Price X Reader - Tumblr Posts

price is definitely the kind to grab and kiss you and push you against the wall. whereas johnny in my mind—I see him starting slow

price is over here all over you and clinging the second you see him. he always does this thing—where he grabs your neck, large veiny hands wrapping at the side to not choke—

although he could if you were into that

price is definitely the kind to show off you’re his by giving your ass a good slap at work—mind you in front his colleagues. he’s satisfied by their looks of surprise—and even more aroused by your reaction.

johnnys more the type to hide you at first but initially dying to tell his team about you. most likely because he wants you all for himself. because he doesn’t want anyone else having those filthy thoughts of you the way he would—always.

you’re just so pretty.

the man could be an absolute goof ball and teddy bear—but the moment you’re in bed. he’s towering over you with that hungry gaze, eyes prying you wide open. you can’t escape the primal look in him.

so when you come into work giving johnny his lunch—which he forgets, he’s met by questions about who you are and he riles up because he doesn’t want anyone knowing of you.

but oh no. at first he just brushes it off with his usual jokes & sarcasm.

but deep down what he’s really thinking when he watches your ass sway as you leave is how good you’ll take it tonight. how good you’ll let him mark you up, so everyone knows you’re his.

how he’ll whisper filthy things in your ear so you replay it over and over again, completely consumed by him.

You have a tough week at work

hey yall—tough ass week here. i needed to write this cute fluffy moment with reader x simon x price ughhh. my poor heart is mush atp. enjoy!! pls like comment and reblog to share the love <3

notes: she/her pronouns used, lots of fluff & reader struggles for acceptance affection. Lovie, lovebug, love nicknames are used.

I think after a long week and shedding tears over a tub of ice cream—Simon & Price decide you’ve had enough.

First you come through the front door frowning, your usual scowl and eyes twitching from the lack of sleep. Your neck sags, shoulders hunching from the heavy bag and responsibilities weighing on you. You feel like you’re never enough.

Immediately Simon rounds the kitchen corner, not hesitating to take your shoulder bag off—lengthy fingers curling around the strap. You could see the warm lamps are lit, the fireplace on and going which never failed to make you feel at ease in tough times. The flames roared with life.

You trace your eyes to look up all puffy eyed and your nose red—most likely from just crying in frustration. You stiffen up for a moment at him seeing you like this, and faintly you could hear Price cooking in the kitchen. It smells of warm food.

“Lovie, give it up.” Simon said gently—much gentl(er) to you than he would with anyone. His brow was raised and he’s got that scolding look to him.

One that told you to bite down on any resistance.

So you did, too tired to fight and knowing it would be useless. You give the bag to him, and Simons’ hunky form maneuvers to the couch, where he placed it down. His mask if off, wearing sweatpants and a longsleeve knit you got him. His rugged features glow softly in the fire light, oranges and yellows lighting his irises.

Price then calls out from the kitchen, “Is the love bug back already from work?”

“Aye, I got er’.” Simon responds gruffly—turning around when he heard you groan.

There you were trying to take your shoes off, bent over and fingers sluggish working the laces. Damn thing wouldn’t undo itself. Tears sprung up in frustration, finding the simple task so demanding and exhausting. And it didn’t help every muscle protested in pain.

“Lovie—“ Simon closes the distance with his house slippers and holds up upright by your elbows.

“I-I can’t do it.” You say weakly, frowning. Apart of you feels like you needed to “adult,” better—but this week? This week was a mess.

You hear a clank from the kitchen.

“Lovie, come, none f’that, yea? Let’s get you sorted.” Simon briefly caresses your cheek with warm tender fingers, and you find yourself aching for more when he pulls away, round wide eyes gazing.

Simon doesn’t miss the look you gave him and knows. He knows what you need. He gently leads you to the couch, making you sit. He makes sure the pillows are fluffed and places one behind your back to support you, and occasionally hearing your sniffles.

“I’m sorry—“ You begin to say, voice shaky and on the verge of sobs. You felt guilty for making them care, but then again it was their job as well. They looked out for you, you looked out for them.

Simons heart aches as he hears you. The woman he knows who is determined, strong and wise is now hurting. Vulnerable, cracked open. He knows what this must feel like, since he did too at some point of his life.

It was a hard choice—sharing how you felt. And be found himself appreciative of how you let him take care of you tonight. He was determined to put your stressed soul at ease, doing whatever you asked for if you did.

So, his warm voice floated in, as deft fingers loosened your shoe laces, gentle warm eyes peering up at you from under his brows.

“Lovie, its a’right. A big man like me can untie y’er shoes, no?” Simon says lightly, lip lifting up slightly.

That earns him a swift grin from you despite the tears and your chest warms. You know Simon could do a lot more. It was so secret anymore who he was, his past, and Price as well. His large hands slide under your ankles, supporting it up into his lap.

Price then turns the stove off and you hear soft padding. Simon slips off your shoes and tosses them aside—his attention immediately back onto you. He could care less of the shoes. He wanted-needed to know if you were okay.

Price wiped his hands on the rag—his face falling when he saw you, his love bug all teary and crestfallen.

“Dove, let me make you a cup of tea.” Price said firmly, without question. He knows you must be a bundle of nerves and felt frazzled. A nice tea outta do it, he thought. Inside, he was worried.

He worked with ease at the kitchen, tall form hardly needing to stretch an arm up to open the cupboard. He already reached its height anyway.

Immediately he steeped a bag, a nice peppermint tea. In your cute little mug you always loved—the one with pink and white fluffy clouds, with golden stars painted and the moon. He found himself warming at the sight—you.

You were everywhere and he loved it. Little remnants.

He returned and Simon got up to sit next to you, a hand rubbing your back. He softened at the sight and crouched down in front your resting form. He saw the eye bags wearing you down, the redness of your eyes and how irritating the skin was from all the rubbing. Most likely wiping your tears off.

He could see the frown lines, the way your eyes had glossed over in exhaustion.

He felt even more concerned—maybe even livid at the way work had drained you. Nonetheless, his priority was you, not blowing up because of your work.

“Love bug, d’ya think you could sit up for me?” Prices’ warm voice said, one large hand holding your cute mug, the other resting on your knee.

You gently nudged your head in acknowledgement—which was resting on Simons shoulder. All warm and content.

You moved to sit up and uncurled your legs, warming at the sight of Price holding you mug.

Not just any mug.

And the tea you loved too.

Tears sprung up again and you grabbed at the mug, holding it.

“Lovie—“

“Love bug—“

They both said immediately at your tears.

“I’m okay…just overwhelmed by your support.” You managed a small smile, eyes flitting to meet both their concerned ones.

Simon had his brows furrowed, an arm slung back behind you. But now he moved to lean in, a hand touching your back again.

He nodded, meanwhile Price continued rubbing your knee in a comforting manner, thumb drawing circles now.

“Love, you have nothing to apologize for. We know its been hard for you lately.” Price said in a soothing low tone, brows raising. He lowered his head to get a look at you—although not staring holes into you.

He watched as you drank your tea, sighing in relief.

“I-It was.” You began, “I lost track of time and missed some deadlines at work. My Boss has been upset.” Your voice cracked as you explained, and the tears sprung up.

Both of them knew how late you were staying at work, and to hear your inconsiderate Boss only add fuel to the fire was maddening.

