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ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff · 1 year

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Soundly (Simon “Ghost” Riley x Reader)

Summary: You’ve injured your arm, leaving you frustratingly helpless to complete everyday tasks, like cleaning yourself. Your boyfriend and colleague Simon understands your apprehension towards accepting help for such a task and tells you how he does.

AN: Working title was “Sprain” for those of you who voted in the poll. I’ll be posting the Soap fics shortly and posting another poll for my other upcoming fics afterwards! Meanwhile, let me know what you think in replies or inbox me, tell me your thoughts on fics - present or future.

I just want Ghost to feel loved and to recover from all the shit he went through. I did a fic for that and sharing a bed, so I’m doing this one for the reader a.k.a. me. Plus I like the head canon that Ghost is actually kinda talkative, like in the Alone mission. I know he’s probably partly chatting to Johnny to because he’s trying to keep him focused, guiding him to regroup and survive. But he’s telling dumb jokes and joking about watching his torture video. He’s got banter and trauma!

Content warnings: Allusions to Ghost’s time being tortured by Roba and the Mexican Cartel - specifically his SA as well as the reader’s. Reader is GN, no use of Y/N

Masterlist // AO3

For “just a sprain”, your elbow hurt like a bastard. It was resting in the hammock of the sling your doctor ordered you to keep on. Almost smugly, it sent a few stings across the bone when you were also instructed to restrict your movements and get support to complete day-to-day tasks before you were signed off on a month’s medical leave – pending review at the end of it for being brought back to work.

It was half your fault. The sprain in the first place was caused by some asshole who would not go down quietly and attempted to dislocate your limb. Thankfully, your training automatically twisted you into a position preventing that but then you had to shoot that asshole and your gun was in the arm he’d injured. The bullet that you fired solidified the damage and you were forced to focus hard on aiming with your non-dominant hand whilst slugging it over to the Heli half a klick to the west for recon. You didn’t have to shoot the guy straight away. You’d kicked him down and he was too far from his own weapon to have made it before you could have swapped your gun to your other hand and ended his life the same miserable way. But nah, in the heat of gunfire, you’d decided to end the fight as quick as possible then ran like a bat out of hell back to safety where the rest of your crew was headed.

Simon had known you long enough – and dated you long enough – to not treat you like glass. He wouldn’t insult you like that. Therefore you were very grateful that he was the one to take you home, and that his driving was a lot steadier and smooth on the motorway.

Letting you open the front door, he carried both his and your bags inside, ready to start your medical leave this instant. He was heading out of the hall with his shoes dropped loudly onto the rack when he asked:

“You want anything specific for tea?”

“Nah, I’m good with whatever.”

Despite years of therapy, this injury had dealt a hefty blow to your pride; you didn’t want to be any more of a burden than you were going to be over the next few weeks. Thank God you’d been to his place enough times for it to be considered familiar.

From the airing cupboard, you collected the towel that Simon had bought you after your fifth stay here and smiled at the memory of shopping for it together. He’d asked for what colour you preferred then gathering other items into the trolley that were the same shade: toothbrush, wash cloth, cup to sit by the bathroom sink. He was nice like that.

The bathroom door locked behind you, the final ebbs of afternoon reaching in through frosted glass. You thanked the sun for enabling you to keep the lights off; the buzz that accompanied their stark spark on the silky tiles was always too much for you. However as warm as the daylight was, it failed to soothe your state. When you tried to retrieve the memory of how you’d gotten this t-shirt on in the first place, your mind offered you a blank slate and tears of frustration bubbling over, stinging worse than the injury as you tried to warp it against its will. But to no avail. Your bitten tongue surrendered so that the crying could commence with your t-shirt still stuck on your body.

Gentle rapping at the door didn’t halt anything. Surrendering felt like an admission of weakness, failure, and it poisoned you against yourself as you twisted the lock in the handle and slumped on the rim of the bath.

A pair of plain-socked feet appeared at the top of your line of sight, lingering on the cobalt carpet side of the door frame.

“Can I borrow your scissors please?” You asked, toying with a stray string dangling from the hem.

“You gonna stab me?” Simon inquired semi-sarcastically.

“Yes.” It was a pathetic little reply. But Simon pushed off the bath, belongings tinkling against one another as he rooted around then retrieved a small pair of scissors from the top shelf.

He sat down beside you on the rim, holding out the scissors by the blade, “It’s a nice shirt.”

