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Eating this shit UP omg 😫💗

「✰」 ━━ NIKOLAI HEADCANONS

RATING R - Restricted [ Content Warnings : 18+ mdni, gn!m!f!reader, strong language, alcohol mention and consumption, fluff, possible mistranslation, spider mention, smut, dom!Nikolai, sub!reader, exhibitionism, cunnilingus, praise, degradation, masturbation, riding, hair pulling ]

SYNOPSIS Both general and romantic, safe for work and not safe for work, headcanons for, arguably, one of the most underrated Call of Duty: Modern Warfare characters to date - Nikolai. (This is my first time writing smut so any tips and feedback is greatly appreciated!)

WORD COUNT 1.2k

SAFE FOR WORK

His hands, and just his body overall, run naturally warm. Not to the point where he can be considered a "walking heater" or burning to the touch, but just exudes a constant warmness overall.

Dad-bod, no questions asked. He's not completely cut, not all hard surfaces and muscles - he's got a plush softness to him body that's equally as firm. He works out and keeps himself in shape, of course, because, granted, it's a given that comes with his profession, but he indulges himself equally as much.

He doesn't drink heavily, per se, setting a hard cut-off point for himself that he abides by like it's law, but he won't deny a drink if he's offered it. After all, drinking culture is big in Russia - he can hold his own just fine. That being said, vodka isn't his favorite, but he doesn't hate it by any means, either.

Acts of service and quality time are his love languages. He loves spending time with you whenever he can, especially considering how his profession can take him away for months and more at a time. If it's possible, you're always by his side or he's by yours. Will do anything you ask of him, too - be it chores, tasks, or anything else.

That being said, it can also be argued that giving gifts is one of his primary love languages, too. Any time he's out on a mission, he always tries to get you something from wherever he's been to - there are many perks to being a pilot, now aren't there?

He snores when he sleeps, and he sleeps heavy. Not to the point where you'd have to dump a bucket of ice water over him to wake him up, but to the point where you have to shake him vigorously to get him to slowly rouse. Sounds like a lawnmower when he snores.

His kisses are soft and slow, one hand on your waist or back, pulling you in, while the other holds your chin with such tenderness, guiding your lips to meet his, breathing out a heavy sigh as he relaxes into you.

Opts for Russian terms of endearment over English ones. It feels more personal to him, calling you something in his native tongue rather than something he hears everyone around him call their partners - it's more special to him.

Лапушка/Лапочка - Lapochka/Lapushka (sweetheart)

Любимая/Любимый - Lyubimaya/Lyubimyy (darling)

Surprisingly or not, he's actually a really good cook! He's traveled to so many places and tried so many different kinds of food so, naturally, he's learned to make them for himself. He downplays his abilities, but he looks like an absolute professional when he's in the kitchen.

When he's not away for work, he's actually quite domestic. He has a house of his own far away from everyone else in a remote little town, at least an hour or two outside of any major city. A cabin of sorts, with a place for his own little garden that he tends to (or, more accurately, which you tend to).

He even has his own little stall at the town's farmers market where he sells what he grows whenever it's ready. Everyone has so many theories about him because, honestly - why wouldn't they? A Russian man who lives at the edge of town in a big ol' house, disappearing for weeks or months at a time. It's a cause for concern.

He's so polite and he has the best manners, no question about it.

Though, to combat it, he can be quite a loose-canon. He's reckless and unethical in his methods, especially with work, but some aspects carry over to his personal and domestic life. (If there's a spider, he's pulling out his pistol first, not grabbing a book or a shoe).

He has this sarcastic, almost morbid sense of humor, smug as all hell (worse than Graves, more often than not) but he's genuinely just playful. He's a friend to everyone he meets and can easily match vibes with anyone.

NOT SAFE FOR WORK

Dominant in every sense of the word. He might let you act like you're in control from time to time, but he's quick to show you your place and has no shame in doing it.

His hands are always on you, no matter the occasion. He has to have some sort of physical contact when it comes to you. Be it a hand on the small of your back to guide you, on your shoulder to assure his presence, his leg touching yours when you sit down, a palm on your thigh as he drives.

One-hundred percent an ass man. Squeezing, slapping, spanking, groping - doesn't matter. If he can, his hand is there, no discussion.

He's an exhibitionist, easily. The risk of getting caught, whether if he's by himself or if he's with you, turns him on beyond belief - it gets his head spinning.

Helicopter sex! He's absolutely obsessed with getting you to ride him while he sits in the cockpit, holding onto your hips, fingers bruising into the skin, his legs spread wide with his jumper zipped down as far as it can go, fucking up into you as you bounce on his cock.

Jerks himself off in his helicopter too, biting down onto his fist as he fucks into his hand with purpose.

He's noisy! All grunts and growls, whispering to you how good you feel, practically narrating what he's doing sometimes.

It's a balance of praise and degradation that he gives. Sometimes it fifty-fifty, saying how you're taking him so well, like a good whore should. Sometimes it switches from one to the other (be it extremes or not) - it just depends.

Gives oral like job. Steady grip on your thighs, pushing them back and wide and buries himself between them for as long as you'll allow him to. He's so sloppy with it too, drooling and spitting all over you as he sucks you off/eats you out. (If you look close enough, you can tell it's started to bleach his beard, too).

Takes his time fucking you. He doesn't like quickies at all - if he isn't able to fuck you at the pace he wants, he isn't doing it. Now, this doesn't necessarily mean that he isn't up for hard and fast sex, but it's more so that he doesn't like time constraints.

More often than not, though, he goes slow (at least, at first), teasing you until you're begging before slowly pushing into you, dragging his cock in and out of you at an excruciating pace.

Speaking of, too, he's such a tease and he knows it.

Loves loves loves pulling and grabbing your hair, forcing you to arch your back as he pounds into you from behind relentlessly, watching the way your ass ripples with every snap of his hips.

Dumbification, too. Loves getting you all cock-drunk and fucked out to the point where you can't think for yourself, teasing you and borderline-mocking you as he slides a hand down your stomach, bringing his thumb down to your clit and making slow circles around it/grabbing the base of your cock and slowly stroking up and down it as he coos at you.

