Price Call Of Duty - Tumblr Posts

Congrats on 4k! Saw the post I was wondering if you could do a platonic fanfic? So with Dad!John Price + teen!reader with the prompt “I just wanted to be like you” with reader tell price that they’re thinking about join the military and with price being like “absolutely NOT.”

Take your time if needed!

-🫠

DIFFERENT PATH (Dad!Price x Teen!GN!Reader) — 4K CELEBRATION

[WARNINGS; Dark thoughts, angst, price is a good dad but he needs to control his tempter, you butt heads and you’re both stubborn asses.]

YOU HAVE BEEN uncharacteristically quiet at the dinner table, John notes in his head. You’re a bit closed in on yourself as you actually eat your food instead of talk your head off like usual. He notes the way you keep your eyes lowered, your shoulders hunched; alarm bells are going off in his head because he isn’t sure if something happened, because you aren’t telling him anything.

You have been like this since school—you’re usually eager to hang around John since he’s usually away off somewhere in a different country, leaving you with a family friend for a couple of weeks or months at a time. This time? You came home, gave John a quick hug, a quiet “hi”, and you were in your room until he called you for dinner. He did not bother you once you shut your door—if you need space, he wasn’t going to deprive you of that. John knows he needed his space after coming home from school when he was younger.

“So,” John hums, a green bean in his mouth. He quickly chews, swallows, and takes a sip of his ice water before continuing. “How was school?” There’s a moment where your eyes actually flicker to him for the first time all night before they flicker back down to your plate, moving your food around with a fork; you shrug. John let’s out a sigh and tilts his head. “Words, kiddo.”

“It was fine.” You respond, your tone neutral. John notices the way you aren’t eating much, every few minutes is a few bites. You’re either scarfing it down, or you don’t eat it at all because you can’t stop talking. “Fine?” He questions, wiping his mouth with his napkin. You nod in response, knowing he’s trying to pry more information out of you. “Can I go to my room?” You ask, your jaw tight.

John pauses for a moment, a knot in his stomach forming. “Yes, you can.” He responds after hesitating for a few seconds. A heavy sigh leaves him as he watches you spring into action, grabbing your plate and bringing it to the kitchen before jogging up the stairs to where your room is. John knew this would eventually happen, something running across in his path of parenting where you wouldn’t want to tell him about something.

It’s definitely not the first time you’ve taped your mouth shut about something, but as you’ve grown to be more independent—you’ve been very independent as he’s been away a lot—he fears the worst. John just hopes you would trust him enough to tell him about something bad happening; even if you were involved and there was drugs or something else, he wants you to trust him. John wants you to know that no matter what, he would love you. Nothing would change that.

“Goddammit.” John mutters, cleaning up the table, grabbing his now empty plate and dirty dishes. He brings them to the kitchen and washes off his plate before sticking it in the dish washer with the utensils, spotting your barely touched food. John puts his hands on the counter and leans against them, slipping back into thought once more. Maybe it was time to talk to you about how he would still love you, even if you were involved in some bad shit? Is that the correct move?

John hates it—being on his own as a father. Your mother has never really been in the picture and you’ve luckily never taken an interest in knowing her, so he’s ruled the possibility of your mother coming back into contact. John doesn’t want to think about the other possibilities; the other stuff that could suggest a reason for this clammy reaction.

No, he decides, if you need something, you will come to him unless he deems it necessary to properly intervene. John puts plastic wrap over your plate and puts it on a shelf in the fridge before he retreats to his office. He keeps his door cracked for you in case you decide to change your mind—he knows something is up—and he grabs a book, sitting down in his office chair. John blinks at the book in his hands before flipping open to where he left his bookmark.

You come downstairs an hour or two after dinner was served. John was only half processing his book, rereading the same sentence at least four different times when you knock on the cracked door. John blinks and looks up from his book, quickly putting the bookmark between the pages and shutting the cover. “Come in.”You open the door with a nervous look, your hands fidgeting. The cat quickly runs into the office with a soft “mrr” as you walk closer to his desk. John holds his breath for a moment as you approach. “What’s goin’ on, kiddo?” John asks softly.

