deep voice filling your left ear.

“I don’t mind at all.”

“Good.”

You’d eventually reach the last dish to clean, Alejandro’s forehead on your shoulder, still swaying softly with you. He’d take in your scent; the smell of the laundry detergent lingering on your clothing, your signature perfume you put on every day, the natural smell of your body. He loved it, and he loved you.

You turned around, looking into his eyes. Copper, sage, and sweet, golden honey. They weren’t just brown; they were earthy, a deep chocolate that would linger on your tongue, that you’d smell in a different room, the bitterness and sweet aftertaste so, so charming.

He took your hand, his smile deepens with affection. You dance around your kitchen, spinning, small steps in sync with his, your eyes going from his hair, inky, straight strands falling onto his forehead. To his lips, twisted into a sweet smile, his white teeth glistening under the light.

“Te quiero, my dear.” (I love you, my dear.)

“Yo también te quiero, Alejandro.” (I love you too, Alejandro.)

—————

John Price who came home and saw his pretty fiancée cleaning the living room, blankets nearly finished in the dryer, candles lit, the big 75’ TV off, floor vacuumed without a trace of a crumb. You looked up at him, whom was watching you with a smile on his face, arms crossed and his icy, gunmetal blue eyes. John took off his hat, setting it down beside him. Short, chestnut brown hair a bit disheveled from his hat.

“I see you’ve been workin hard. Thank you, hon.” His voice was hoarse, but sincere.

You give him a smile, eyes tired, cheeks flushed from the lifting and moving you did. The dryer beeps downstairs in the basement, your face relaxing. “I’m gonna go get the blankets.”

He nods, saying nothing else. John opened your pantry, lined with canned goods, heads, and sweets. He was looking for something specific, though deciding on a few select candies. Ones that were rich with chocolate, strong flavors that would satisfy your long day of cleaning. He pops a bag of popcorn, turning on your favorite movie on the big TV you paid for, sitting on the couch you’ve had for years that has never failed to comfort you.

The soft patting of your feet up the stairs makes his smile deepen. He pours the popcorn into a glass bowl, sitting on the couch and waiting for you, snacks in hand.

“The blankets are so warm, it’ll be really nice..” You look at the set up he’s got, walking a bit slower. You smile deeply—

“Figured you’d like this after you cleaned the whole house, yeah?”

It was a small gesture, but it was enough for your heart to be filled with joy and love. The warm, soft gray blanket you had just pulled out of the dryer covered the both of you, a strong, long arm coming out to pull you in closer. As you watched your movie, John watched you in his arms. Smiling, calm, and happy. And it made it all worth it, over and over again. His soon-to-be wife, cuddled up in his arms, and nobody was going to hurt you there.

—————

Gaz has always found himself to be a little more quiet than the rest. It’s not something that is a big deal, or that he’s insecure about, he’s just always noticed that whilst his friends, teammates, and acquaintances were talking, laughing and sipping on their drinks a mile a minute, he was sitting or standing, watching a tv, maybe on his phone, every once in a while someone would strike up a conversation, though it never lasted all that long.

When he met you, yes he was still reserved, obviously opening up a bit more. But his love language was small, kind gestures like a candy you had mentioned you liked, being on the counter after his grocery run, or a new pair of tights after you’d accidentally hooked yours on a thorn.

He’d notice small things about you, like how your hair would grow and grow, booking you an appointment to a hairdresser to get a trim. He’d notice the fact that you haven’t eaten today, making you a nice little lunch.

So when he made you upset on a particularly bad day, he apologized, which was enough for you. After work, all you wanted to do was shower and watch the new season of your favorite show.

But his apology wasn’t enough for him. That same night, he booked a luxury spa. Did he care it was $168? Not one bit. He woke you up with flowers on your bedside, pretty daisies that were a pale yellow in the middle, milky, soft white petals protruding from the center. He bought you that one game you’ve been wanting. You want it? He’s buying it. He let you pick out clothes, carry your bags, drive you around and take you for a restaurant of your choosing.

“Kyle, why are you doing this?” You asked, a sincere smile on your face.