This goes hand in hand with overstimulation - loves making you cum over and over and over again until you can't think and it's too much, only to coax another orgasm out of you.

my praise kink would be SCREAMING

This is so good I'm eating this shit up

Imagine Alex Keller requesting you as his math tutor at university.

You roll your eyes.

ROTC takes up a lot of his time, it's no wonder he's struggling.

But...

He's handsome, charming, kind, and he looks at you like you hold his fate in the palm of your hand.

You reluctantly agree.

Doesn't take long to figure out there's nothing wrong with his math skills.

Nor his skills in bed.

Hi! I don’t know if your requests are open currently so you can ignore this, but I was wondering if you could write something involving Nikolai being a soft dom as he overstimulates the reader, whispering praises into her ear as he coax another orgasm out of her?? I totally think he’s great at aftercare too but that might just be me 🤭 (Also love love LOVE your writing, and this is def inspired by your Nikolai hc’s that I loved too!!) 🫶🏽🫶🏽🫶🏽‼️

「✰」 ━━ HONEY AND MOLASSES

RATING R - Restricted [ Content warnings : 18+ mdni, afab!reader, feminine pronouns used, soft-dom!Nikolai, sub!reader, overstimulation, cunnilingus, oral sex, vaginal fingering, praise, body worship, slight biting, vulgar language, aftercare ]

SYNOPSIS As seen in the request above. (I wrote this in an hour straight, not stopping once. I don't know what possessed me, and I don't even know if this is good, but I really hope you like it. Thank you for the kind words. 🫶) Translations provided at the bottom!

WORD COUNT 1.3k

“Come on, малышка, you can give me another, нет?”

He asks rhetorically, voice low yet so sickly sweet, dripping from his lips as if it were laced with honey and molasses, a sweetness starkly contrasting with the way his thumb circles your clit in slow, counterclockwise circles, the rough padding juxtaposing the softness of his touch, two of his thick fingers filling you to be so utterly full as he curls and stretches them inside of you.

It’s the sweetest feeling, yet the cruelest torture. He’s kept you like this for what feels like hours, drawing orgasm after orgasm out of you that you can’t even find the strength in your arms to push or kick him away, left only to whine and keen out in loud, breathy sounds that he listens to like a gospel, the slurred words that fall from your lips sounding like nothing less than a prayer.

A prayer to him - for him.

“Nnn…”

You try to start, the first letter of his name finding its way to the tip of your tongue, ready to fold out and flourish into something more - a plea for him to stop or keep going, you don’t know - before it dies off, crumbles, and shatters, replaced by another whine as he replaces his thumb with his tongue, his chest rumbling as he chuckles deeply with nothing short of amusement.

His fingers continue their ministrations, curling so deeply inside of you that you swear you can feel him in your stomach, arching your back up into his touch and trying to shy away from it at the same time. You’re so drunk on the pleasure he’s been providing to you non-stop that, at this point, you can’t tell if you love it or if you hate it.

“Taking my fingers so well, aren’t you?”

He coos out in a whisper, his nose pressing against your lower abdomen, barely taking his tongue away for a few seconds to speak before it returns, providing you with its undivided attention. His free hand keeps one of your legs pressed back, keeping you wide open for him as he squeezes softly onto the flesh of the underside of your thigh.

“Ты так хорошо принимаешь все, что я тебе даю. Это так прекрасно.”

Your body jerks and spasms as you get closer and closer to your release, borderline thrashing against the bed as you whine out as his tongue quickens in the way it teases and abuses your poor, swollen clit, all puffy from the attention he’s been giving it, his fingers pumping and curling and stretching out your cunt in a way that makes you twitch.

God, it’s so beautifully devastating.

“Can’t… t… too much.”

You complain out to him, voice hoarse and raw, a broken sob passing through your lips and settling into the air between you both, mixing and intertwining with the smell of sex, weaving into a blanket of pleasure. He chuckles, his eyes crinkling as he does so, before he takes your clit into his mouth and sucks hard onto it, making your breath stutter as it depletes from your lungs.

And then everything blurs.

Your orgasm hits you like a semi-truck, having you teeter over the edge of pleasure before pushing you in without warning, your eyes rolling back into your head as your back arches, your whole body tensing as you clench and gush around his fingers, completely soaking them with the warm slickness of your climax - though, granted, everything up to his knuckles has been soaked in nothing but your slick and cum for the past while, so there’s hardly any difference.

“There you go, beautiful girl. That’s it.”

He murmurs softly, his tongue gently flicking your clit in slow, unhurried movements, working to draw out your orgasm to the very last second before finally - finally pulling away, pressing one last kiss to it that makes you jolt as he slowly slides his fingers out of you, the makeshift plug that they had acted as being removed, a small amount of your own cum and slick trickling out of you.

It’s an intoxinactingly sinful sight, one that makes him groan deep as he licks off his fingers and knuckles, tongue tracing over every bump and dip of his hands as he cleans remnants of you from it, watching the haze that coats your eyes as your body twitches and shivers ever-so slightly, riding out the last of your high as your body slowly begins to melt into the plush fabric of the bed.

The sight makes him grin, the scruff of his beard scratching against your inner thigh as he leans back, pressing a gentle kiss to it, nibbling softly as he translates his pure adoration into the action, littering kisses and gentle bites all along the skin of your left thigh, before transitioning to the right one, mumbling soft praises against your skin as he does so.

“So perfect for me. Pretty sight, you are. You already know that though, да? Of course you do. Smart thing, too.”

He’s muttering softly to himself, lost in his own world as you lose yourself in yours, dumb from all of the pleasure he’s given to you, having drawn… four? Five orgasms out of you? You can’t even tell or remember at this point, having lost track when the sun first went down outside - it’s pitch black now, so it must have been a while ago.

He worships your body as if it were a work of art - a marble statue sculpted by the ancient Greeks, a work of art for only his eyes to see, to adore, to lust for, to praise, to grab, to touch, to hold, to kiss, to bite, to lick, to worship. Because you are everything to him. You’re the reason he gets up in the mornings and the reason he sleeps so peacefully at night.

A goddess amongst mankind, he muses.

His hands traverse the curves of your form, greedily grabbing and tugging at every inch of skin that he can find, pulling you closer and further into his own bare frame, pressing kisses against your skin, and licking hot, wet paths along your body, as if he were following a map to find a treasure he’s spent his whole life searching for, utterly obsessed with the journey he’s set out on.