Simons’ chest puffed out, taking a breath in—and Prices’ eyes flashed momentarily, only to soften when he spoke to you.

“Just let it out lovie.” Simon said softly, a large hand brushing your hair aside as you cried. Tears dripped down and Simons calloused hand cupped your cheek, rubbing them away. Gently. He wasn’t used to this—but with you, it came so naturally.

There was this feeling in him you reached deepest. It only amplified in moments like this. He didn’t even know he was capable of being gentle still, yet you brought it out in him.

Price patted your leg softly, “Easy love. Let me get you some good food in that tummy. I made you your favorite.”

With that you look up at him as he arose, and Prices’ eyes crinkled underneath with his warm smile. His heart melted—a mixture of concern and care as your eyes were watery and half lidded. He reached a hand to cup your jaw, stroking the tender skin before gliding to the kitchen.

You sniffled and leaned into Simons arms, needing warmth and comfort. Immediately he accepted—no questions asked. He didn’t stiffen up the way he would when you first met him. He let you in completely, loving you the way you did to him when he was lost.

He knew you needed someone to lean on. Both physically and mentally.

“Love, we got this, aye? You jus’ let us do the big work. Don’ worry bout’ bein’ big. And doin’ the big things.” He would whisper soothingly into your hair, a large arm wrapping around your shaky form.

It curled around you so easily, and you closed your eyes, cheek nuzzling his chest. He softened even more, hand reaching up to wipe your face.

But before he did, he made sure to tilt your head up so he could get a good look to clean it.

“There she is.” Simon whispered, affectionately.

He heard Price shuffle back and you gave a soft smile—although weary.

The rest of the night was spent with Price feeding you, even if you complained about doing it.

Simon held you, your back to his chest while he figured he could learn to braid your hair. Halfway, as Price fed you a spoonful, perched onto the coffee table—Simon grumbled and spoke up.

“Lovie, you ave’ such nice hair—I don’t want to be an arsehole, but how in the hell do you manage it?”

Simon whipped the braid over your shoulder so you could see it. Price held the spoon up, cocking a brow at the braid—to which Simon glared.

What you saw had you laughing. It suddenly bubbled out—chest shaking and smile breaking out. Hair was sticking out, untucked properly in the braid. His tension was off so it looked like some braids were bigger than the other, and he fumbled with the hair tie which was slipping off.

“Lovie.” Simon whined roughly—although he couldn’t lie, seeing the lights on in your head again and the way you laughed—it had this man crumbling.

And Price—Price looked proud. Almost like: I knew we’d get her back. His smaller eyes were wide in joy, drinking in the way your shoulder scrunched and lips stretching.

“Simon—this is so sweet.” You say, sighing. God, laughter really was the best medicine, you thought.

And with that, Simons fingers began gently prodding your side to tickle you. You squirmed and hands scrambled to hold his broad shoulders—once again laughter pouring out like bubbles.

Price grinned, a lip quirking up, as he set the bowl aside, “I’m tryin’ to feed her.” But he was enjoying this well enough—

“Oh come on old man, you like this.” Simon teased, his voice slightly shaky as he tickled your squirming form.

He wasn’t wrong.

“Okay! Okay!” You stated, panting, and face red. You were still smiling, leaning to the side and holding up your hands with the widest grin at Simon.

“Good, lovie?” Simon asked.

“Good.” You repeated.

——

Lets just say, HR received multiple complaints from “two” anonymous sources who relentlessly called over and over.

It piled up until both got what they wanted—your Boss suspended for verbal harassment and having employees work overtime.

When you heard the news—you were glad and relieved. Didn’t need to deal with him ever again, you thought.

As you hummed and blasted your music in your headphones, tucked away in your room for the night, both Simon and Price grinned at each other.

Operation: Unforgettable

The tension (Price x Reader)

hey lovies guess who’s back with a new fic 🫠 undercover agent (you) x price. Excited for this!! Smut scenes & smexy thoughts, so you know the drill. MDNI. no y/n, fem pronouns, reader is legal age. Mentions of guns, fighting, occasional swearing, possessive!price. Probably inaccurate military info 😭 also reader might have a death wish—always giving snarky comments to sir price.

also: venue described here is made up, not part of the cod storyline. Just to add some extra details and difference in the story :) some things might be inaccurate pls dont come for my soul 🙏🏻 side character- Qattara Ali. Not relevant to the cod storyline.

“We know they’ll be meetin’ here at evening.” Price said gruffly to the rest of the team, before slapping down a manilla folder. On it was Makarovs’ mug shot, shadowed face and head tipped low, so his dark and primal eyes sent daggers into you. No matter the stare—you remained firm, despite the uncomfortable roll in your stomach.

The briefing room was bright with fluorescent lights to drive anyone mad—glass tables shining enough to see past any weak agent.

And that—that was not you. Nor was it anyone on this team. Johnny, Simon, and Kyle stood beside your form, behind the table. Despite his usual jokester appearance—Johnny lips were pressed thin and hand rested on his strap, fingers curled with ease on his gun. He didn’t discard of his gear as of yet.

“Ain’t that a nice venue.” Kyle said, brows furrowed harshly. Though he commented on the venue, his voice was humorless. He was an efficient, focused and driven man.

The venue was indeed beautiful. A tall beige terracotta building with a stunning terrace opening to the mountains rising in the distance. Golden warm lights lit the palace, like fountains opening up to scatter golden rays. Aged stone wrapped the columns. Arabesque arched doorways lined the front, along with windowed wooden lattices, accenting the structure. The designs were so beautifully intricate, it nearly made you forget about the danger of the mission.

“Laswell will be accompanying us. She’ll be our eyes and ears outside.” Price said.

Time was ticking and tension grew up the air thick—something we as a team got used to. But when the feeling hit that something wasn’t right, that something was going to go sideways, that was a feeling we’d never forget.

Simons’ heavy eyes flickered to Kyle, before meeting Price with a subtle nod. He shifted his weight on his boots. We got em, the bastards.” His strong Manchester accent was smooth.

When you first joined it was hard to understand him, as well as Johnny. But you caught on quickly, your ears were used to the sounds and how they stressed the syllables, being that you learned a few languages yourself out of necessity.

His gear jostled yet he remained at ease despite the heaviness.

Your eyes roamed all over his balaclava—this one covered everything, leaving only his eyes showing. Menacing.

Apart of you were curious to see what he would look like under it. Since coming here—the brute never took it off. You tapped a finger against your clothed arm, tight compression shirt hugging your form. The weight of your gear belt hung low on you, and you glanced at it.

Suddenly Prices’ voice cut through the air like a knife.

“Agent, are you ready to act as our bait?” His gruff voice made your eyes snap to his. He was without his hat, arms extended as he leaned over the glass table—head lowered to send a look to you. His lips were pressed thinly in focus, the folder beside him.

The team awaited your response, eyes tracking towards you. Simon appeared firm, Johnny looked concerned—maybe for your wellbeing. And Kyle looked confident, after all he trusted in your abilities.

You watched Price, swallowing.

Agent.

That’s not what he called you last night in bed.

You nodded firmly, ignoring the warmth that flood in your stomach from the thought. An impulsive thought. Things like that came and went recently, because now you found yourself in a sticky situation with your captain.

You could remember faintly the harsh breathing, the smell of his sweat mixed with cologne as he pushed you up against the wall—hands greedily groping at your clothes. He tore them off to the floor, just before you landed on the bed, bouncing from the recoil.