You sit in one of the two chairs in front of his desk with your hands in your lap. You glance at his face a couple of times before you groan and rub your face. You look back at him, your eyebrows furrowed. “Look, I know we talked about this before, but..” You trail off for a moment, looking to him for some sort of guidance. John gestures for you to continue with, “We’ve talked about a lot of things, love. Go on.”

You press your lips together before you utter something that makes John’s heart drop. “I was approached by a recruiter in P.E. class today.” John shakes his head quickly. “Absolutely not.” He says harshly, crossing his arms. “You already know my answer, I’m not signing anything.” You groan loudly and lean back in your chair. “Come on, Dad! This is truly what I want to do in life, I—“

“It’s a hard NO. Do you hear me?” John hisses, looking at you. It’s almost like he’s speaking to one of his men when they messed up. “You do not want to be in my line of work. You have no bloody idea what actually goes on.” You and your dad have had this kind of conversation before; back when you were fourteen. John had just assumed you were just getting more attached to him—since you were twelve, he’s been able to go on leave to be with you more often than he had been able to before. John just assumed it was sudden attachment due to the (family friendly) stories he had shared.

But no, even two years later, you’re still insistent on what you want to do. “Dad, please, just listen t’me—“

“My answer is and always will be no. You have no fuckin’ idea what happens out there, kid. It’s nothin’ like the games I’ve gotten you, you hear me? It’s nothin’ like the shows or the movies you begged me to buy you!” John snaps, his tone borderline vicious. You flinch at his tone, your heart dropping to your stomach. Your avert your eyes; John has never spoken to you like that before. You try to hold back the tears, but your gut is tight, throat burning as well as your eyes.

“I just..” You mumble. “I just wanted to be like you, Dad.”

John blinks, your shaky tone bringing him out of his protective rage. Guilt swirls in his chest, dripping down to his gut and settling uneasily. “Fuck, I—“ He stutters for a moment before taking in a breath in to gain his composure. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I never meant to snap at you like that, that’s completely on me.” John says with a much gentler tone than before, guilt lacing every word. Your gaze sticks to his desk instead of his face as you shrug, your eyes burning.

“That’s not okay for me to do, kiddos I just..” John lets out a heavy sigh. “You know I’ve been in the military my entire life; it’s not pretty. It’s not like the films you see, alright? I’ve seen.. many, many men and women be torn apart by bullets, blown up by explosives—hell, you know the nasty scar on my left side? I walked into an explosive rigged room when you were three years old, darlin’.”

That causes you to pick up your head and look at him with wide eyes, the tears brimming your eyelids. You blink, a tear quickly falling down your cheek. John has a guilty yet solemn expression, his eyebrows furrowed together; likes yours do when you’re also upset or thinking too hard about something. “Nearly cost me my life, kid. Nearly cost you your dad.” John says the last part quieter. He watches the way your eyes dart around as you process this information, your lips parting after a moment.

“Look.. I..” You trail off for a moment, your fingers licking at the seams of your pants. “I still.. I still want to, I just..” You pause. “I don’t see myself doing anything else, dad.”John closes his eyes for a moment, letting out a shaky breath. “You still have a year or two, I just.. I can’t sign anything for you, kid. If you die, I just—“

“—whAt if you die, dad?? You just admitted to me a risk you took and you’re still in the military despite having a kid!” You suddenly burst, your voice breaking. John blinks at you in surprise before folding his hands together in his lap, leaning back in his office chair with a quiet squeak of the bolts. “Why is it so different if I went in??”

John looks at you, at your passion and your frustration. “Because you haven’t been tainted by this life, love. You’ll never look at anything the same.” You give him a hard stare, the sadness turning into anger. “And if I said I’m ready for that?” A beat passes. “I’m not signing anythin’. But once you’re a legal adult, I can’t stop you.” You press your lips together; that’s one of the many things you and your father have in common. You’re both incredibly stubborn and won’t back down, and maybe you both bend and break the rules a bit. “I can wait.”

hair pulling - cpt. john price

your eyes foggy and eyelids heavy with your jaw slack and mouth hanging open. you're on your stomach, cheek pressed firmly against the mattress as john grips your hair tightly, pushing your face down against the bedsheets as he rocks his broad hips into you. your sopping wet pussy swallows his large size so well, taking each inch while you moan out and pant desperately, gripping the bedsheets as he continues to pound into your wet cunt.