“I didn’t feel okay even after you accepted my apology, so I wanted to make you happy in another way.”

“Kyle, you didn’t have to—“

“Maybe you think that, but it’s what I felt I had to do.”

—————

Soap who quite literally comes home and is surprised to see you. Every day.

You’re his wife? You, an absolute gem of a human being, a strong, independent, intelligent, fucking gorgeous person, is with him?! You could’ve done SO much better.

He brags about his pretty wife, pride written all over his body. Smiling, chest puffed out, arms crossed.

“She’s jus’ perfect. Never met anyone like ‘er. Patches me up an’ scolds me, but she’s beautiful while doin’ it. She’s damn near perfect.”

He’d ramble on and on about you, never stopping, even if he’s talking to himself now.

Women hitting on him whilst he’s out? Nope. He’s opening his phone up, showing you off to the girl that attempted to flirt with him.

“Yeah, that’s her. She’s perfect.”

“Oh um, sorry I didn’t know you had a girlfr—“

“Actually, she’s my wife.” He was quick to cut the woman off, the phrase “she’s my wife” bouncing off his head and into his heart, making him all giddy inside.

Coming home to you was the best. He’d wrap his arms around you in the tightest hug,

“Aaah! I missed ya so much, you know that?!” He’d smoosh his face into you, breathing you in and then going to kiss your cheek, down to your pretty lips.

—————

Ghost who would let you take care of him, loving when you scolded him for not doing it himself.

Ghost has never really thought of himself, throwing away all of his life at an attempt to help something that wasn’t guaranteed to do any good.

Coming home to you after a long day, he’s covered in grime. Bloody mask and uniform, mud drying and hardening onto his clothes.

“Evenin, hon.” He’d say, gruff voice greeting you.

You turned back to look at him, only for your eyes to widen. “Shower, now.”

“That’s an understandable reaction.” He’d quickly respond, but to his surprise, you followed him in.

“What’re you doin?” He’d question.

You took off his mask, inky, sticky, eyeblack smeared on it. Taking a damp towel, you wiped it off, giving you easier access to where exactly his wounds were.

“You have got to be more careful out there, Ghost! Look at you, you are covered in blood.”

“It ain’t mine.”

“Still, look at your face.” You cupped his cheeks, his face cold and your hands warming them. “You are covered in bruises and cuts.”

He stayed silent, letting you pat at the wounds before putting a thick, white ointment on that stung a bit, then covering him in bandages.

“There. Now you promise me to be more careful! And take a shower…Promise me that too.”

“I promise, honey.” He said, looking down at you with deep amber eyes.

“Good.”

He watches you walk out of the bathroom, a soft smile creeping onto his lips. You were adorable like that, scolding him to no end. He chuckled a bit.

“Oh man. I’m in deep now.”

—————

[granddaughterogg]

So, you're the newest addition to Task Force 141 and you Make a Move on one of the boys. How will they react?

Johnny Soap MacTavish: With utter glee. "Took ya long enough, lass! Thought you'll never shoot your shot!" He'll announce with amusement. Our perky Scotsman is an absolute Sexpot - and he knows it. He is also a master of Living in the Moment aka Seizing the Day. Rules and regulations be damned. "So what do you say?" He'll ask, filling your personal space with all that muscle and clasping those strong hands around your waist. "Wanna go on a date first…" Johnny wiggles his painterly eyebrows. "...Or shall we skip to the good part?"

Ghost: When you confessed that you'd like to spend some time with him in private, he didn't seem thrilled. As is usual case with Ghost, he didn't seem like caring one way or another. All you got in the way of a reaction was his hand, holding the cigarette and now stilled halfway to his mouth. He threw you one of his Stares - Simon Riley's eyes are as beautiful as they are cryptic, you've never been able to read those dark peepers surrounded by white, seemingly frosted eyelashes of dizzying length. Then he muttered something under his breath and walked away. You didn't hear a word from him for the next three days, apart from work orders anyway. Disappointment and embarrassment tormented you in turns. You were silently cursing your big, reckless mouth. On the fourth day he approached you as if nothing had ever happened and said: "Allright". "Allright what, Sir?.." You asked, dumbfounded. "I agree. We should fuck."