Your thighs, your cunt, your tummy, your tits, your shoulders, your hands, your neck… refusing to stop until every inch of skin on your body has been touched by his lips and his words, mumbling out lowly, breathily against the underside of your chin as he continues to travel upwards, right until he finds himself hovering above you, his lips a hairsbreadth away from your own.

“My pretty girl.”

“Y…”

You try to start, wanting to affirm his words and say “yours”, but you’re too fucked out to even think about what letter comes next in that response, your mind too lost in the foggy daze it’s lost itself in, your eyes long having glazed over as you stare at him, blinking slowly with your lips parted, mouth open, having so many words to say but not nearly enough energy or focus to form them.

He silences your words with a kiss to your lips, and you can taste every part of yourself on his tongue as he tastes your lips, swallowing the word from your lungs and your mind until you forget it, only focused on him, fingers reaching upwards with strain towards his cheeks, trying to pull him in impossibly closer, to which he chuckles, the sound reverberating against your chest.

He tuts and clicks his tongue as he gently pats your outer thigh, pulling back by a few inches, his eyes lost in a haze of their own.

“Come on. Let me get you cleaned and fed. You’ve been so good for me. You deserve it.”

And how could you ever deny him?

малышка - baby, baby girl

нет - no

Ты так хорошо принимаешь все, что я тебе даю. Это так прекрасно. - You are so good at taking everything I give you. It's so beautiful.

да - yes

「✰」 ━━ PISTOL WHIPPED

RATING R - Restricted [Content warnings: 18+ mdni, f!sub!reader, dom!Makarov, he’s a mean man, mistranslated Russian, mention and depiction of firearms, gunplay, smut, cockwarming, degradation, light praise, riding ]

SYNOPSIS Makarov is a busy man in every sense of the word, and while most tasks are highly important and meticulous, there are some that are more mundane than others - such as taking care of his weapons. Which... is exactly what he's occupied himself with doing now. But even though he's busy, you deserve some attention, don't you? (Based on the image above).

WORD COUNT 2.1k

"Vladimir..."

You whine out softly, nose pressed into the crook of his neck as your fingers desperately hold onto his bare shoulders. Your legs hang loosely, dangling beside the legs of the metal chair, though, you’d much rather they be wrapped around his hips right now.

He lets out a dismissive hum, his head right next to your ear as he peers over your shoulder, chin barely an inch above it as he focuses on dragging the cloth along the disassembled component in his hands - the slide - seeming to be far more focused on it than you.

Another pathetic whine passes through your lips, and you can feel his cock throb inside of your warm, wet walls, your slick drooling down your inner thighs and, no doubt, standing the fabric of his dark slacks with the mess you’ve made of yourself.

“Please, Vlad…”

You practically hiccup out, whimpering out pitifully, your pussy squeeze around him as tight at you can, just barely shifting your hips in hopes of getting so much as an ounce of friction, to urge him to leave what he’s doing and fuck you-

“If you do not stop acting like a desperate, impatient mutt, you will have to wait for much longer for me to fuck you than it takes to clean a few guns.”

Another whimper passes through your lips - which, funnily enough, does sound very similar to that of a dog, only further proving his words. Your grip on his shoulders tighten as your hips still, bottom lip trembling as you squeeze your eyes shut.

Truthfully, you had no one but yourself to blame but yourself for the predicament you find yourself in now, sat in Vladimir’s lap, cockwarming him for what has felt like hours now.

If only you had been patient, if only you had been good and waited until he was done with his task like he had ask of you, if only you hadn’t been so needy and desperate for his attention and his cock that you willingly agreed to cockwarming him until he was done.

But no, you hadn’t done any of that, so now you can only curse yourself for the torture he’s putting you through - that you put yourself through. Though, you suppose there is an upside to having him shirtless as he works to complete the task at hand.

He’s cleaned four or five guns through completely at this point, disassembling and reassembling them in their entirety, all clean and laid neatly across cloth to the left of his work station.

The one he’s currently focused on - a Five Seven - lays completely disassembled before him as he cleans it, a multitude of different cleaning items strewn around meticulously, with two more handguns to go on his right.

It’s a process he prides himself in, it would seem, and with the expertise he displays, it’s clear that this is an often occurrence.

“Убогий жопа.” (Needy brat)

He mumbles out to himself, almost as if to chastise you, resting his chin gently against your shoulder as he listens to all of the pathetic little sounds you make - irritating, maybe, but at least you’re listening.

His bare chest presses flush against your own clothed one, the planes of it hard as it presses against you. He’s lean, but not lacking in body heat, his concentrated breaths, his skin, and his cock all practically searing you.

“So desperate when I have already given you so much.”

You let out another whimper, the sound bleeding into a moan as he ever-so subtly rocks his hips before stilling. It’s cruel, giving you the friction you so desperately desire, only for him to not continue on any further.

“I’m sorry…”

You hiccup, sniffling out, cunt squeezing him and drooling messy slick around him, just as needy as you are.

He hums, this time not dismissive, but rather acknowledging, one of his dirty, oiled, greasy hands moving to rest atop one of your hips, smearing the dark substance all over your skin.

“Are you going to behave?”

He asks, tone still cold and harsh as it typically is, leaving the impression that he’s sick and tired of your antics, but the softness in his actions combats it - though, he does lightly slap your hip, urging you to answer.

“Mhmm! I promise. I won’t move, I swear. Not an inch. I won’t move at all. I’ll stay still. Won’t even make sounds if you want me to. I can be quiet. Patient, too. I promise. I can wait. I can be good.”

Your words come out in a desperate ramble and flurry of vowels and consonants, eager to please and prove to him that you can listen. It’s pathetic and desperate, yes, but to you it’s required.

He clicks his tongue softly, slowly, breathing out through his nostrils as he brings his hand back away from your hip and continues to meticulously clean through each of the different areas of the firearm.

He seems pleased by your answer, you think, but it’s impossible to tell. To you and nearly everyone that knows him, Vladimir is a man who doesn’t slip up. He’s cold, calculating, and ensures every move he makes is in his favor.