“Yes, sir.” You say, sucking in a breath. You turn hot on your heels at his dismissal—and Johnny eases up.

He comes to your side and follows you out to the armory, grinning like a cat. His boots thud loudly down the hall, of course aiming to disturb any sleeping recruits at this hour. No one would sleep because of him.

“This one’s no different, lass.” He said, mentioning the mission. His sharp eyes remained on you. His concern faltered a bit and he returned to his usual chipper self.

“Don’t have to tell me.” You mumbled, combat boots thudding down the hallway.

You turned into the armory and stood by the locker, grasping at your gun before reloading it.

“Ya’ looked a little worried there.” Johnny teased and you wonder if he noticed that dazed look to your face when Price spoke to you.

You push the thought away—needing to focus. You couldn’t have any of the team knowing, it would only complicate everything further. This little game you and Price started needed to stay hidden. Apart of you liked the secrecy anyway.

The idea of it being forbidden, hidden, and private drove you feral.

But so did being out in the open and him claiming you as his.

You grabbed your thigh holster from the table and raise a brow at Johnny, quick to put the safety on. Although you were tempted to leave it off to mess with him.

Your lip tilted up slightly, responding to him. “Worried if you would jeopardize the mission.”

He watches in amusement, busying himself with strapping a gun around his waist. His back faced you, muscles stretching and rippling.

“Admit it, lass. You dream of being with me.”

With that, he winked.

You rolled your eyes and now broke out in a grin. You walked to the exit of the armory and held your hefty gun—thigh strap in the other. You shot him a glance before walking off—leaving Johnny flustered and rubbing his neck.

Tonight you were the bait. You knew in your line of work—this would eventually happen. To try and soothe the nerves you breathed out, and then grasped at the dress in your bunker room. You needed to look exceptional tonight. No room for sloppiness. This was a high rank venue.

The dress was a stunning crimson red on your form. It had a dangerous slit. Your curves were snatched—and in your purse was your gun. You cleared your throat—checking your bombshell hair for any fly aways. You fixed it and then your mind wandered back to Price. What was going to be his reaction? You wondered—feeling that familiar ache between your legs and that excitement bubble in your chest.

“The mans in for a proper teasing.” You say to yourself, scoffing and grinning. You knew you had him in a chokehold.

You grab at your heels from under your bed—fancy black and red Loboutins. God. It would look absolutely stunning in the night. Sexy. You slipped them on with ease and stood taller, eyeing yourself like you were the most captivating thing in the room. Of course you were.

“Of course I’ll buy it for you. Need t’sell the look, yea?” You remember Prices’ words. That day, Price caught you red dress in hand, scrolling on your phone from just having shopped. He caught your arm before you bumped into him and said—“You need a nice pair of heels.”

It echoed in your mind—cheeks warming. You brushed your palms over the silk material of the dress and swallow, turning to look at the door.

It’s just sex, you remind yourself. A good hot fuck with the Captain. You didn’t need to fuck your way to the top either—you were an exceptional Agent. But sometimes—just sometimes the things he’d say or do had you freezing. Shuddering. Stammering to speak.

Especially when he bought the heels giving no mind to it, as if it were a regular occurrence. And the way he were able to switch to the cold, obscure Price in the briefing rooms, to greedy, hungry and desperate in the room with you. Craving you. Chanting your name and consumed by you completely.

And then, only to give you that look in the briefing room as if nothing had been going on.

“Talent.” You murmur and angle your torso to slip out the room—sinful heels clacking down the hallway to prepare to leave. You clutch your purse, red nails glinting in the light.

Just then—you hear murmuring and speaking. Laughter from Johnny—you recognized the Scotsman a mile away. Of course he stood, motioning to his phone whilst Simon stood beside him.

“D’ya see this picture? Look will ya? They made tiny characters of us! Tiny!” He exclaimed.

“The hell is tha’? Tumblr?” Simon spoke gruffly, although disinterested.

He rolled his eyes, a hand resting on his belt when he heard heels clacking.

Price’s head picked up as well at the noise, back turned to face the huge glass windows of the sunset. He adjusted his tie and turned around—a brow cocked. A hand still rested on his tie but froze.

There you were—in all your glory. Hair done up to the nines, smokey eyeliner to accentuate the color and shape of your eyes. Lips red enough like blood.

The lot of them were left speechless.

Meanwhile, Price wore the darkest suit jacket he could find, ironed bone straight. His tie matched, so did his button up. His hair was slicked back neatly, revealing sharp, icy eyes. His dress shoes glinted daringly in the light above. He smelled of aftershave.

Johnny wore an unbuttoned black shirt, tight chino pants and a belt. A belt that screamed luxury. His jacket was draped over his arm. The black only emphasized the rich color of his eyes, and went perfectly well with his devilish grin.

It was silent until Johnny spoke first, “Fuckin’ hell lass, if ya took a swing at me with them heels I’d say thank ye.”

Meanwhile, Kyle hid something behind his back—his charcoal eyes sticking to your face and smiling softly. The man was humble and respectful towards you and you found yourself appreciative of his presence.

Simons’ eyes never left yours—lips pressed flat. You could see more of his eyes and nose bridge with his simple balaclava mask. He was impressed by your ability to clean up. But even more so impressed by how you carried yourself tonight. He decided to wear a heavy suit jacket, white undershirt and a black tie. Simple. Elegant. Golden cuff links.

Price’s thicker fingers worked his tie, then shifted it—chin tilted up in approval at what you wore. On the surface he tried to remain professional, but his body language betrayed him. His eyes roamed hungrily over your curves, down to the way those heels slipped perfectly on your feet, the ones he got you, and the way your eyes were done dark.

Intimidating. Like a prowess.

And the way you leaned on the wall, a shoulder bracing. Arms crossed loosely and eyeing the team.

He liked a challenge. His heart was hammering when he heard you speak, smirking and moving away to walk to Johnny. Every click of those heels made him imagine what it would be like for you to walk to him instead—

“Only thing I’m looking to beat is this mission.” Your voice cut through, ringing perfectly in the air. You then walked past the team—their surprised looks not going unnoticed by Price.

How he wanted to claim you right then there. To show you, you only belonged to him. Was it selfish of him? To want you so bad that he felt like hiding you from the team? From the crowd itself at the venue? He stiffened up at the thoughts running through his head.

Oh yes, he knew there would be a lot of men eyeing you up tonight. Price was no stupid fool, he knew most would be thinking with their half inched cocks, raving about a beautiful, empress you were. What they didn’t know is you were a skilled, talented Agent.

That made him bristle with satisfaction, knowing you had power.

And he knew you’d handle it. If anyone made a move, he had full faith in the Agent you were to manhandle their ass.

Kyle whistled lowly and followed out, looking quite dapper in his suit himself. He went for more of a romantic look. A black v-neck vest, biceps straining under the white button up he wore. Crisp and smooth.

As you loaded up in the limo first, you efficiently swung your legs over, sitting by the corner. You couldn’t have your hoo-ha showing to everyone. Johnny managed to snag a nice limo for the team, saying something about it being our last time and joking.

You had to admit—it was decked out.

You poured yourself a shot, earning a look from Simon who sat across from you. His broader form took over two seats.

“What a fatass.” You couldn’t resist the joke, red lips curling up deviously.