Gaz: Oh, this beautiful boy. Out of the whole squad he's probably the one best adapted to Living in a Society. He reacts as any sensible man would: with a charming smile, a proud, joyful gleam in his eye, a trace of a blush almost. "Gosh, Private, really…Me? Well, girl, you got outstanding taste." "Don't I know it," you answer boldly. "Look, babe," he says in a hushed voice, coming closer and putting his hands on your shoulders, "Cap will rip my head off and piss in my neck if he finds out that I'm fooling around with a subordinate...so we're gonna have to be extra careful, 'kay? Can you promise me that?" You nod enthusiastically. This is so exciting!

Captain Price: So you like to live dangerously. There is no safe way that you can Put the Moves on your commander. You know that...right? On the other hand - if you're gonna break the rules, break them hard and break them for good. Tell him that you desire him. That you can't stop thinking about him. Pick a moment when the rest of the guys won't be within a kilometer radius. Say your line and look into those hard, cloudy sky-coloured eyes which have just grown big and round with shock. "Kid," says Price, his voice suddenly a little breathy, which is oh so hot: "Are you out of your goddamn mind?" "Only for you, Sir." Flutter those eyelashes. Come on, lay it on thick. It's been some time since anyone has thrown themselves at the old man. He will sigh the mother of all sighs, then drag one hand across his tired face. "I am you commanding officer." "That you are, Sir." He will come closer, both hands behind his back. Then he'll reach out and gently, oh, so gently touch your cheekbone. "You do realize tha' I could tell you to pack up and send your arse home?" His voice is very meticulously level, but you can feel the volcano bubbling underneath. "I do, Sir. But I just couldn't live a lie. I want you." That boldness will earn you another sigh - this time more ragged. He'll trace his finger over your upper lip, say: "Well fuck me sideways..." like a man who has just experienced a miracle - and then John Price will embrace you in a kiss, shameless, deep and hungry.

This man has been criminally touch starved. Congratulations, you'll have your hands full from now on. Not to mention your…other regions.

[hxltic]

I LOVE YOUR METALHEAD READER X PRICE AHHHH PLEASE DO MORE <3333

Price found the old thrifted guitar you begged your dad for. Is it a coincidence that despite the now-depleted volume and the dust coming off it, he knows how to play?

The bands you were into mostly disbanded. Price new about most of the ones you liked—it’s a perk to being almost a decade older.

He has leftover records stashed somewhere that he likes to play when he’s in the kitchen. Instead of the slow love songs to dance to, you could both rock out into the night.

Remembering that night he found your old glasses from your rabid teenage years, it’s no surprise how his eyes perk up in revelation when he’s informed his young daughter needs glasses too. He immediately locates them, asks her politely to put them on, and dies laughing at your expression when you walk in on a little you.

He gifts you an electric guitar on your anniversary, almost an exact replica of the one you had before, except this one is signed beautifully by his good friend who also happened to be your celebrity crush in the 7th grade.

He takes you to music festivals now. You get to sit up on his shoulders if you aren’t packed in a nice area with a tent (Coachella).

If you are at Coachella, he got some of the best tickets. You don’t know it came from one of his friends performing until he gets you passes to meet them as well.

Your interest in the music has slowly returned him to what he likes to consider his “prime years.” Slow nights, good beer, and uselessly swatting away mosquitos in the garage with his friends.

Price still likes to sit outside on the patio and rock while scrolling on his phone. The music will play in the background, and you found him out there sleeping calmly one Saturday evening.

It’s no secret that Price grows a lot of hair. Unfeigned evidence is his beard that he is extremely dedicated to. But with this fact, you should know that Price has had his fair share of hairstyles. No, you won’t ever get to see those.