“ain’t‘cha jus’ a pretty doll... made to take my’cock, hm?” he chuckles deeply, grunting gutturally as he pumps his wet and veiny dick into your tightening hole, while you pant heavily like a dumb dog in heat, your ass painful from being spanked repetitively. his grip is bound to leave indents and bruises on your hips, flesh and fat spilling from his fingers when he kneads your ass with his large and calloused hands, fucking deep into you and groaning loudly as he throws his head back.

you're already feeling so, so full, your ass sore and hips aching from his grip. you whimper when he tugs at your hair, forcing you to arch your back and look at him over your shoulder while he continues to fuck his meaty cock into your slick folds. he grips your jaw, forcing you to maintain eye contact with him as he chases his release, teasing you for coming undone on his lengthy cock, droplets of your sweet arousal dripping down his dick before he fucks his hot, white and milky cum into you, smacking against your cervix while he grinds his teeth together.

deranged!reader & her task force (katz's version)

me & ur mother @moongreenlight are genuinely insane. this is basically us if it even care 😞

a/n: fem!reader all military names fake, processes fake; mostly it'd be classified, not just not done...well we wouldn't know for sure. medical shit also real. i’m in both of those fields irl. no i am not a swifty

clinically insane reader doesn’t rampage kill. art has many mediums; regular people choose acrylics, watercolor, culinary, pottery…reader chooses murder. it’s a meticulous process that depends on the person, it’s slow, drawn out. which makes her a great torturer. thing is, she was part of SEAL team tango-8 but focused more on SARC stuff (search and rescue). she knows her way around a suture kit—and, fortunately, surgical instruments.

laswell knew reader for two reasons: odd separation orders and her confirmed kill count. there was barely anything documented about her medical discharge which was weird because 98% of the military is just paperwork (a fucking pain btw). only thing noted was “medically discharged” and “0% disability”. her confirmed kill count? 43. happy to be back in uniform, she skips around the hallways to price, giving him a giant hug and a kiss on the cheek, whispering threats in his ear. “if you ever discharge me, i’ll dip you in concrete to be my custom statue.” a sickeningly sweet smile follows. as he furrows his brows in confusion and bit of horror.

soap tries really hard to like her and he really does. she's so sweet and always tries to include him in things and bakes him cakes and always somehow includes almonds, joking how it's actually just cyanide. soap laughs until he sees her have actual cyanide in the kitchen, carefully dropping it into the batter with an eyedropper. then a tsp of almond extract. it wasn't enough to hurt or kill anyone, but it scared him

he told ghost and ghost goes and investigates. then he sees reader one night, cleaning her instruments, different mallets, scissors, blades and knife handles etc. and they are pristine...not surgically pristine but definitely floor grade. he continues to watch her at 2100, without fail, and cleans her surgical instruments. until he sees her missing from her barracks from her open curtains. he goes and finds her carefully dressing a man like a buck. she sees him and smiles at him beckoning him closer. after he puts an end to that, with cuts and bruises, he goes and tattles to price. reader crying in the prison about how much she'll "miss her uniform" price and laswell speak about it and they finally know what the fuck us going on. they send her out on the field.