You wiped your nose on the hem before taking the scissors, “It’s just Primark.”

“I can help you out of it, if it is Primark’s finest.”

“Was just cut it off.”

But of course your dominant hand was tied up in the sling, and you only just realised now.

“I could help you take it off.”

You’d never been undressed around Simon. The closest you’d gotten were jogging bottoms you’d cut into knee-length shorts and the sleeves of your t-shirt pushed onto your shoulders whilst you both worked out at opposite ends of the gym. Towards the end of your set, you mopped at your brow with the hem of your shirt once and the sliver of skin nearly sent Simon into anaphylactic shock.

He knew why you grappled with the notion of undressing. But he didn’t ever linger on you going elsewhere to change. Across your relationship, and even before it started, he’d shown you love in so many other ways that you would forget about what had happened to you.

Today was the first time he addressed it: “I understand why you wouldn’t want me to help.”

Without moving your head, your watchful stare latched onto his adjusting to the nuisance of sitting on a thin perch of porcelain. He withdrew his skull balaclava from its suffocating in his pocket and began kneading at it until the eyehole faced the ceiling you’d stared at many times, wishing you could be more intimate with the man you loved more than life.

“Your reasons aren’t so different from mine.” And he held out the mask to you.

The olive branch was accepted and you thumbed over the skull plate as best you could with the scissors still in your grip. Only when your thumbnail caught against the paint depicting a cheekbone did it dawn on you what your boyfriend was referring to.

“Simon-”

“None of that,” He interrupted you, gently, firmly, “I get it. I don’t wanna bother you if you don’t want me here.”

He rubbed along your shoulder as you matched your deep breaths to his, resting your eyes to bask in his comfort and crushing the mask in your loose fist. You’d always equated it to anonymity. Never had you thought of linking it to another form of comfort.

“You can bathe with your clothes on,” Simon suggested after a minute’s silence.

“Do you know how hard it is to remove wet denim?” You muttered with a crooked smile.

“I do,” and he pressed a kiss to your forehead – his preferred place to do so. “Let’s give this a go.”

You handed back his balaclava and took in his bare face, the medical mask – the one he’d been wearing whilst you were in the hospital and all the way home - gone, his expression carefully crafted to be neutral so that you didn’t have to be.

He eased your sling off you after the taps were thundering steaming water into the tub. Then he vanished to his room, returning with a pair of baggy sports shorts. Cradling them like a baby, your nose welcomed their softness and the steam whilst Simon knelt onto the fluffy bathmat, nodding after splashing the bathwater and twisting the taps into silence.

“I’m gonna stink if I don’t wash properly,” You whispered.

After opening his palms to you, Simon took your shorts and arranged them on the floor, “I’ll get you some wet wipes to use while we wait for your arm to heal up.”

You held onto his shoulders whilst he undid your jeans and eased them down your legs, his hands careful to stay hidden in the fabric whilst you stepped out of them and into the shorts. Simon to pulled them up to your hips.

“Why did the magician take a bath?” He asked you as you lowered yourself into the water.

“I dunno, why?”

“To clean up his act.”

Your chest quivered, struggling to hold in your groans and giggles whilst Simon pumped some blueberry body wash into his palm, “That’s good.”

Tenderly he circled the soap across your forearm, “Fancy another?”

“Go on.” You were nothing if not his little enabler, indulging in his humour even after the rest of 141 had lightly roasted him for it.

“Knock, knock.”

Your free hand fiddled with the sodden hem of your t-shirt, “Who’s there?”

“Dwayne.”

“Dwayne who?”

Soaking the flannel and wringing it out over your arm, Simon began to wash the suds away, “Dwayne the bathtub before I dwown.”

Your smile was not dampened by the tears that rolled down your cheeks and dripped onto the shallow waterline. Instead, you focused your blurry vision on Simon’s hoodie sleeves that were pushed up to his elbows, those broad forearms sprinkled with droplets and soapsuds.

When Simon was lathering up some more body wash, you offered your own joke: “What did the man say after he swallowed a clock and went to the toilet?”

“What?”

“Watch out.”

Simon snorted loudly whilst carefully manipulating your injured arm amidst the blueberry bubbles.

You wiped a new tear away on your shoulder: “I’ve already told Kyle but you can tell it to Johnny.”

“Much obliged.”