[konigsblog]

stepdad!price raping his stepdaughter the night of his wedding with readers mother 🤭🤭

tw/cw; dark content, stepcest, non-con/dub-con. dead dove: do not eat. MDNI 18+

you're devastated that your mother decided to marry that depraved and disgusting bastard. she ignores and brushes off his perverted behaviour as him just being friendly, that you're being overdramatic and cruel towards him.

it's the night before your mother's wedding, and you're awoken to the throbbing and stabbing sensation of price's bulbous cock against your sloppy cunt. price stinks and reeks of booze and nicotine, the strong and pungent scent of tobacco assaulting your nostrils. if not for the strong smell of nicotine, you wouldn't have known it was your stepfather raping your sleeping body, with his hoarse grunts conforming your beliefs.

your wrists are held above your head in a tight fist, held by his large and calloused hands. your eyes glisten as you adjust to the darkness, while your pussy pulses and clenches onto his meaty dick, feeling him sink deeper inside. your t-shirt is rolled up over your soft breasts, your nipples perky and hard, being played with as if you're some toy for his excitement and enjoyment. you feel his scarred and rough fingers play with your nipples, causing your jaw to fall slack, your bottom lip quivering with mortification, realising the mess you've got yourself into.

how exactly are you supposed to explain to your mother what happened that night? you can't ruin her special day, and it's not as if she'd believe you anyways. she's head over heels for that horrible pervert, caring more about her relationship with him rather than with her own daughter. each stroke and drag is agonising and your cunt is left raw and sensitive, pussy coating his veiny shaft in blood and slick, your moans silenced and choked; choked, pained, and strained.

you put up with his sickening tormenting and harassment for your mother's happiness, focusing on how happy your mother will be to be remarried to a man she loves so dearly, while you're left tense and frozen at the agony and suffering forced onto your poor, sore body.

[gamergirlbonestaskforce141riot]

Mistletoe mancandy series: Captain John Price

[honeypipin]

Merry Christmas Bankers!!

(I'm writing too many of these, i got borerd)

It's been getting close to the Christmas season, and whether you celebrate or not, many of your clients were just so insistent on their gifts to you! And well... who are you to say no to them?

The first with presents were mafia!price and and the rest of mafia!141.

You were ready for a deep analysis into their economy and their suspicious profits, but when you came over to their head office for a meeting with the team, you did not expect to be walking out with bags. You were quite shocked to be honest, the plan was not to have 4 handsome British men hand you hot drinks whilst discusing the amazing boost in their sales, not to mention being invited to England or Scotland for Christmas parties. With both mafia!Ghost and mafia!Soap so willing to have you there, even offering to let you sleep over at their houses back home (permanently please) , you were starting to consider it.

After Mafia!Gaz carrying your bags to your car (he won the rock paper scissors), a belly filled with the food and drinks they insisted on giving you, and a job well done in that meeting, it was a good day.

"You'll come over for Christmas, yeah?"

"Well I'm not too sure yet... depends on if I'm busy or not."

"What? You can't be working on the 23rd, can you?"

"I don't know, I might have a client again then, happened last year too."

"How about I be your client?"

"Are you trying to hire me for a Christmas party?"

"Anything to get you there."

He delighted on the smile that spread across your face, what kind of man was he if he couldn't make you happy? Stupid?

"I'll look forward to it."

You waved goodbye and drove off, and all Gaz could think about were the calls he was about to make.

[mihof]

(I see that it’s hard to understand, but this is Soap)

[sstormyskyess]

Decompressing

author's note: wrote this because i think it would fix me tbh

cw: hurt/comfort, small domestic fight [like really small], non-sexual bdsm, spanking, aftercare, subspace, dom!price

word count: 1000+

John Price x GN!Reader

Today was bad. Really bad. And you were tired. So, so tired. Even getting home was a chore; you were so irritated that every little inconvenience on your way back to your safe haven of a home had you seething. All you want is your bed—you want to sink into the sheets and not come out for as long as possible.

But your husband, your perfect husband who could do no wrong, has other plans. You know he means well, of course he does. All he wants is to help, but it feels like he's smothering you.

Finally, you snap.