Simon grew used to your teasing and the brutes’ chest rumble, a low chuckle leaving him. He wore his simple balaclava mask, nose bridge showing and more area around his eyes. He grasped for the shot glass too, knocking it back.

“Gonna need more of these, aye?” He spoke gruffly. You had a feeling there was more to it than a joke.

Johnny then climbed in, slamming next you. His arms brushed yours and you weren’t surprised by his lack of personal space. The man was stuck in cloud nine half the time, except when he was on missions.

You took it as him needing to power off his brain.

“Move over.” You groaned and shifted so you weren’t so pressed against Johnny. He snorted and of course made no room to move at all, the heavy man not budging. He rolled his eyes.

Price sat next to Simon, and Kyle followed next to Johnny. It suddenly smelled of cologne and aftershave in the limo as it drove off. Your head was dizzy from it, and you looked out the window—as Johnny and Kyle worked their way to drink shots.

From here Price could have a good view of you, you realized. He looked hot, you admitted. Would’ve been better if he wore a red tie to match with me, you thought. God, the idea had you shaking in your seat slightly. The thought, lips and dress matching his tie as if you two were something more—

More? You froze and watched as the limo zipped past trees and the golden sun kissed the leaves.

Not “more.” It shouldn’t be.

It was only sex, you reminded yourself.

“Hey, I got you something.” Kyle suddenly said, cutting through your thoughts. The men looked over and Johnny sighed at the burn of whiskey—obviously enjoying his rounds.

Price murmured to him, “Don’t over do it.” His stern eyes tracked the drink and then his face.

“Ye know I won’t.” Johnny brushed off the staring gaze of Price who squinted ever so slightly at him for dismissing him. He then watched as Kyle reached around and whipped out a small bouquet of roses, grinning ear to ear.

You widened your eyes at the scene, Simon nearly sputtered out his drink. He then composed himself.

“Kyle, what is that—“ you go to ask.

“I got you a flower. You once said roses were your favorite, remember?” Kyle said, and plucked one from the small bouquet.

Johnny watched, having to flatten his chest, when Kyle leaned over. His brows raised as Kyle handed you the rose.

You held it carefully, unsure of what to do with it. Your wide eyes tracked him, the way he leaned forward, chin tilted down to give you that charming look of a knight.

“Alright, alright, more of that and I’ll puke.” You teased. That earned a laugh from Kyle and Johnny.

As you held the rose with a soft smile on your dark lips, Price watched. Occasionally he’d flicker his gaze away, and ahead, but his eyes kept moving to how you reacted to the rose.

——

Finally arriving at the beautiful venue—your heels clack against the pavement. The venue looked even more breathtaking in front of your eyes as it stood massively. You had to tilt your head up just to get a good look. Immediately, you note the entrances and two armed guards standing there, comms in their ears for easy communication. Most likely undercover Konni soliders.

You adjust yours and then turn to your team who were behind you. Simon adjusted his cuff link, languid eyes cutting through the crowd sternly.

Johnny pulled on his suit jacket, giving it a firm tug.

Kyle passed along the bouquet to a beautiful woman, although he made sure to fix it so one rose wasn’t missing. Cheeky.

“Alright, comms on, no funny business.” You say in a hushed tone to them, although teasingly. Although you had a feeling you’d be in the funny business tonight. More ways than one.

Price is the last to step out. He closed the limo door, and straightens his jacket. The sight almost has your mouth watering hut you remained focused. Your heart beats firmly in your chest, a sign of your determination to track down Makarov.

But Simons’ voice pulls you back.

“Got it, lady.” Simon spoke gruffly, his eyes peering into yours momentarily.

“Dinna ave’ to tell me.” Johnny grinned wolfishly and you roll your eyes.

Price nods and you’re up ahead walking, although feeling multiple eyes bore holes into you from behind. Nonetheless you don’t waver, you continue head raised high and confidence in your stride. Approaching the venue—you pull out your RSVP card under a name Qatarra Ali.

It wasn’t your real name no. In fact, you’d taken her spot and filled its vacancy. More like, Laswells team found her and interrogated her. The meeting was to ensure the delivery of the arms. Trafficking arms to make money—which helps support the war—real interesting, Makarov.

Now, it was business time.

Or should you say, time to buzz around and flirt.

You enter in the venue immediately after their approval, and so the rest of the team gets checked as well. You’re left to eye all the exits and entrances slyly whilst nursing a white wine—Pinot Grigio. The liquid is sweet and has a perfect blend bitterness to it.

It wasn’t overwhelming along with the massive crowd of people. They’re all dressed like novelty, royal. Somewhere in here—hidden in the masses were Makraovs’ people. And what better way to hide their arms trafficking than to join a massive venue, and scamper off?

You scoffed and leaned against the bar, sultry eyes darting around the room. Price makes his way in first, you see. His head is tilted, never keeping his back turned from the guards, so does the test of the men one by one. Coming in hot and ready to party.

“You already found a drink. Good blending in.” Price says, murmuring as he approaches your languid form at the bar. One leg bent, your weight onto your other, and holding your flute. You don’t miss the way his eyes roam over you hungrily.

You grin—figuring you could let go of your stoic persona for the night. Price surveys the dancing and swaying crowd, and then looks to you, “Gotta be a civilian, yea? This is what they do, hm?”

You snicker and Johnny, Kyle and Simon take their positions around various exits around the venue to keep eye. You and Price were scoping the main hall now.

At that, the hunk finds his lip tilting up in a grin. His eyes had years of exhaustion and the wrinkled all too much describes his story—yet moments like this highlighted his charisma. His pull. It was attractive to see his face light up and his eyes dance around you shamelessly.

Price then leaned in, a hand reaching forward and brushing yours as he took the flute. He didn’t have to lower his voice because the baroque music was enough to cover it, “If I recall, civvies dance.” Then he took a sip of your drink.

God, the movement had your stomach fluttering and shaking. Those lips had been in places hidden—under the dress specifically. Apart of you ached to feel it again.

Your eyes sparkle—only to dissipate as for a moment you contemplate it. Now unease settled and you looked away, ignoring the dull ache in your stomach. Was it too intimate? Too much? Your heart rate pittered and pattered, eyes darting around the venue before landing on his.

He seemed to sense your uncertainty before leaning in and whispering, lips brushing your ear in a way that sent electricity down your spine. God, this man was making moves subtlety yet enough to inspire devious thoughts. You shudder—to which he makes a low sound.

It vibrated through you.

“We need to blend in for the night. Focus.” Price said, although his words weighed heavy with a sense of desire and arousal.

You pull away, eyeing his face and then deciding to play along with him. You grasped your flute again. This man truly had no idea what he signed up for—because in your time, your day, you picked up a few skills for dancing and sure as hell were not going to back down tonight. With the rest of the team scattered—Price turns on his comm.

So do you. But both of you would have to keep it under wraps as to not drop hints. You slip your hand in his larger rough ones—the action feels vulnerable, almost as if he was entrusted to hold you. You shove the feeling away as he takes you to the dance floor. He’s massive and intimidating, and people immediately move aside to make way for you both. You find yourself blushing at the sight.

Amongst others, you place your hands on his broad shoulders and lean in, eyes flickering up to his dark suit jacket sleeves, arm, shoulder and the curve of his strong jaw.