The sounds of cloth gliding across metal and the brush gliding through as it works to clean the interior parts fill the air. The sounds are barely audible, but they blend well with the sound of your heavy breathing - his is silent.

It’s only when he’s wiping off his hands and reassembling the Five Seven that he speaks again, voice low and rough as it rumbles right next to your ear, the metal clicking and moving where it should as per his movements.

“I expected you to be much less patient, you know, but you have surprised me. You have been as patient as you can, considering how… full you are right now.”

He emphasizes his words with a sharp buck of his hips, a moan effortlessly slipping out past your lips, a soft plap sounding out, muffled only by the fabric of his slacks as they pull back and meet your slick-soaked thighs.

The minimal contact already works to steal the breath from your lungs, his cock molding itself into your poor, sopping pussy. Your eyes unfocus for a brief moment, dazed and dizzy, but it feels so good.

“Perhaps I should reward you, да?”

He muses, detaching his chest from your own as he leans backwards as he lets his back rest against the back of the metal chair. He spreads his legs out, thighs straining against his slacks as he shifts, getting comfortable.

He rolls his shoulders backwards, one of his hands coming to rest atop your thigh, pressing into the flesh as he moves his palm up and down - towards your hip, then back down to your thigh.

His other hand, however, holds the reassembled Five Seven, the cool metal tapping against the side of your ass.

Unloaded, of course, given how he had just cleaned it, but that doesn’t stop the sharp spark of anticipation that settles in your stomach. The danger that surrounds the weapon soaks your cunt impossibly further.

“Move.”

The command barely has a moment to pass through the air and through your ears before you can comprehend what he means by his words. He’s spread himself all out for you, offering you what you’ve been craving this entire time.

And you’d be stupid to not take him up on his generosity.

Your hold tightens on his shoulders as you ground yourself against him, rolling your hips forwards with a keen, letting out a hiccup, mumbling out soft “thank you”s over and over to him as you grind into him.

A shaky, uneven breath escapes his lungs, his expression hardening as he works to not make a single noise - the task, though, is much more difficult than it appears - his body remaining still as he lets you do all of the work.

He drags the barrel of the gun across your skin, the coolness of the metal juxtaposing the heat that radiates from your skin. His other hand grips harshly onto your hip, following your motions with a strangled groan.

He splits you open and overwhelms you in the best way possible, his cock filling you up so well as you rock back and forth along the length of it, raising and dropping your hips as you force his tip to kiss your cervix.

Vladimir lets out a strangled Russian curse, fighting against his own body to keep still as you continue to bounce on his cock, his slacks no doubt ruined by now from how much of your slick and his pre-cum has soaked into it.

But he can’t complain - he has more than enough pairs as is, and you just look too pretty riding him, so desperate and needy for what only he can give you. How could he ever be upset?

Wet tears streams down your cheeks and onto the skin of his bare shoulder, rolling down across his inked chest as you whine, bullying and bruising his cock to completely ruin your poor pussy.

It’s too much, but you can’t stop.

“V- … oh, fuck. Vlad, please. M’so close. Please let me cum. Please.”

You whine, sweat soaking through your clothes as you pick your head up from his shoulder, hiccuping, whining, whimpering, and moaning out like a whore as you lose yourself, completely and utterly cockdrunk.

His fingers tense, both against your skin and the handgun, your flesh spilling out between the gaps between his fingers. He brings the pistol down across your thigh, slotting it between them so that the barrel can press right against your clit.

Even as you try to pull away from the cool, hard metal, he doesn’t let you, keeping it presses tightly to your clit so that, with every motion, you grind down against it, dragging across the smooth surface.

Even if you wanted to protest, you can’t, the pressure in your lower tummy tightening so much, toes curling as your nails dig into his shoulders as pleasure streams through your veins.

Your pussy completely gushes around him, flooding his cock as you squeeze him like a vice, breaths coming out in shaky, desperate gasps and choked moans spilling past your lips.

You cum hard enough that it leaves you dizzy, boneless and breathless, hips jerking as your body trembles with spasms in aftershocks of pleasure, drool trailing past your lips as you babble out to him needily.

He taps the barrel of the gun against your clit, drawing out your orgasm until it’s too much, leaving you writhing. Still, he doesn’t let you pull away, eyes focused solely on the point of contact between you and the weapon.

He grits his teeth, looking down at you as sweat drips down the side of his head, bucking his hips upwards. He knows how overstimulated you must be as he now puts his efforts into fucking up into you, but he doesn’t care.

All he’s focused on is filling your sweet, needy cunt with his cum and nothing more.

It only takes a few thrusts on his part, the way you had been rising and sinking down on his cock earlier in the chase for your own release making his lose his mind - not that he would ever openly admit it.

With a sharp curse, arching his back and pressing his hips up into you as much as his current position will allow, the sounds of your desperation for mercy filling the air, he feels his balls tighten, letting out a strangled groan as his cock pumps rope after rope of his cum into your waiting cunt.

The air between you both, now as his hips drop and he stills, is filled with nothing but gasps and pants, the two of you completely and utterly breathless, soaked with sweat and bodily fluids.

“It turns out better when you listen, does it not?”

He mumbles out rhetorically, giving one last weak buck of his hips before he brings his hand up and behind you, unceremoniously dropping the handgun - now covered with a mixture of your cum and his - back onto the table.

He can clean it later, just as he can with the other waiting to be cleaned. For now, all he’s concerned with is catching his breath before he makes an even bigger mess of his work station and bends you over it. It’s all he’ll ever need.

Just a Little Lie (Price) Chapter 1:

Sergeant Smith has absolutely landed themselves in hot water, well done babe. Captain John Price is not impressed, and neither of you have a good enough poker face to get past Kate Laswell.

Prologue:

A/N: You probably expected it to be Ghost first and I can only apologise, he’ll get his time.

The wonderful thing about fanfiction is that I can and will change the narrative to suit. Look forward to shifted timelines, canon divergence and more of a focus on character development.

Would Price, as Captain, be sleeping in the same barracks as his men? No - but it’s convenient to my shitty plot so it’s staying in.

*All* Y/Ns in my fics are GN! unless requested otherwise.

Slow burn - eventual smut. Canon Typical Violence. A bit of “hurt/guilt ridden comfort” meets unprofessionalism in this chapter.