"Just leave me alone, John!" You bark all of a sudden. You storm off to your shared bedroom and the door rattles on its hinges from the force with which you slam it shut. By the time you've thrown yourself under the duvet and buried your face into the pillow, you're already regretting what you did. Your face burns with shame as you imagine what his reaction was, the look that was on his face.

Luckily, he does give you space. The door only opens an hour or so later, once you've cooled off to a simmer. Not a full rest, but not boiling either. You bury yourself further under the sheets to shield yourself from the light that floods into the room from the hallway and then the light from the lamp that John turns on. His weight settles on the bed behind you and you melt under the heaviness of his warm hand on your side. He's silent—letting you think, you assume.

"I'm sorry," You mumble, voice muffled by the pillow under your head. He hums in response and starts to rub your shoulder. "I know, sweetheart." His voice is warm, calm, a perfect contrast to your own choked up tone. "It's alright."

There's a brief pause. It's tense and it causes you to turn over and peek up at him. He's looking down at you with his silvery blue eyes and your gaze meets his meekly. "You know that was inappropriate. You don't talk to me like that," he says, and although you're being scolded, he sounds anything but angry. You still feel terrible for what you did, but you know he wasn't upset with you. It didn't stop you from pulling the sheets over your face childishly.

"Come on, love. Get up," he tells you, firm yet patient as always. You knew what was coming next and it made you shudder with anticipation. You do as he asks and he moves to sit on the edge of the bed. You shuffle in front of him, dragging your feet and still avoiding his eyes. Your muscles tense when he takes hold of your thigh, squeezing it. "Over my knees."

You know he wasn't punishing you. This was anything but a punishment; it was for you, not for him. When you're laid over his legs, your face nuzzled into his side, you know that he's taking care of you and it makes you sigh softly.

His large palm massages the meat of your thighs and up to your ass, then his fingers find their way under the waistband of your pants. He tugs them down to your knees, taking your underwear with them. You shiver at the wash of cold air that breezes across your bare skin and John, ever observant, takes a moment to warm you up with his hand in wide circles over your ass.

When his hand pulls away, you immediately brace yourself, eyes shut tight. He brings it back down with a harsh slap to your ass and you yelp. He smooths over your skin as a slight comfort. "Don't forget to count, love," he instructs. You murmur out a small 'one,' and wait for his next spanking.

You're holding back tears after you reach seven, your asscheeks and thighs burning hot and prickling with pain from the intensity behind each hit he laid upon you. He takes a pause, running his hand up and down your spine. You glance up at him, silently questioning him.

"Tell me what happened today," he says with a leveled gaze peering back down at you. You go back to bury your face in his side, but his other hand takes hold of the back of your head, redirecting you to look up at him again. "I'm not asking," he reminds you with a tight squeeze to the nape of your neck. "Yes, sir," You respond with a nod.

You start recounting your terrible day, telling him everything that happened one after another, all the while keeping count just as he told you. The tears finally fall as you spill all of the feelings that were building inside you all day, everything that was pent up and ready to burst at the seams. You eke out apologies to him between your sobs, and he listens to everything you say intently, reassuring you that things are going to be okay. You squeeze his free hand tightly when he offers it to you and all of it is just so much. It's so overwhelming; it's cathartic.

When you tap his thigh, John knows that you've gotten it all out and you're finally relaxed, lost in a floaty, comfortable state far above the sea of troubles that you were stewing in before. He bundles you up in his arms and totes you to the bathroom, running a warm bath for you to rest in. Your eyes are puffy and rimmed with red while you stare up at him, leaning into his touch while he cleans you up from head to toe. His calloused fingers scrubbed along your scalp, keeping you drifting in subspace.

Once you’re cleaned up and dried off, he lays you on your stomach in the bed gently, peppering your warm skin with kisses. Across your shoulders, up and down your spine on the bruises that were forming on your ass and thighs. Looking back at him over your shoulder, you can see his soft eyes looking back at you, practically glowing in the light of the bedside lamp. Soon enough, you’re lathered up in lotion, cooling your irritated skin enough to let you drift off to sleep peacefully, cuddled up next to your husband. You could talk more in the morning, but for now you just needed to rest.

𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