With permission and a slow touch, he started soaping up your shins. His contact always lingered for hours on your skin. This felt like a polish, not a scratch or a dent, which is why you felt so overwhelmed now, just as you did that first time he gave you a proper bear hug. You didn’t mind the blueberry, something else to focus on instead of letting yourself meander towards conjuring disturbing imaginations of what you’d just learnt about Simon’s capture in Mexico.

He let you take over for washing your thighs, sitting on the toilet still talking to you with a smile that cracked up his face like the scar, from lip to brow. His eyes never strayed from your face, though it never felt like you were a target down his scope, more like feeling the sun first thing in the morning with a delicate breeze that danced around your being. Such a gaze wasn’t alien to Simon, even if he rarely showed it to you, and never to anyone else. You were just grateful that he was able to be like this, and that he still chose to.

That same stare, he held it whilst draping a towel around your shoulders, patting over your arms before he gathered it at the front for you to hold in your healthy hand. Then he collected a pile of clean clothes from the bedroom, placing them onto the closed toilet lid, you noted the crisply ironed button up folded on top. You settled for nestling your head against his chest since you were unable to hug him.

“Thank you.”

“I’ll make dinner.”

The door was locked after Simon disappeared behind it. You did end up cutting yourself out of the shirt, rest in peace. Fogged-up, the mirror wasn’t so bad to stare at whilst you moisturised with your good hand. You could still feel where Simon’s calloused hands had brushed over your skin, tingling in each follicle, and it was protected by the button-up you were able to slide on – one of the few Simon owned. His bulk was once again your gain; the shirt was loose enough to give you some wiggle room whilst dressing.

Clattering from the kitchen caught Simon in the act of putting away the ironing board. He was taking loud and rehearsed deep breaths that hissed through the fabric of his freshly-donned balaclava, the board under his arm before he tossed it into its assigned slot. His hand shook as it released the cupboard door handle, searching for something to distract himself with until he latched his stare onto you bunching your shirt in the front.

“I can’t do my buttons up,” You said quietly.

Your stomach impulsively sucked in on itself when his hands reached for the buttons before it, joining them with the fabric. Nevertheless, your gaze found solace in the thatch of fine chest hair growing in the lowest peak of his V-neck.

Simon started from the bottom button and made his way up. With each wince, his fingers stalled. But you knew he’d never hurt you, never on purpose and never like that. He made steady progress until complete and even helped you replace your sling. But then he sniffed and brushed his nose briefly, stepping away and back to the kitchen. For five minutes he alternated between sifting through the cupboards and staring helplessly into the fridge, his face washed out by the stagnant light inside. You took the time to help him in one of the ways you knew how.

“I’ll order us a takeaway.”

Immediately he slammed shut the fridge door, “You’re a fucking star.”

You were not put off by his pacing back and forth, nor were you by his hovering over you like a gargoyle whilst you tapped at the screen – which you held in a way for him to see clearly in case he wanted to add something. A wide berth allowed you to approach him on the couch with the takeaway when it arrived half an hour later (always reliable, hence why it was your go-to takeaway place). Simon also accepted the drink you brought him, but only because he’d already gotten you one plus two pain meds he made sure you took after getting some food into your stomach first.

The cushioned lap trays you’d invested in were already paying for themselves.

Dinner inhaled and rendering you quite soporific, you mirrored Simon’s earlier actions and tentatively shuffled closer to him, “Is this ok?”

“Yeah.” His arm dropped to around your waist, and you tugged on his wrist to keep it there. Only then did you tentatively wrap yourself around his full belly.

“Fuckin’ softie,” He said under his breath. That didn’t stop him from giving you a little squeeze – his hand no longer trembling - and sinking himself lower so that there was no pressure on your sprain. He turned the volume down a little, which sparked inspiration in your mind.

Half hiding in his t-shirt, you projected loud enough for him to hear you: “The local TV controller museum shut down due to no visitors. Turns out people aren’t remotely interested.”

“Have you been researching these instead of doing your paperwork?”

“What makes you think I haven’t been doing my paperwork?”

Simon looked down at you, those expressive eyes communicating both the “are you fucking for real?” and the “you’re lucky you’re cute” in equal parts. But from the way his balaclava was balanced on his face, you could tell he was smiling at you. So you smiled back at him then snuggled back against him with a contented sigh and the existence of your new joke book still a secret (for now).