As per usual, MDNI

Word Count: 5013 (I hate how long this is)

—-

“Y/N?

In the months that you had known John - Captain Price - you had seen a great deal of expressions on his face. You had seen the stoicism of his resting face as if carved out of marble as you walked around town. You knew well the playful frustration with your terrible jokes that accompanied his raised eyebrows and a slight huff. You adored the kind smile and the crinkle around his eyes that he gave you when he saw you waiting outside your little cafe. And you had just recently become acquainted with the quiet, smouldering intensity in his blue eyes before he moved in to kiss you. The way his jaw clenched and his brow furrowed, like he was a tightly wound spring.

The look on his face now though, you didn’t know at all. Thunderous was probably the best description you had, his blue ocean eyes a raging squall. His brows pinched and tight just above them, you swore you could see a twitch that betrayed the way he stood stock still amongst his squad. You could almost be sure that his beard itself bristled in anger as he pursed his lips, as if readying himself to shout. This was anger written all over John's face, and if you somehow never saw this look on his face again it would still be too soon in your opinion. He was angry, no, furious with you. And for the first time you found yourself straining in his presence against your fight-or-flight response that was screaming at you in the back of your mind to flee.

“Apologies - Sergeant Smith,” that name coming from his lips, tinged with hurt and practically dripping with venom, felt so viscerally unnatural, “our new ‘data analyst’ I take it?”

A well deserved verbal slap in the face, to be sure. Certainly a loud one if the way Laswell’s eyes darted between the pair of you was any indication, confusion and concern loud and clear in the tensions of her shoulders as she turned back to face you fully. She read your file, most likely could recite it front to back, as was expected when you work with delicate information and needed to put together a top secret squad such as this one. And you both knew as you made eye contact with the woman that Price or his prior SAS units had never once been mentioned. Not even a vague or tenuous working coalition between your teams. Yet here he stood, familiar enough to know your first name and specialty; and clearly with enough of an opinion to be ready to rage at your appearance in his taskforce. A man who gave no sign of recognising the name Sergeant Smith when he had been told over the phone that you would be joining the team. Here you stood, ready to bolt through the still swaying flaps of this tent just at the sight of him. Shocked to see him even though this obvious acquaintance you had between you should have meant you already knew who you would be working with when the name Captain Price was mentioned. You could practically hear the cogs in her mind screeching as they ground together at rapid pace, puzzle pieces slotting together too fast for you to be able to step in and assure her she was wrong.

First names only, clearly you didn’t know eachothers ranks either. No prior connections, and if that slight tremble in your lip or the way you winced as he addressed you was any indication; this anger was unexpected from Price. This was a personal relationship. One that clearly was going sour in the middle of what was brewing to be an international incident. You imagined that if Kate Laswell wasn’t such a staunch professional that she might cry in frustration at the situation unfolding. It would definitely make you feel better about your own tears that you could feel threatening to fall, the heat in your cheeks and the sting in your eyes as your vision clouded all too familiar a sensation. One you could not afford here or now.

“Is there an issue here, John?” Laswell had clearly made up her mind to not mention the obvious tension filling the tent, even as the other three soldiers were becoming restless, no longer standing to attention and all but outright fidgeting as they fixed their gazes on their Captain.

“No, Kate. No issues here. Hadn’t realised that you meant this particular Sergeant Smith,” despite the smile sent her way it was impossible to miss the way his eyes narrowed at you, as if daring you to in some way contradict the narrative he was trying to establish. You noticed the use of first names though, a mental note to file that away for later discussion. Much later, likely never if the way John’s eyes were set on trying to burn a hole through your face were indicating. Still, this was an out you were certainly not stupid enough to pass up on. Shoulders squared, throat cleared and professional face back on, you addressed your new temporary Captain.

“Captain Price, Sergeant Smith - Communications Officer, ready for briefing, Sir,” a nod, a little stiff was all the response you thought you would receive from John, until after a pregnant pause he moved to the side, arm out towards the monitor at the far end of the tent. Making room for you to stand next to him was a choice you likely would not have made, but in this scenario - where appearances needed to be kept up - you could see the logic. Couldn’t be any issues between the pair of you if he was willing to have you next to him for a brief after all.

“Well then kid, get yourself over here and we’ll get you up to speed.”

—-

Echo 3-1 moved with startling efficiency through the chemical compound at Verdansk. All the grace of a synchronised swimmer as he weaved in between empty train cars, his team close at his six. The man moved seamlessly from crouched stealth to open combat, squad formation tight as he directed the marines under his command with ruthless competency, Russian operatives barely firing a shot before blinding muzzle flashes illuminated the cold night air and left them riddled with American bullets.

The idea of chemical weapons being developed in Russian territory had you on edge. Chemical warfare may be illegal - especially on civilian populations, but you weren’t foolish enough to believe that if push came to shove that the Kremlin wouldn’t find just cause to utilise them under the radar. Not that your American allies or even the Westminster government could arguably be trusted to not cross the line of legality, particularly over in the East if the reports you had been seeing were any indication.

Regardless, these chemicals being in the hands of friends were a much more comforting thought than the Russians. Given what you were seeing though, you were finding it difficult to believe that the marines lost them. Their expert efficiency in clearing the facility and securing the transports containing the gas were textbook in execution. In and out - before anyone outside the compound even realised they had been. Until they got maybe 20 feet out the front gate.

Hindsight being 20/20, combined with the boosted brightness of the recording you were viewing had you flinching as you spotted the flaming truck come barreling down the embankment a second before the convoy did. Nowhere near enough time to avoid collision, and barely a moment to brace as the first truck went flying and Echo 3-1s windshield was cracked. The Russians were on them near instantaneously. Marines who were flung from the cabs of their vehicles, strewn across the concrete and dazed, didn’t even have a chance to grab their weapons at their hips as they were summarily executed where they lay. If the Russian soldiers hadn’t realised they were American when they did, you suspected Echo 3-1 would be among the dead as well.

The whole operation was a chilling reminder of just how quickly things could go wrong out in the field.