“We’re doing a good job of blending in.” You say, murmuring. Your breath fans across his face to which Price tilts his head down to scan your features. As if taking with him the way your sultry eyes bore into his, eating him from the inside and out, it made him shudder. And those red glistening lips.

He wanted it somewhere else.

So then, he leaned in, eyes scanning the crowd and brows raised. He swiftly checked for any arms or signs of personnel, but whispered in the meantime, “Soon we wouldn’t have to blend in.”

At that your head spins and you steady yourself. You suck in a breath at his casual teasing—but you know there isn’t anything casual about it. Because it’s happened more than once. And now you both can’t stop coming back.

You lean back, his hand flying gently to rest at the curve of your lower back to keep you there. The skin warms beneath the dress and you both sway, his arms holding you.

The movments and sway of your hips catch his attention. It swayed easily with the rhythm and beat, something he didn’t know you had in you. His eyes remained captivated lower, before meeting your gaze with a stronger hold on your waist. He pulled you in, so you were flushed to his chest.

Your breath hitches and you have nowhere else to look but him. The tension was growing hotter, and you can feel gazes of people on you. But apart of you didn’t mind. You liked this, when other people knew you had a hold on him.

You undulate your hips, almost a little too heated for him and he stiffened up. Your front catches his—and you feel the belt brush your stomach. He tightens his grip, and gives you a look. His eyes were shadowed with intensity, fingers grasping tight at the thin material of the dress.

As a warning, he leaned in and rolled his hips again—causing you to shudder and gasp involuntarily.

“Focus.” His voice was gravelly and low, moving away now. You miss his body heat. He wasn’t as pressed up to you, but nonetheless you two waltzed.

“Six—we got company. North of the terrace, a few men just walked in with a smoke.” Kyles’ voice broke through the line and you remained swaying to not disturb the moment.

“Watcher 1, any visual on the terrace?” Price commands, holding you. His gaze moves from your form to the hall which he sweeps.

“Got eyes. Moving.” Laswell responds.

You glance up at Price who responds, “Copy that.”

“Approaching the balcony stairs, coming down to your left.” Kyle reports, now filling you both in on their position.

“On sight, 2-6. I have eyes on three suspects.” You reply firmly.

You then tilt your head, swinging so Price’s back faced the three men whilst you gave a cunning once over. They were armed beneath their suit jackets, dressed to the nines. They came down the stairs sweeping their eyes around the room.

Price didn’t like his back facing them, basic military training purposes—and spun you efficiently so you faced the bar. Your back was to his chest so both of you could ID them. Smooth.

“Suspect carrying a glock, possibly all three are. Konni soldiers by the sound of it.” Price reports, murmuring against your hair. Your heart is pounding at the intimacy of the embrace—but remained focused on the sight ahead.

Can’t get carried away.

“Copy that.” Simon responds along with the other men. “On standby.”

“7-1, position?”

“Standby.” Johnny responds.

“One seems to be the leader.” You spoke, seeing as one man strode forward ahead whilst the two followed behind. “5’7, lean, around 190 pounds. Tattoo on his neck depicting a cross.”

After describing the pack leader, both you and Price already have it fleshed out. You stay on the dance floor. Price then maneuvers to the bar. His back faces you momentarily as you check out the main hall, holding your purse. You remain vigilant and alert.

Soon he turns around with a lip lifted and holding two flutes once more, despite the situation. He leans in to you, breath ghosting your ear. “Try not to get too high.”

You’re tempted to say something, but the comm lines are open. So you wrap your slender fingers around the flute and eye him, not missing the way he tips his head low, almost telling you to behave. You shudder.

“Eyes on them.”

He watches as you turn your back to the bar and raise the flute to your stained lips, eyes set on the Konni men who shook hands with an elder, prestigious man.

“Would’ta been so bad aye? If we dinnae ave’ to deal with the mission.” Johnny snorts over the line.

Price resists the urge to roll his eyes, and leans against the bar beside you, elbows digging into the counter. His suit stretched over his wide chest, accommodating for the larger build he had.

“Keep the line clean.” Price mutters as he sips his wine. You follow as well, and smirk, knowing damn well Johnny was no “clean” and pure minded soul.

“Jus’ makin’ a conversation, cap.” You could hear his voice dripping with amusement.

“I can hear your incel thoughts a mile away, Johnny. Don’t even.” Kyle snorts and you can imagine the arms crossed and the way he’d rub his nose bridge in mock irritation.

You smile at the thought and Price glances at you, switching the comm off.

He motions for you to do the same.

“We can’t, not when there’s Konni soliders around.” You whisper.

“For a second.” He murmurs and turns to you. You turn off your comm.

His torso angles, and you find yourself doing the same, eyes meeting his beneath your lashes. You hold your flute. It almost feels like an intimate conversation—but you remain focused on the soldiers in your peripheral.

“I didn’t know you liked roses.” Price said, leaning in and his lips brushed your ear. You nearly closed your eyes at the feeling once more and backed up slightly. You can’t have yourself working a mess in your panties already.

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.” You say, lowly. There’s a certain edge to your tone, slightly flirtatious and the other ominous. It only pulls Price in more and he tips his chin down to get a good look at you in your eyes, leaving you vulnerable and exposed in his gaze. He’s aware he doesn’t know much, other than your tactical skills, your presence in team 141, and well, your other skills in bed. He couldn’t resist the tease as he spoke.

“Oh, but I know what makes you go all dumb in bed. That much I do know.” He whispers and his breath ghosts all over your face.

At that, you widen your eyes and gaze at him, straightening up.

But apart of him feels the need to know more beyond the bedroom activities. But was he going to cross the line to something more intimate? Most definitely not here, nor at this time.

“You’re distracting me.” You hiss and turn your body to the Konni who appears to be engaged in a lengthy conversation with the prestigious man.

Price smirks, knowing full on exactly what he’s doing. If anything he finds himself unashamedly admitting to it, “I can’t help it. A man like me sees a gorgeous woman like you by herself tonight. Just imagine what it does to me.”

You snort unceremoniously, and resist the urge to roll your eyes. You glance at Price, already seeing his hungry gaze on you.

“Keep it in your pants, will you?” Although you’d very much prefer it out.

Price takes a last sip before sighing out his nose, glancing at the crowd. Then he slides his gaze to you, head tilted and watching you with a sense of curiosity at your words. Almost as if you’re his precious prey—and your snarky comments press him further. “Darlin’ if you haven’t noticed, I’m a man.”

“I can handle it.” He whispered in your ear again, and you couldn’t hold back the shudder and gasp. The sheer volume in his words sent a thrill straight to your core and you grip the flute, which was empty.

He takes it and rests it on the bar side and switched his comm on before you could say more.

Damn bastard.

You scoffed and eyed him, the way his gaze casually wondered off as if he hadn’t said anything implying filth. A habit of his. There’s a flash of irritation arising in you and desire. It burns in you waiting for a spark. It slowly eats away inside you, begging to be fed more.

You switch your comms on, his eyes sneakily gliding over to the way your hands move. Almost as if replaying a memory. He nearly groans at the way you move your bouncy hair aside, the tendrils curling delicately.

“Eyes on them, not me.” You then say, shooting him a cheeky wink.

You hear Johnny laugh—and Price watched you with a sense of admiration and slight amusement. He then spoke up gruffly.