The next time you opened your eyes, it was much darker in the living room. A blanket was tucked around your legs. The glow of “Are you still watching Phil Wang: Philly Philly Wang Wang?” from the flat-screen, despite that not being what you were watching when you first drifted off, bathed you in enough low light to allow you a comfortable adjustment period. You squinted up at your boyfriend. Head back in the pillows, his chest was rising and falling with each breath he drew and released through his nose. You adjusted the blanket around to cover his legs too and, tucking yourself back into your bundle, both you and Simon slept soundly.

#simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley #simon riley x reader #simon riley fanfic #simon riley oneshot #cod #cod mw2 #mw2 #cod x reader #cod fanfic #cod oneshot #mw2 fanfic #my writing #r: gen #wc: >2k

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ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff · 1 year

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An Evening of Persuasion (John Price x Reader)

Summary: An unstoppable force (your desire to get your captain a somewhat regular sleep schedule) meets an immovable object (Price immersed within an endless pile of paperwork).

AN: Had a go at writing John Price. Once again, please don’t make fun of me. It’s already bad enough I’m down horrendous for a man with mutton chops. Thank you everyone who voted in the poll! I’ll post them in the order of the results.

Reader is GN with no use of Y/N.

Content warning:

Masterlist // AO3

The late-night interaction started with you being a hypocrite. Your policy of “knock and wait until the person on the other side of the door allows you to enter” was one you’d held long before you joined the military. It was the bare minimum level of respect that could be shown, as well as a display of patience.

Tonight you committed the ultimate sin: you knocked as you opened the door.

From his desk, Captain Price spoke with the heaviest of sarcastic tones as you closed the door to his office behind you: “Yes, please, come in. No need to wait outside until I’m ready.”

The famed boonie hat was off and sitting politely by his buzzing desk lamp. His hands were bare, their gloves paired and no doubt in his middle desk drawer. One of his hands reached for his mug whilst he kept scanning the sheet of paper in the other. He only looked up when he patted the placemat – not his mug – to see you holding his drink hostage, staring down into the blackness that occupied it.

“You can’t drink this; you’ll be up all night!” You frowned.

“That’s the point.” Hand open, palm up, eyebrows raised, Price began to stare you down. His silent steely eyes held you like a deer in the headlights. Except you had far better control over your instincts and knowledge of your Captain that ran deeper than the Marianas Trench.

After blinking first out of the two of you, you held the mug to your lips and started chugging the coffee down.

“For God’s sake,” grunted Price. He was up and out of his chair.

Celebrating the success of getting him to move, you circled around the desk backwards, still holding the coffee out of reach, “It’s gone eleven; you need to go to bed.”

Price was unrelenting, “Give me the coffee.”

“You’re gonna regret it in the morning!”

“You’re already gonna regret it; I’m putting you on bathroom duty for the next two weeks.”

The hand was already back out, not close enough to make a sudden grab for the mug. It was a power play. His success required you to give it up willingly, and he was adding to the pressure of the return.

“Three weeks. Give it back.”

Making more demands though, he didn’t have to do that – just add to the punishment and let that speak for itself. He must really be tired.

Rather than push that tactic, you decided to butter him up instead and make him lower his guard by handing back the coffee mug. He didn’t even smile at his success. An ache grew in your chest, melancholy in the absence of those eye crinkles that appeared whenever John’s grin grew across his face. You watched him sit back down at his desk, replacing the coffee mug, before he leant back and sighed deeply with his face hidden in a hand.

“John?” You said quietly. He let out a low hum but didn’t look at you.

You followed the path he’d taken until you were stood behind him. With a firm squeeze on his shoulders, you wrapped your arms loosely around his neck and rested your chin on his head.

“Why are you so persistent, eh?” He said gruffly

“Because I care about you,” You mumbled before kissing his cheek and releasing him in favour of spinning him around in his chair to face you, “C’mon, you can leave it until tomorrow.”

Captain John Price did not rise from his office chair. Instead, one of his feet kicked up to rest on the opposite’s knee. He lifted then tilted his head, his fore and middle finger stroking over his bottom lip, teasing it into a smirk as he watched you through slitted eyelids.

“What?” You folded your arms, struggling not to fidget further.

John pursed his lips, “Just lookin’ at you.”

“That’s a dirty tactic, Captain.”

“Pulling rank is a dirty tactic – and an odd choice for you to make, considering I outrank you by a very large margin.”

“Don’t I know it,” You popped out your right hip with a grin.