—-

You closed your eyes tight and pinched the bridge of your nose as the recording stopped, the last frame showing Echo 3-1 half pulled onto his knees and radioing for a medevac. The sight of the wounded and dying marines illuminated against the flames of the on fire transports. Sighing, you dragged your gloved hand down your face and turned to Laswell, leaning back to see her past the broad expanse of Captain Price's back, “This is where you lost track of the cargo? No sighting since?”

“No, none. Plenty of rumours though, which is where you come in. I need all ears to the ground sifting through the noise. We cannot have these chemicals free in the wind,” her blue eyes turned to focus on you, a serious intensity that rooted you to the spot, “I can verify any actionable information you find, but I need to know where I’m sending the task force, and I need to know soon.”

“Understood ma’am. When do I start?”

“You have two hours. I have an angry general waiting outside and a mobile command centre to commandeer - so use the time to get settled and find something to eat. It’s going to be a long night.”

With that Laswell turned on her heel and was gone - not so much as a backward glance to you or the rest of the team as she strode out into the blazing sun. The silence fell heavily over you and the men left behind, all turning to your captain for orders. Quite pointedly Price looked over your head to the rest of the squad, addressing them directly, “Boys, get to the mess. The sergeant and I will be joining you in 15. And keep your heads down - the Americans are on edge enough as is without you lot setting them off.”

“Aye sir,” the sudden Scottish accent had you turning, looking to the man with a mohawk. How he had gotten so close without you noticing was a mystery, it was staggering that men like him, tall and broad could move without a sound. He almost looked too young to be there though. Clearly not standard infantry. His right hand came up to clap you on the shoulder before you could stop him, the force nearly rattling you out of your boots. He was smiling at least, a kind easy smile that reached his shockingly blue eyes. “Well then rookie, see you in the mess.”

And with that he was gone, followed quickly by the equally young looking black man who offered a playful salute as he passed. The masked man however, was still leant back against the tent pole in the corner - eyes on you. Brown eyes that were staring directly at you, into your soul you would swear. Not a word from him as he took stock in you. A heartbeat passed, then two, before his gaze flicked up to John’s behind you. A quick nod, a small gesture you would have missed if you weren’t looking directly after him, and he left too. Leaving you alone with Captain John Price.

The silence between you both settled heavily in the air, much in the same way the smell of cigars did when you were alone together. This was an entirely different situation however, and far less pleasant an experience between the two of you. The characteristic noise of a working military base fading away as you made eye contact with John, replaced with shaky and shallow breathing from you both. Much like the other night, trembling hands were clenched at his sides, and you were vaguely aware of your own doing the same. Both of you straining against yourselves to not reach out to the other. Once again the intensity of his stare holding you in place like you would turn and run, though the hardened edge to it made your stomach drop and clench all at once. This wasn’t an innate need to hold you to him you were seeing, and you tried desperately to convey on your own face a thousand and one apologies that would somehow plaster over the cracks in the foundation you had built. The older man bristled as if he could read everything your eyes were trying to tell him, and none of those platitudes at this moment were going to be sufficient.

“Jo- Captain, I can ex-”

“Not a word Sergeant. Not one, and certainly not here.”

He didn’t need to raise his voice, let alone shout. You could hear the rolling, thundering anger behind his words as he gestured around the tent. His words were hushed, almost conspiratorial. He sighed, looking down at his feet and rubbing his brow beneath the brim of his hat. Blue eyes met your own again as his shoulders uncharacteristically slumped, sadness and disappointment carved into every crease of his face. The churning of feeling of guilt felt like a punch to the gut; there had never been a moment up until this one in your life that you regretted more, and you found yourself cursing your own stupidity.

“Grab your things, I’ll show you to the 141s barracks.”

—-

The barracks assigned to the 141 were one of those temporary single story prefabricated cabins that had inevitably transformed into a permanent fixture that littered the base, a sight ridiculously common despite the inordinate budget afforded to the military. The cream exterior of the original building was faded, though it drew your attention away from the slate grey extensions that had been added to both sides of the structure, and most likely to the back too. Small windows set high up on the walls let in a minimal amount of light, and you knew from experience that you’d be working mostly by fluorescent strip lights in there, even during the day. John pressed his military ID to the card reader at the main entrance, having explained yours would be added to the system by tomorrow. Leading you inside you found yourself in what looked eerily similar to the livingroom and kitchen-ette of your first crappy little studio flat. As spartan as you had expected the communal space to be, you saw it featured a couple beat up and sagging couches, a recliner and a rather battered looking television sitting on top of a military supply crate in place of a console. The small coffee table in front of it was covered in half filled ashtrays, books and empty coffee mugs that really should have been left to soak in the sink if the colour of them was any indication. A couple hoodies and even a t-shirt were strewn about as well, very much indicative of what you would expect from a flat shared between men. Not so much an army barrack.

John strode through the living room and into the kitchen, pulling the cheap kettle off its base to fill it up with water at the sink, “Toilet through that door,” nodding to a door on the same wall the tv was sat against, “Showers through the opposite one,” his head jerked back as you turned and spotted the slightly ajar door and the tiled floor inside. “Rooms are round the corner, yours is the only one open, there's a key on the desk.” You could tell that you weren’t going to get much more from him at the moment, his voice as tense as his movements while he set the kettle to boil and began rummaging through the cupboards overhead. That didn’t stop you gazing at his back as you rounded the corner to your temporary room, second door on the left.

This was the spartan decor that you were expecting. A single bed sat against the far wall, standard thin and scratchy blue sheets already set up to regulation, a small desk with a metal chair and lamp to the right of the door, your room key sitting on top of a writing pad. Next to the bed was one of those temporary fabric zip-up closets, and you set your bag down in front of it. The exhaustion of the last few hours hit you all at once, and you found yourself sinking onto the edge of the bed, the mattress too firm for your personal tastes. You set your newly issued tablet down next to you and fumbled about in the top pocket of your tactical vest for your phone. Laswell had taken it briefly during the flight over to the base, and you knew that a security program had been installed, limiting your access to most of the basic functions of the device. No social media, emails, calls or texts would come in and you wouldn’t be able to send any out without submitting them for approval through the employee portal for the foreseeable future. They still allowed access to messages already on the device however - and you found yourself manoeuvring through your conversations with friends and colleagues to your text conversations with John.