“I can guarantee you, even if I did look at em’ my eyes would be right back on ya, sweets.”

Shit.

Your eyes widened and you looked at him, nearly sputtering on your spit. Fuck.

“Can ya’ll get a room already?” Kyle groans, and Price shoots you a look before gesturing at the area behind you to pay attention to the Konni soldiers.

“For once I agree with the lad, Garrick.” Johnny chuckles.

Simon is silent, probably disinterested in the whole spiel.

You’re very tempted to bark at him something intimate, but that’ll only cause issues—especially exposing something going on. Then again maybe the team suspected it.

So, you turn away diligently and laugh, although slightly bitter, “Seems like someone can’t get it on with anyone else, so he’s going after what’s easy.”

“Shit lass.” Johnny whistles, amused.

“Remind me to use that one.” Kyle chuckled.

Price narrows his eyes at the side of your head, jaw setting. Irritation flares in him and he puffs his chest out to breathe in, and you? You just remain there, eyeing the soldiers who disperse to talk to various people. You want in on their conversation, but Price and you are stuck in a sticky mess.

“You sayin’ you’re easy to get?” He then spoke up, not caring if the team had heard.

You snapped your head around to meet his.

“I—“

“Lass, you really got everyone on their toes, yea?” Johnny snickers before you could get a response in. Flustered, you crossed your arms and felt your cheeks burning. Damned him. Damned this mission. You shifted on your heels and Price took the advantage of grinning at you as if he won.

Oh no.

He was in for a whole tease.

Property of evanescencelovrr. do not modify, repost, or translate.

Operation: Unforgettable

The Craving (Price x Reader)

notes: MDNI, reader is legal age, no y/n, female pronouns, possessive!price, cursing, violence, smut scene, filthy thoughts. Mentions of a bomb. Pls enjoy! Id appreciate any feedback & your thoughts on this series. smut scene but no p in v.

Masterlist here

Of course there you were—getting around. A young charming man had whisked you away, although your focus was on the mission. You positioned yourself nearby the Konnis’ to listen in, swaying with the man who introduced himself as Alexander. Even as he waltzed with you, there was a disinterested look to your eyes and your head was tilted to the archway.

“Do let me know when you’re home.” The man muttered and your eyes snapped to his, in slight surprise.

“What? You look too good to not have.” He whispered in your ear, and instead of it electrifying you the way Price did—it made you pull away. Your mind wandered back to Price and you found yourself swallowing, processing how you felt.

“That I do.” I muttered, “But lay off the flirting, mm?” You hummed and he laughed, grinning. It seemed like he then eased up and then let go of you, his hands resting gently at your waist.

“You know, I’m not stupid. I can see how much he wants you.”

You scoff.

“Why don’t you both—“

“Both what?” You snort and Alexander grins. His teeth sparkles in the light and he guides you so your front faces Price. You met eyes with Price who was burning holes in Alexanders back, hand wrapped firmly on his flute. His head was tipped low to send a crude, intense stare. He was not pleased with you.

You could faintly see the gun peeking out under his suit and your legs wobbled.

“Tell me you don’t see it in his eyes.” Alexander huffed, and you furrowed your brows, struggling to maintain composure.

“What does it matter to you, you’re just a stranger.”

He laughed and his body shook. “I find myself needing to see what’ll happen next. For the plot.” He whispers in your ear and you tilt your head up to him, eyes meeting his chocolate brown ones.

He winks and you immediately catch onto the plan.

And that’s how Price ended up completely wrapped up by you. His gaze never wavering. He had half a mind to rip you off this Alex—whoever he was. At the same time he held himself back, not wanting to create a scene. But the more he watched the more his chest got tight and his blood pumped. He kept holding onto the fact that he wouldn’t make a move.

He couldn’t forget the way you and Alexander swayed too closely for his liking. And he knew you had moves. The same one you pulled on him, you were doing as well. Each circular movement of your hip made him nearly see stars. It only made him remember the way you rode him in bed, ontop and hair flowing down your shoulders in vivacious waves. How it brushed his cheek, the fat of your skin rippling as you moved back and forth harmoniously.

He watched the way the taller slender man grabbed more drinks for you, your red lips teasing the rim of the glass. And then your thinner hand slipped to grab his bicep, leading him to the floor.

How it burned in his gut to have held you instead. To feel those curves pressed against him again, and to trail his hand up and down, the way Alexander was doing. He clenched his jaw and the muscle jumped. To have your hand touching his bulging muscles instead, to feel your nails digging in from ecstasy and overstimulation.

“Another one.” Price muttered to the bartender. This time he got rid of the damned wine and went heavy. Whiskey, neat, half a glass.

He downed it, having shifted. The light obscured his intense gaze, leaving it darker. He no longer lounged against the bar but stood upright, a hand shoved in his pocket to hide his fist. Brooding. It was almost as if the person next to him had noticed and awkwardly glanced—before moving away.

The last straw was the way you leaned in, back facing Price. But he could see so clearly how your plump lips met Alexanders ear, a tongue swiping to lick.

Price nearly crushed the damned glass. His tie felt too tight and he found himself closing the distance on long legs, grabbing your arm in a swift move.

“Price—“

“Now.” He growled.

As he dragged you off the floor, your heels clicking, Alexander shot you an excited look and waved, brow raised. He then turned into the crowd and disappeared. Your wingman.

You huffed and nearly fell on your heels—your arm aching by the way he held it. Price brought past two doors and now it was secluded. He backed you against the foyer walls, although not wanting to hurt you, and towered over you—his breaths coming out in ragged exhaled.

“God, Price—“ You shuddered, eyes wide as you realized what you had done. The plan worked. But now you couldn’t pull away. There was still more to be done. You bit back a grin—a bit too bold for his liking, and tilted your head up, meeting his darkened gaze.

Did you have a death wish?

Under him, probably.

“The fuck did you think you were doing?” Price gritted out, nearly spitting. His leaned in sharply, shoes crowding yours as he pushed himself between your legs. His hips hit yours, and you sucked in a breath. The movement had your stomach quivering and tightening.

Your heart raced at the tension and bass in his voice. It reverberated through you like ripples, resting at your core where it clenched and unclenched. You shuddered under him.

“God help me, woman. I have a lot of patience. But that—that back there.” Price shuddered for a moment and inhaled through his nose, eyes shutting. He seemed to calm himself down and then looked down at you, a hand reaching up to tangle in your hair. It stroked the nape of your neck gently.

You’re surprised at his touch, softening slightly against the wall. You could tell he most certainly did not like that—no he despised of it. Seeing another man on you.

It excited you, to see him this way.

“What…? It was just a game.” You whisper and glance at his lips now. He knew exactly what you needed, what you conveyed through those hazy eyes.

Price clenched his teeth and his resolve snaps. Immediately he crashed his lips into yours, knocking your head against the wall. You have no time to protest before his veiny hand is yanking your hair back, demanding you tilt your head up to feed your breaths into his mouth. The kiss is nasty. Feral. Teeth nipping and his body weight drowning yours. His body heat surrounds you.

“Nasty, nasty girl. I think you need to be taught a lesson.” Price growls against your mouth—the words trickling down your throat like fire. It burns in your stomach and you shudder and grab at his biceps to steady your dizzy form from the euphoria and blood rush.