Your double entendre scored you a couple of points, since you got to hear Price’s hearty laugh for a few seconds. It broke his stare as his head lolled back, only returning once his mirth had ended – the only clue to its existence the glint in his blue eyes and the crinkles at the corners.

Carefully, as if to avoid a HR violation, he said, “Are you trying to seduce me into bed?”

How dare he, when he was sat looking at you and looking like that, accused you of such a thing. Sure, you’d done it before and it had been very effective, but you has to act like you were slightly above using sex to get John to prioritise his health over his paperwork. Set an example and all that.

“I don’t need to,” You replied, “Because my boyfriend is going to do what I ask.”

“Is he now?” John raised his eyebrows.

After another brief stare down, you rolled up the sleeves of your shirt: “Fine. Can’t say I didn’t try being nice.”

And that’s how you ended up perched in his lap, nice and comfortable and straddling his thick thighs. You didn’t miss the quirk of John’s lips before he ironed out his expression to remain neutral; that became especially difficult to maintain as he shuffled the chair around to face the desk.

“Hope you don’t use these torture techniques on anyone else,” he signed a document and placed it in his out tray – his very small out tray.

“No, I save them for geriatric stubborn superior officers.”

“I’d be very surprised if Ghost let you try this out.”

“Are you kidding? He’s all over me,” You said, bobbing and weaving your head from side to side as John tried to get a good look at the next file behind you.

John scoffed to (poorly) hide the wince, “Don’t say that.”

“Jealous?”

“Disgusted.”

“You brought him up; one might call it a dirty tactic.” You were very pleased with that one. “I’ll stop talking about it if you come to bed.”

“Extortion! Now we’re talking.”

“A language you can understand, at last!”

“… Fine!” John capped his pen then kissed you on the forehead, “I’ll go to my room.”

“Now?”

“Now.”

Even with this assurance, you continued to monitor him close down his office for the night and retire to his private quarters. That meant watching him get undressed, occasionally helping him with an item of clothing he clearly wasn’t struggling with.

When he was down to his undershirt, you headed towards the door, but John caught your elbow neatly, “Hang on, you’re not staying? After all that hard work putting moves on your superior officer?”

You untangled yourself from him, “No, you put me on toilet duty for three weeks.”

“Sweetheart-”

“Shut up and get into bed.”

John didn’t try holding back the smile or the flush hidden mostly by his mutton chops, "Technically, I only agreed to go to my room.”

“John!”

“I'll get into bed if you tuck me in.”

“Toilet duty. Three weeks.”

“I’ll lower it to one week.”

“No, you won’t.”

As he sidled away from you, John sighed, “I guess you know me too well.”

“Oh, I see what this is,” You said as he languidly removed his sleep shirt with his back, his gorgeous back, to you, “You’re trying to seduce me again.”

“Just taking turns, it’s only fair.”

With a flourish, John discarded the shirt into his laundry basket. You had to redirect your gaze to the ceiling because, if you could see any part of his chest, you would not be able to control yourself and you couldn’t let him catch you ogling openly.

“Fair, right. You don’t ever play fair,” You deflected, temptation approaching in your peripherals.

“I find that accusation offensive.” You stiffened as, with ease, John lifted you up into his arms and smirked since he’d given you no option but to look at him. “If anything, my playing this way balances out your actions in my office.”

You weren’t immune to his charm; he’d eroded your iron will into a rusty stump. So, as he carried you over to the bed, your hands slid up to link behind the back of his neck and you relaxed a little.

Still, you couldn’t help but throw another quip his way: “Getting practice in?”

John paused before sitting down on the bed with you over his lap, “For what?”

“Weight lifting, Gaz said you were trying it out the other day. Got matching sweatbands and legwarmers.”

It was a lie that doubled as a rib. But there wasn’t any retort to this fabrication; John started unlacing your boots instead, acting more interested in getting you to sleep with/beside him than whatever slip-up he’d just skidded on. Thing was, you weren’t sure what the slip-up was, what was making him act like this. If you weren’t about to curl up atop the blankets and snooze, you’d probably have been able to work out what was suddenly bothering him, and maybe you’d be more subtle. But it was almost midnight and you’d had a 5:30 start, so you just asked him outright:

“Why, what did you think it was practice for?”

“Dragging your arse around while out in the field,” John replied, tugging off one of the boots to toss it over by his. Your pride wasn’t wounded because that was the biggest fib you’d heard.