Scrolling back some days you found the conversation with him just after you had gotten off the phone with Laswell initially. Apologies from both of you, mostly yourself however, that work had called you in and that your catch up would have to wait. Moving forward to last night, your thumb hovered over the message you had last sent him - thanking him for the food and not so subtly suggesting that you were looking forward to hearing his voice again, or his next kiss. You hadn’t expected a response but noticed that in the time between getting on your first plane out last night and the helicopter ride today that you’d received a reply. A voice note. In all the time you had known John you had only ever recieved texts that read almost like an email, formal and signed off with “John” as if it wasn’t obvious who sent you the message. You smiled wistfully at the memory of calling him an old man in the early days at the cafe for his lack of abbreviations or misunderstanding basic text speak. You weren’t even sure that John knew how to send a voice note.

And yet here it was, less than a minute long, but there none the less. From the kitchen you could hear the kettle click off, having reached boiling, and John clattering about with one of the drawers. You decided to play it while you had a moment, ensuring your volume was low as you held the phone to your ear, face cradled in your other hand.

“Hey there, Lovie,” your breath hitched. This was the John you knew. Calm, measured, but still a voice laden with all the familiar fondness you had come to know in the prior months. 

“I’ve got to hand my phone off soon so I don’t know when I can text you next, but I wanted to let you know that’s me here on the ground for a while. I’m not sure when I’ll be home, but I hope it's not too long after you. What do you say we make a day of it when I’m back? Been a while since we last got a proper cuppa and I’m sure ol’ Moira at the cafe is starting to wonder where we ran off to,” you smirked at this, knowing all too well the looks the pair of you had been getting everytime you wound up at your usual table at Moira’s cafe, her knowing smile over the coffee machine as you prattled on about some nonsense to John filling your mind.

“Besides, you still owe me a home cooked dinner if I’m not mistaken,” he paused here, a small grunt as he cleared his throat, “and at least one kiss that doesn’t get interrupted by work. Speak to you soon darling.”

Your hand that held your phone fell limply into your lap, phone dropping from your hand and skating across the floor. Your other hand came up to grip your hair as you practically folded in on yourself, breath shuddering as you clenched your eyes shut, willing yourself to not start crying. What an absolute idiot. John had been nothing if not a sweet man to you, and you’d certainly managed to ruin it today if his attitude was anything to go by. Nevermind not running him off by telling him you were a soldier, you’d done it by being a liar and potentially compromising this mission before it even got off the ground with fraternisation. Anger from your temporary captain was the least of your concerns now, this could very well lead to a transfer out and a black mark in your file. How were you supposed to face your unit when you made it back home after a fuck up this colossal in nature?

You were broken out of your burgeoning panic when John cleared his throat from the doorway. You nearly sprang up from the bed as you attention snapped to him, stood against the light of the hallway with a steaming mug in each hand. You hopped to your feet and swiped your discarded phone from the floor, locking it and shoving it into the pocket of your fatigues. Smoothing your hair back, you stood to attention, hands clasped to your tactical vest, “Sorry Captain.”

“At ease, Y/N. Take a seat. We need to have a chat before we meet the boys in the mess.” Handing you a cup of what smelled like coffee, he pulled out your desk chair and turned it round, swinging his leg over to staddle it, one arm resting across the backrest. You found yourself sinking back onto the bed, the warm cup cradled in your hands hoping that the warmth would seep into what felt like your freezing bones.

“Of course Cap-”

“John. It’s always been just John when it’s the two of us.”

The look in his eyes was steel, and his tone was full authority as your Captain. An order, one you were not about to disobey at this moment.

“Of course, John.” You looked away briefly as you took a quick sip of your drink, ignoring the biting sting of the too hot liquid against your lips and tongue, “Is this in regards to the mission? I can assure you that there won’t be a problem with-”

“Fuck the mission Y/N, this about you. And about me as well, clearly.” You could feel your stomach sinking as you were interrupted again, it was obvious that John expected you to sit and listen without a word.

“You’ve put us both in one hell of a situation with this little secrets act you’ve pulled, I hope you realise this,” you nodded, refusing to allow yourself to tear your eyes away from his as he spoke, “Had I known you were the communications officer that was being brought in I could have said no. I could have asked for Laswell to pick anyone else from her list of suitable officers. Now I’m stuck with you here in the middle of an international fucking incident, and one wrong move, one out of place comment from you could have both our asses pulled up for fraternisation. Do you have any idea what that will do to our careers, to MY career and my command posting? Any at all?” Clearly this was the part where you should say something, but you found your throat closing around anything that you could say that would satisfy the anger radiating off the man in front of you.

John could tell you weren’t going to respond, and the frustration roiled off him in much the same way the heat from your coffee did, “This is a small task force Y/N, and I need to be able to trust every member of my team to have each others back both here and out in the field. I’m finding it very difficult to believe that I can do that with you right now. You had months to tell me you were in the service, and instead you kept giving me vague answers and half truths at best. You could have said something when I told you I was shipping out, when I was walking you home. Fuck, you really should have told me before I kissed you.”

You set your mug down on the floor by your feet at this, moving to clutch at your fatigues in an attempt to stop the trembling in your hands, “John, I didn’t want to tell you right away for probably the same reasons you didn’t, and when you did, I thought it wouldn’t matter. What were the chances that I would be called up to your unit out of all the possible postings?”

He reached back behind him to set down his own cup before turning back to face you, “And being told that you were going to be under a John Price didn’t raise any alarm bells with you before you were shipped out? That maybe if you were too much of a coward to tell me to my face that you could do it over text?”

“We never exchanged last names John!” You immediately regretted the way you raised your voice, Johns shoulders tensing and his gloves creaking against the headrest and he gripped it tightly, “Regardless, have you stopped to think just how many Johns I could have been under before-”

Clearly this was the worst thing to say, John was up and out of his chair in an instant, the metal clattering to the floor as he was suddenly towering over you, forcing you back onto your elbows in an attempt to create space between you. His hands were on either side of your hips, face close enough to your that you could smell the cigars he smoked as his breath came out in near pants.

“How many Johns? Tell me love, how many ‘Johns’ have you been under? Am I dealing with a barrack bunny on top of everything else?”