“I thought it was just sex. I thought you didn’t care.” You breathlessly say, lips swollen from his feverish kissing. Your lipstick smudged slightly and Price pulls his head back, gazing at you. His hungry eyes roam all over your face, taking in the sight of you all dazed and lit with arousal.

“We never agreed on there being anyone else. You get that?” He says lowly, grabbing your chin to make sure you understood.

Strange, you thought. He didn’t directly answer your question.

His hand in your hair releases and slides down the front of your throat, then down to your clavicle, where he traces the bony area. It’s sensitive.

You shiver and gulp—mouth going dry. Even your own words were gone.

“If I see you with anyone else, I’ll strangle them. You’re mine.” Price said firmly before a hand groped at your chest—squeezing the flesh. Not hard enough to hurt but definitely enough to remind you of his position.

You gasp and your jaw hangs open, to which he finds satisfaction in. His hand lingers, and you feel your core tremble and drip.

Before you could talk—Johnny chimes in over your lines. You switch your comm on shakily, and Price moved away. You fix your dress and take in a breath, trying to calm down as Price adjusts his tie with a harsh, angry pull. “Damned cockblock.” You thought you heard Price mutter.

“Armed suspects approaching the north hallway. 7-2 your closest.” Johnny says to you, and you nod.

You fix your hair and Price stares, eyes narrowing before he responds, “Copy that.” His voice is rough with desire and tension.

You give him a glance before swallowing and moving away. What else could you do or say? As much as the ache between your legs begged for release, you had work to do.

As you turn to face the tall white doors leading to the main hall—Price stalks behind you and ushers you in.

“Report in five.” He said stiffly.

Parting against your will overwhelmed, you knew you also needed the space. That was bloody intense. You usher in and then wait by the arched hallway in the shadows as the men seperate. One is sent for drinks, and shortly after Price follows—who strikes up a civilized conversation about their suits. Most likely discussing brands and where they imported their fabrics from.

Of course, comparing them.

You could hear them faintly.

The other man is sent off—as you heard the leader discuss something about, “Check the Harmonica.”

Now the leader was alone. Sweet. He was tall, towering at 6’4 and had shiny slicked back hair. Lower set brows to reveal a more menacing look, and a chiseled jaw. He tucked his card in his suit front pocket before turning away, down the golden hallway.

Harmonica? Who the hell’s playing a harmonica? You hesitate on whether to tell the team and tap your finger against your thigh. You need more information and without it—it’s considered a distraction.

“Going in. Comms off for now.” You report.

You then make your move, wobbling drunkenly on your heels and on your phone. Clumsily, accidentally on purpose, you bump into the leader. Your phone catches and falls, landing with a thump and you bend to grab it but he is faster first. His nimble fingers pass it to you.

“Oh god—I’m so sorry!” You put on your barbie ecstatic voice. You knew he would be the type to fall for it.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” The man grins and eyes you, shadowed by the hallway lights as you two stand. Far behind is the crowd and music—and you can hear his voice sharply, “Qattara.” He reads your card momentarily, rolling the words out smoothly.

You carry on, plastering a smile on your quite excited features.

“It should be me asking that, you look a little too fine tonight to be alone.” You give him a flirty once over, one he can’t mistake. That pulls him in.

“I assume you’re here for the vault meeting, mm?”

This was going to be a long night.

“Weapons are coming in from Dubai, then he will receive his blood money.” He scoffed, lanky form walking smoothly ahead.

He sounded russian. Typical for any Konni man. The one thing that made it easy to identify them. You stare at his back.

You were poised as you followed him up to the vault room—a suite. You eyed his key card he pulled out, knowing it would come in handy for later. There’s a beep—then the door opens with a soft hiss. Luxurious, you note.

He enters first—you last. You watch your back before shutting the door, your hand pushing it.

“Makarov must be havin’ a helluva time receiving it, then.” You scoff, playing along. You cross your arms, a finger tapping on your bare arm as he strode forward to the table. Soon enough chatter is heard down the other room, and a few tall men enter. One woman.

You’re outnumbered in case it all goes sideways. You remain firm, eyeing and taking in their details. Armed as usual.

“Alright, alright. Enough.“ The leader silenced them. You could hear a pin drop. The woman eyed you, having shorter hair.

He then turns to you quite comically—with a little spin on his heel, tilting his head. You didn’t like the look he’d given you.

Now you felt like his prey. “This fine little lady joined us, Qattara was it?” He asked, slowly walking forward.

But the real Qattara was found and held in Laswells’ quarters for investigation. You were simply her replacement. You could see the other men getting ready to sit—the smell of musky cologne clogging your nostrils. The woman also sat at the end of the table, pressing her skirt down with her manicured nails.

The man ahead tilts his head this way and that as if trying to figure you out. He then comes close and whispers in your ear, “If I find out anything that I don’t like, well. You know where it’ll end.”

“You have nothing to worry about. Let’s talk guns and weapons shall we?” You say, although trying your best to conceal the sarcasm and bitterness as he leaned in. You knew he was trying to assert some sort of dominance over you by instilling fear, yet you knew you had to play compliant.

“Feisty. Давай, join us.”

And so, the meeting began. You mentally made a note of everything, having switched on your wire so the team could hear. You sat across a man, eyes set on the leader who elaborated his plan with his arms, a drink in one hand. No surprise to see it was vodka.

“Good, you’re doing great.” Price said through the comm whilst you nodded your head along to the man.

His voice made you feel tingly—almost comforting through the overpowering masculine presence in the room. Your mind flashed as you remembered the moment in the foyer where he held to you the wall—legs clenching slightly. It was an amazement to you how he managed to do this—switch from absolute madness to team leader.

If anything, it encouraged you. Even though earlier he was absolutely feral.

Teamwork, right?

“Shipment container is being sent here. We’ll have our men stationed there ready to receive the equipment.”

You fold your hands together on the table, catching eyes with an older gruff man. His gun is settled in his lap, hand resting on it. He eyes you with a curiosity and intrigue, and you tilt your head just a bit.

The man doesn’t look away. He’s got a buzzcut, a scruffy jaw and dark eyes. His suit lays flat and firm.

“Where is Makarov located to receive the money?” You ask the most important question. For a second it falls silent as if the misogynistic men did not expect you to have talked. You straighten up and stare down the Leader, firm.

“Why do you need to know that?” The room went still as all eyes were on you.

“I need to know if the money is an international wire transfer.” You reply smartly. You raise a brow and you thought you heard Price chuckle smoothly.

“That’s the lass we know.” Johnny said, before going quiet.

Once given the location of him, you nearly ease up, and nod your head.

You glance up as you stood, the rest of the men leaving the room. You wait, watching their bodies leave single file.

“Where is your accent from?” His gruff voice sounds out. He sounded like a smoker. He’s busy at the bar and you slip the key card the leader left, that rested on the chair seat. You slip it into your bra as if adjusting your girls.

You then pause and still, gathering your thoughts. Moving your hands, you sling your purse over your bare shoulder. Your dress glints in the light and you never remove your eyes from him as he stood across the table.

The door shuts softly.

“Do I sound too american for you?” You give a vague reply, meeting the question with a question. There’s a slight humor to your voice.

The man cocks his head and stares you down. He’s serious, not one for joking.

“You sound much too american for the Qattara I know.” He said sharply, eyes cutting into you like ice. Your blood runs cold and you swallow, eyeing him. It was as if the room dropped several temperatures.