its just gaz, a few recruits, and reader in a safehouse. they've captured one prisoner, a soldier of the pmc against them. he's tied to a chair and after gaz runs over his psychological warfare in him. gaz fails and tiredly beckons for reader to come in. he finds her staring dead straight ahead, looking like she was falling asleep with her eyes wide open. he slowly calls out her name, no response. he calls again, same outcome. he taps her on her shoulder and her eyes fall into a "normal" state and smiles brightly at him, "my turns?!" gaz films it, the blood, the slow agony-per laswell and price's request reader starts to skin the soldier. starting with just a silly little joke about cuticles and then it goes higher and higher, the piece of skin never tearing. it's superficial, it barely draws blood. "does that hurt? don't worry, i'll help!" she blows cold air onto the exposed skin, drying out his flesh slowly while the blood keeps it from fully drying. gaz gulps, the camcorder on a tripod next to him. "it's okay, you're not going to die. and if you do...i'll make use of you, no waste! promise! gaz, can you pass me the kerrison rongeur, please?" gaz scrambles around in her kit, metal and metal clinking together in the heavy duty box. "the fucking hole puncher, gaz." she screams at him, causing him to jump. he finds the long, gun-like instrument, its blade pokes and punches together. he hands it to her, the work end first. she yanks it from him, nails scratching his hand in frustration, but that same smile on her face. she takes small chunks of flesh from the man, blood gushing and pools. she digs dipper until she hits an artery, blood splattering over them all. "the mosquito! give the fucking mosquito." she screams as the man in front of them bleeds out. she launches for it in her box and clamps down. the man half awake. gaz's chest heaves up and down, his face in shock and fearful freeze. reader storms out, face falls flat, no more smile, no brows furrowed, just a dead stare in front of her. "pieces of shit, human bodies are."

laswell pulls out any psych eval documents she can find. she finds exactly one set of documents: your medical discharge. price shows ghost and they stare at the replaying video on his monitor. the image of a wide, blank-eyed reader, hair and face dripping with crimson blood, a small clamp clicked to close an artery. they keep her. soap is the one who finds your bloody kit left in your barracks. chunks of flesh, blood, bone... and other bioburden seemingly never there at all. the shiny chromium finish looking as if they were never used at all. reader who failed out of medical school because of the lack of moral and ethics her professors and physcians saw in her. they banned her from residency.

"can i...have him..? please?" "why would you want an execution order? aren't you an interrogator?" "i want to see the peristalsis!" "the fucking what?" "how his intestines move in his body and squirm around like snakes!!!" she dissects the man in a way only a careful surgeon could. doyen clamps closed off certain sections as she sits and animates the movement on her ipad. the man inhales and exhales evenly, a bandage over his throat, eyes wide and dry from the lack of tears.

soap, as empathetic as he is, sees reader in chow, sitting by herself as she stares dead ahead, mind clouded in thoughts. her arms moves a bit, twiddling her thumbs under the table. he sits down across from her, her gaze staring pass him, face unreadable and almost bored looking. "you alright bonnie?" reader's face smiles, her eyes still dead and still as they lag behind the smile she puts on. her eyes squint. "yeah! why?" "twiddling your thumbs there, anxious about your second mission?" she puts her cupped together hands onto the tabletop. her hands unclasp. she twirls the severed thumbs around. "just a lot on my mind, yeah..."

"can i have it?" reader asks when she sees gaz's shiny teeth.

reader takes interrogations very seriously, taking souvenirs for herself. a finger carefully dried out, teeth, an ear, hair, vital organs in formaldehyde, eyes into earrings, tendons as rings and bracelets.

she gave price a birthday present which included a human heart, dried and shrunk in a glass displayed case. "made it myself", she says. "...on your own time, my love?" "yes, never company time!" his birthday is not public imformation.

ghost was missing a pow. he asks reader. "where is he?" "who?" "the prisoner..." "i let him go." "why the fuck would you do that?" "i'm going hunting, do you want to join? we can dress him in the field!"

"i got you flowers, ghost, for your mother's grave." "how the fuck do you know about that?" "you told me!" "i fucking didn't! now tell me who the fuck told you that shit?!" "you did, don't be silly. you told me over a glass of scotch...or many glasses actually!" she giggles as he slams her against the wall.

price wakes up one night, the spine-chilling feeling of a pair of eyes stalking him. he picks up the gun from his nightstand, clicking off the safety. he blinks a bit, vision clearing and seeing a figure in the shadowy corner. "go back to sle-" her body is slammed against the wall, gun to her head. "go to bed, price." "what...are you doing here?" price breathes out, trying to steady his racing heart, popping the gun back to safety. "wanted a piece of your hair."