You bent your leg, holding your foot hostage, “Johnathan Price, tell me now or I’ll go to my own bunk.”

But the use of his full name didn’t dissuade him. No, John grabbed you by the ankle and dragged back, causing you to slide back against him. He raised his eyebrows at you when you tried tugged it back, effectively ceasing your resistance to receive his revelation.

“Thought about carrying you to our bed on our wedding night.” His blue eyes held you still for that revelation, setting your stomach into knots, then he was back to untying your laces.

You knew he had nerves of steel, but John remaining pretty casual after confessing to a daydream of marriage between you both? You would’ve had more composure dealing with bomb defusal. Even now, your face was hot, your throat was drying up, and you weren’t even the one to confess.

Marriage, you’d mentioned it by the third week of the relationship, saying that it was something you would like with the right person and he was looking like that right person. John agreed and, after a quick one in his private shower, you left the subject there beside your recently relocated shampoo bottle. There hadn’t really been any other mentions of it before now, and that was over a year ago – maybe fourteen months? But, in the occasional instance of space whilst waiting for evac, your mind had considered seeing Price at the end of an aisle or even sat a registrar’s office in smart civvies. Gaz had caught you smiling to yourself once and teased you about it for two weeks after.

It took until your boots were reunited on the floor that you resurfaced from your racing train of thought. You stood up as elegantly as you could, even though John’s gaze was resolute on your face, watching and waiting for your response. Well, here it was.

“And,” You began unbuckling your belt, “What if I wanted to carry you to our bed on our wedding night?”

God. His face.

The shock took a split second to wear off. Spreading across his face like the rising sun was that smile, close-lipped with scrunched up eyes, like he was watching you open a present he knew you were bound to love almost as much as he loved you. Absolutely cheesing away at you, and it made you feel like your bones were gonna collapse from under you.

“Did you think of that?” You added.

“Can’t say I did,” John shook his head, keeping his warm eyes on you, “But, if that’s the case, you better join me with the weightlifting then, Lieutenant Price-to-be.”

“Love this assumption I’m taking your name.” That retort came quick. You were still a little immune to his charms.

“Why, you keeping yours?” He sounded cocky, and it would’ve been even more effective if he wasn’t reaching out for you to return into his arms whilst you removed his shirt from the laundry and slid into it.

Once you spotted his stance, you stepped back into his grasp, both your hands cradling his jaw, “Was thinking double-barrelled, or you can take mine.”

“Then I’d really be all yours.”

“And everyone would know it.”

He was making you swoon with his stare again, so much so that you had to hold his face and rest your forehead against his to ground yourself. Closer to the sun but it never burnt you - and he never looked at his stupid paperwork like that.

He whispered to you, “Guess what.”

“What?” You waited as he leant around and pursed his lips against your ear.

“I’m still putting you on toilet duty.”

The wheeze from his chest erupted with a splutter at your gawking then shielded his face from your indignant smacks, pushing him so that he was flat on his back.

“You bastard! You’re so mean to me!” You cried, trying to kneel over his hips to pin him down. Instead you were just sat upon him and that definitely wasn’t a bad thing in John’s eyes.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” He stroked over both your thighs, “How can I make it up to you?”

And, while he did look delicious lying there, burning cheeks and beaming up at you, he’d just sealed his fate.

“By getting some shut eye ASAP, and taking your future spouse off toilet duty.”

The downfall of Captain Price: caught in a trap of his own design. He’d be pissed if he wasn’t also proud. Though, of course, he never went without a final negotiation in his favour:

“Only if you stay.”

Ignoring the urge to joke about walking back to your room in just your underwear, you agreed to his terms. He looked pleased as punch laying beneath you; such a shame that you had to get off him to get under the covers on your designated side of the bed. John followed you over your territory for a little bit, kissing away the sting of his jape, before switching the bedside lamp and settling down for the evening. At last!

So, of course, that was when the coffee you chugged earlier kicked in alongside the karma for knocking and entering without waiting.

But then a snore buzzed from John’s side of the bed. So, as he snuggled up beside you, a hand instinctively brushing up against you, that cross to bear was accepted for the sake of your future husband.

#John price x reader #john price imagine #john price oneshot #john price fanfic #cod fanfic #cod x reader #mw2 x reader #mw2 oneshot #captain john price x reader #my writing #r: gn #wc: >2k #cod x you #mw2 fanfic

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