“Don’t you dare-”

“Dare what Y/N? You were quick enough to suggest taking me back to your flat when you found out I was military. Wouldn’t be too far out of the realm of possibility.”

You hand a hand wrapped around his vest before you could even think to stop yourself. Fury was written all over both your faces at this point, “Do you honestly think that I would be sitting here if there was even an implication in my file that I was some sort of free-use whore in my unit? In what world would Laswell have me as her first choice for a mission as important as this if there was a chance I’d be bed hopping my way through it? I’m good at my job John, real fucking good. And I’d be working my ass off regardless of who my superior officers were, even if they just so happen to be you. Whether you believe that now doesn’t matter when this gets off the ground.”

You hauled him closer to you, white hot anger coursing through you as you stared directly into his eyes, almost daring him to argue with you. Insubordination was not a common trait of yours, but you had put in too much effort to get where you were to have it all waved aside as you sleeping your way up the chain.

“Give me one reason to trust you Lovie, just one.”

The tinge of near desperation in his voice wasn’t lost on you, John searching your eyes as his brows furrowed, one hand coming up to grip yours where it was still fisted in his vest. Had you not been high on adrenaline in the moment, maybe more sensible thoughts would prevail. But you could see the cracks in the mask John was wearing, could feel the way his heart was almost beating out of his chest, much in the same way as yours. Lovie, you’d heard that minutes ago in his voice note to you, but not with this heat. He’d sounded so eager to see you again, he’d made it all too clear exactly what he wanted with you. And right now, despite the utter insanity of it, that was all that mattered.

“I kissed you because you were my John. Not because you were Captain John Price, SAS. You could have been a man from any profession on Earth and I’d still have wanted you all the same.”

His lips were on you before you could take your next breath, eyes fluttering closed as he pressed you further back. Once again the intensity of his kiss had you reeling, all your senses wrapped up in this moment with him. Your lips parted for just a heartbeat to drag in a shaky breath before you collided again, a small moan escaping you. John took full advantage, his tongue swiping across your lower lip before meeting to dance with yours. This was full dominance, you hadn’t a hope at pushing back against this, practically pinned in place as he ravaged your mouth. You could feel your eyes roll back in your head behind closed eyelids, allowing John to take whatever he wanted from you. It ended all too soon for you both, John pulling back just enough that you could feel the string of saliva still connecting your lips break.

“Ah shit. Definitely fraternising now.” He leaned down to slightly to rest his forehead against yours.

You huffed out a laugh, peering up at him from underneath the lashes of your half lidded eyes, “Guess so. What happens now John-”

The door to the barracks opened and closed with substantial force, and you found John hurrying to extricate himself from your grasp. “Oi Captain! Are you an’ the rookie joining us or wha’? Been almost a half hour!”

You threw your head back in a silent groan.

Fucking Scottish bastard.

Had a thought about Captain Price

A/N: Don't we all?

Going to need you to trust me on this.

So - as of MW3 John's age is set at 38 in the year 2023. We also know he joined the infantry at 16 - then onto the army properly at 18.

John would have been 16 in 2001. In the UK. Which was when arguably we were still in the midst of a teen pregnancy epidemic across the country. Things have significantly improved since then.

I know you know where I'm going with this but just stick with me.

Now - for those of you who are maybe from outside the UK I can tell you now that recruiting kids right out of high-school has always been a bit iffy here in the public eye. Even more so when that kid hasn't even sat their A-levels at 18.

John dropped out of school to become a military man. That's just a fact. Which you can totally do from 16 - but most schools discourage it heavily.

English teens do not drop out of school to join the army if they have other options. We have apprenticeships or college if they don't like the traditional school route. And both of those can lead on to University courses.

John's only other option was to work - likely for minimum wage which I believe was like £3.50 an hour back then. It may have even been less given he was under 18.

Admittedly the army is good money for a kid that age. Especially if you don't see yourself going down a more traditional employment route.

But in what world would Price be so eager to earn good money fast? We know he's a smart guy - we've seen it in game. The man could have easily gotten into Uni. This is where we veer off the rails into glorious fanfic girly nonsense and I apologise.

Say he got his then girlfriend pregnant. We know he's a sensible guy - and we know he has a strong sense of responsibility and loyalty to the people he cares about.

He's obviously going to support his child and the mother of his baby. That's just in his nature.

He joins the military in order to be able to provide for them both. Now admittedly that means he's away from both his little family and everything he knows but let's be realistic - most teen parents don't stay together long term. I know so many personally where they don't even make it to the due date.

But if he's bringing a baby into this world he's damn well going to make sure it's taken care of.

Which leads me to my next point about what Price is like as a man in basically every fic he's in.

This man does not just radiate "Daddy" energy - this man is a Father.

Endlessly supportive of his boys in the unit, and fiercely protective.

He is willing to do almost anything to keep not only the 141 safe but the people back home as well (we see this in game as well when he drags in the Butcher's family to interrogate him).

We all know this man is wearing socks and sandals on holiday. We all know he's manning the grill at the BBQs. We all know he can't get up out of a chair without the iconic "Dad groan".

He is also far too good at putting up with the nonsense we write about Soap and Gaz in particular. They're the unit children and they certainly put John through his damn paces. Which he seems to put up with - with remarkable ease most of the time.

This man is a "weekend Dad". He sees his kid briefly when on leave or every other weekend depending on whether or not he's deployed. We've seen no evidence of a ring.

Now admittedly when you're running secret missions across the globe you don't want the enemy figuring out you have something at home to lose but this gives us some really nice single-dad!Price opportunities and I'm going to run with that.

But - assuming he had a kid at 16. That child is now 21/22. Prime age for the military. And roughly the right age for a steamy workplace romance with one of the other 141 members? Maybe?

I saw on here a while back this great series where Soap was in a secret relationship with Price's niece (I cannot for the life of me remember the creators name and I'm SO SORRY) and I raise you:

Secret relationship 141 x Price's!child

The angst - the steamy forbidden romance - the angry Dad energy - the potential SLOWBURN.

It's all right there for the taking.

Even better if we get some daddy issues from Y/N because John was never around. Like they didn't even tell him they were signing up in the first place. Maybe they don't have his last name and suddenly turn up under his command. The DRAMA.

I swear one day I'll actually have the time to write all these fics.

-Pet x