gaz finds reader in his room after work one day, reader sweeping his house. he changed the locks within a week, locking all external doors and windows. reader leaves him breakfast every morning still. he trashes it after the cyanide incident. he wakes up to reader with a plate of eggs and toast over his bed. "please eat it and don't waste food :("

the task force lives their day to day lives with the feeling of impending doom, paranoia, and a feeling of dread washing over them all at once whenever they catch a glimpse of you. they beg price to remove you, but price would rather not be covered in cement while still alive.

nanny!reader but price is married to a bitch who doesn't like him, their kids, and absolutely HATES reader. ik cheating is bad but c'mon PLEASE

(18+ smut, fem!reader, nanny!reader, infidelity but not by you x, daddy kink which is crazy cause who the hell am i rn writing a daddy kink, breeding kink which is def not a surprise, usual fern unedited shit, abrupt ending, ok that’s it)

—•—

you could feel his wedding band.

the cold press of white gold against the hot curve of your arse. your skin was burning up, on fire. his hands were hot, too. warm and white-knuckled. callouses on the pads of his palms.

you could feel it when he pawed at your breasts, kneading with strong fingers. the press of the metal against the fat there made your eyes roll, whimpers falling from your mouth.

you could feel it when he was knuckle-deep in the tight, warm heat of your cunt. gushing around two fingers, dripping over his hairy knuckles. scissoring you open, kiss-swollen and puffy, clit racing with your heartbeat.

when you could feel it, inside you on some other part of your body, it made your heart race and your stomach flip. it got you excited. maybe it got you excited because it was a wedding band that you didn’t give him.

in the back seat of his car, you could feel it pressing against the back of your neck as he held you there and bounced you on his cock.

in the back seat of the car he had chosen with his wife. that smelled of the air-freshener she had chosen.

he had you straddling him, thick thighs sitting alongside his, the fat rippling with each of his heavy thrusts upwards. he grunted with each one, too. each time the flared head of his cock knocked upwards, he grunted. each time your pussy clenched around him, milking him, he grunted, jaw clenched.

the car rocked. like a boat atop a wake. the car he let his wife choose rocked as he fucked the woman who cared for his kids. who acted more the mother than she did.

it rocked as you moaned, one hand resting on his broad shoulder, the other smearing down the fogged window, tinted but not impenetrable. it was dark outside, the moon illuminating the front section of your house.

the hand around the back of your neck kept you grounded. kept you slamming down onto him. kept your swollen clit brushing against the coarse patch of hair at the base of his cock. a cock which split you open, which had your soaked cunt spilling around him, running onto the seats.

the seats which she designed. the wife. which she had chosen, and he had approved, and in reality she really didn’t give that much of a thought. she didn’t like them in the end.

you liked them. they were comfortable, and the colour was nice.

you could see a lot of that colour in your blurred vision, swimming with tears. john kept his hand on the back of your neck, the other on one of your soft hips. he pulled you, with force, downwards to meet his thrusts, cockhead punching the air from your lungs.

you moaned his name, and he grunted in return. the hand on the back of your neck eventually found your jaw, his fingers grasping your chin. holding. securely.

your body moved with him, pressure building in the depths of your stomach. somewhere deep in the marrow of your bones.

and when two of his fingers slipped into your parted mouth— his middle and his ring finger— and when you could feel the press of his wedding band against your lips, as the pads rested against your tongue, you saw stars. came so hard it made you dizzy.

or,

on his bed. that he shares with his wife. a wife who could never truly love him as much as you loved him. not that you told him that, but you assumed that he probably knew, deep down.

so, of course, you let him fuck you. let him fold you over with your chest pressed into the bed, your arse in the air, knees dimpling the mattress, face pressed into the sheets that smelled of him.

his hips slammed into you, hairy thighs pushing against you. you had felt that wedding band when he coaxed you onto your knees after making you come around his tongue, and then again when he pulled your arse cheeks apart to spit against your holes.

you felt it when he fingered the spit into the wet clutch of your pussy, and felt it when he teasingly slid his thumb, skimmed his thumb, over your arsehole. you felt it when he gripped the fat of your arse, wiping a wet J across your skin. and you felt it when he spread you again and slowly pushed his cock into your cunt.

you wanted to feel it all the time. it fed into your dark little fantasy that he belonged to you. that you weren’t just some nanny for his kids.

eyes closed, you focused on the pleasure. the velveteen ridges of his cock rubbing against the gummy walls of your cunt, the vein running along the underside, the way he held your hips and fucked into you.

rutted into you whilst pawing at your flesh. leaning forward, john’s belly pressed against your lower back, and he reached around your soft body to rub at your clit. you could feel the wedding band, warm now, skim against your mons. fleeting, but it made you moan as he began toying with your clit.

he fed into your fantasies. while his wife was at a work conference, doing god-knows-what with god-knows-who, he had his nanny— his play-pretend wife— folded like a seashell beneath him, playing with her pearl, so to speak.

“so noisy, sweet girl. y’gonna wake the kids, hm?” he whispered, voice dark. “gonna wake our kids.”

you bit into the sheets beneath you, moans catching in your throat. the slick sound of your pussy had your head in a spin, and the weight of his cock pistoning in and out of you made you want to cry out.

“my special girl, always takin’ such good care of ‘em. and y’take such good care of me, too, don’t you?” john grunted out, bed creaking, balls slapping against you, warm.

you nodded, breathing hard.

john hummed, pleased, continuing to rub at your clit in tight, but sloppy circles. you were so wet, sopping around his cock, folds puffy and glistening.

“best wife a man could ask for,” he told you in a way that almost pushed you over the edge. you held strong, though, as your legs started to tremble. he continued, “got me a pretty little bird, didn’t i? ‘m so fuckin’ lucky, baby.”

you whimpered. mewled. the fingers on your clit were lead-heavy and molten hot. static built in the base of your spine, pleasure rocking through every single one of your nerves. you felt yourself gushing around him.

you don’t know how he managed to get you this wet every time you fucked, but he did. maybe it was the years of experience. maybe it was just john being john. either way, he was the best fuck you’d ever have. and, if he could help it, the only one you’d ever have again.

he groaned above you. “mhm, that’s right. that’s right, pretty girl, keep this pussy nice n’ tight for me— that’s it, can feel you squeezin’ me. you wanna come?”

you nodded. you didn’t even know if you wanted to come, but your body was on the brink of something. tingling, pressure. either, you were about to have the hardest orgasm of your life, or you were about to have an outer-body experience. maybe both.

you could feel the wedding band against the soft, bare skin of your hip as he quickly shifted his hand away from your clit to really fuck you. a good couple of thrusts, and you were coming all over his cock— with a loud cry of his name, but muffled by the sheets.

your pussy gushed around him, leaking down your thighs, and you cried out for him— please, please, please, as he stuffed you full of his cock. in and out, drawing squelches and suction sounds. wet and warm and tight.

“let’s put another baby into you. eh, pretty? let me stuff this wet cunt— let me put a baby in this tummy of yours,” he cooed, hoarse and gruff and the type of man you knew you wanted to have kids with. i mean, you didn’t actually have any kids of your own, but you had his to look after. and those were close enough. he moaned, uttering, “m’gonna come inside you.”

gripping, kneading, squeezing. the wedding band on your skin. you sobbed into the sheets.

john groaned. “that’s it, sweet girl. just like that. m’gonna come. you— fuck, you gonna ask your daddy to come inside you?

you were still sobbing at the overwhelming pleasure. you turned your head to plead with him. “please, john, please come inside me— please, daddy, fuck—”

he spoke over you as he bucked his hips. “yeah, uh-huh, that’s it, baby. that’s— yeah, that’s fuckin’ it, m’gonna make you a mama— gonna make you my wife—”

he came inside you with a guttural moan, his cock wedged tightly inside your heat, which pulsed around him with the force of your third (?— probably, something like that. you lost count a while ago) orgasm of the night. you mewled into the mattress like a cat.

and then he fucked his cum into you. pushed it right towards the plug of your cervix with his wedding band on his finger and his hands holding you still beneath him.

holding his nanny still beneath him as he fucked a fat load of come into her soaked pussy. wishing to get her pregnant.

one day, you wouk be his wife. but for now, you were content with him fucking you within an inch of your life, then complaining about his actual wife just the next day.

what a life you live, huh?