He goes to drink his whiskey from the glass, pouring it back. Something irks you know. The drink was almost like a kicker for him, for what’s to come.

You know you’ve been figured.

Your heart patters as you hear Price growl in the comm line, “Get out.”

Your head spins and you straighten up, smiling slightly and stepping back. Your back faced the exit door.

“And what was that quote? From the Quran? I’m sure you know it.”

“There’s many.” Your answer only confirms his suspicions. Your breath hitched and you know you’re about 10ft away from the door. His eye twitched at your smart ass response.

Price growls and you hear something slamming like a door on his end.

The man slowly stalks closer, holding the glass of whiskey. Until he stops, staring at you. He does not move, but holds the whiskey in his hand.

Your heart pounds and all you could do was stare.

When you don’t say anything—you see the slight movement of his hand gripping the glass and you hurl yourself in your heels, grabbing open the door.

You fling it open just in time for the glass to crash, missing your head. You could hear a barrage of laughter from behind, his voice booming, “I’ll give you ten seconds, before I rip your throat out.”

You’re blazing down the hall, and eventually you throw off your heels, grabbing them. You curse as it threatens to slip off. Again, you think back to the Harmonica. The Harmonica, check on it.

Your heart batters in your chest like a ram, and you could hear a crash and the sound of shoes thudding as he chases after you.

“Harmonica—harmonica—“ You rehearsed, breathing harshly.

“Harmonica what?” Price snaps on the line and you panted. You glanced up at the chandelier, knowing where you were approaching. Soon enough a cold gust of wind blows down the hallway.

“It’s code, Price. Code for something.”

“Like Bravo?”

“Like bravo in the water.”

“A fuckin’ bomb?” Price seethes, “We got a bomb threat unconfirmed in the building.”

“Fuckin’ hell.” Simon hashes out over the line.

“Steamin’ Jesus, we need t’find it.” Johnny says urgently.

“On it.” Kyle said.

“Kyle stay in position.” Price demands, “Simon, where did you last see the men walk off upstairs?”

“Towards the north wing.”

“Fuck, that’s where I am.” You shouted and grab a waiters pan. A loud thunk and clank is heard as you toss it against the mans face who chased you.

“The hell was that—“ Kyle muttered.

“Bonnie—“

“Focus! Simon find the bomb.” You shouted.

“What’s your position?” Price says lowly, although you’re sure you could hear his voice tremble. You focus on turning the hallway—as the cold gush of air worsens.

“North side of the balcony.” You shout and the man follows, his dress shoes slamming rapidly against the carpeted halls. You take off even faster if it was possible, hair flying behind and gun gripped tightly.

To slow him down, with your free hand you yank your gun out the thigh strap. You take a shot but miss. Too hard to do it when you’re running and your gaze is unsteady. The bullet bounces sharply off the wall, and the man grins wolfishly as if hunting his predator.

“7-1, take the North side. You’re closest.” Price orders.

“On it.” Johnnys accented voice sounds in your ear and you know he’s on his way.

“Watcher 1, position to the North Side balcony.” Price orders.

You ran under an archway, feet thudding on what sounded like tiles now. The cold air of the night blew rapidly and you turned, having nowhere to run. The balcony columns were there, guarding your fall.

You wheezed and panted, wide eyed. Looking for the man—he soon approached and rounded the corner with a haste and dangerous glint in his eye. He crossed the area and before you knew it, instincts kicked in.

Your heels hung in your hands, swaying with the breeze. Damned if you were going to lose these expensive Louboutins.

As he strodes forward with vigor—training kicks in. You kneed him in the groin earning a sharp groan—then without time wasted, with your free hand, you bashed his head against your knee as well. A sickening crack was heard and he cried out. Blood sprayed, and you then grabbed a fistful of his shirt and pushed him to the balcony railing.

“Got him, 7-1.” A minute later, Johnny strides in and glaring. His jacket is thrown off revealing underneath his black dress shirt, tight and pulled from each movement. His gun on display.

You move aside, and he grabs the wanker by his suit and hoists him up against the wall roughly.

Time is running out, you panic.

“Johnny, go now.” Johnny growls. His teeth bares at the sight of the wanker just laughing and drags him along.

Just then Simons voice made you two pause.

“Bloody hell, 7-2, we got a bomb. North wing. It’s situated bad near an oxygen line.” Simon mutters and you freeze up. Your hand reached up for the comm, eyes meeting Johnnys’ wide eyes. The man scoffs.

Soon a loud bang is heard on Simons’ end. And then gargling and a thud. He most likely dispatched one of the Konni soldiers.

“Time?!” Johnny growls out. He discards the man, shoving him roughly to the side. The man was useless at that point. He scrambled nearly tripping over on his feet—before dashing off like a cat.

Johnnys’ long legs strode to keep up with you, as you’re running and down the hall, hair flying behind you. Desperately looking out for the foyer doors.

“Blows in 10.” Despite the situation, Simons voice was flat and gruff. You panted and felt your heart racing with realization. It almost sounded as if he accepted this—part of job. Dying at any moment. It sounded too real. Your heart was shriveling.

“Ghost, get out of there now.” Price warns and you hear a, “Copy that.”

“Did he hurt ya?” Johnny immediately looked over you—hearing screams echo about as you both neared the main hall. You shake your head and look at him, eyes wide.

“No. Stay sharp.”

“Hope Simon is able to dispatch the bomb.” Johnny cursed, hurrying you along down the red carpeted hallway.

“No time.” Simon barks over the line.

Property of evanescencelovrr. do not modify, repost, or translate.

Me: WOAHHH bullocks at 6am?! wot happened to hi hello

Breed Me- John Price NSFW

Based on a request: For Kinktober, would you be willing to write Price x F!Reader with the breeding kink prompt? I love your work! ---- F!Reader, MDNI, smut, 18+, established!relationship, P-in-V, unprotected!sex, breeding!kink, husband!Price, oral!sex ----

After arriving back home from yet another mission, your husband walks into your shared bedroom. Once his eyes were set on you, he sighed. Fuck did he miss you. He gets on the bed and all he can do is hold you from behind. You are his haven. His lips find your neck and he begins to place small and tender kisses on your soft skin. You smile and scoot closer to him and he groans. He sighs, and his hand finds its way to your stomach as he slowly grinds himself against you.

You turn around and smile. He looks at you with a smirk, his eyes dark with lust as he meets your gaze. He slips a hand down to grope your ass, pulling you flush against his hard body. "I want to see you round with my child, want to feel you heavy with my seed," his voice is deep and still as seductive as the first time you heard him. You knew he wanted kids, wanted as many as you did so maybe tonight he could start with the first child.

"Please, let me try. Let me love you, worship you, until you're dripping with my cum." He says in a whisper. His lips trailing to your shoulder. He smiles softly at your words, his heart swelling with love for you. He turns his head to capture your lips in another deep, passionate kiss. His hand slides up your sides, cupping your breasts and giving them a gentle squeeze. He breaks the kiss and starts trailing his lips down your neck, his teeth grazing your pulse point. He sucks on the skin there, marking you as his. His hands moved to the hem of your shirt, slowly pushing it up and over your head, tossing it aside. He takes a moment to admire your breast, his eyes darkening with lust as he takes in the sight of your body.

He leans down, taking your breast into his mouth and sucking gently, his hand coming up to pinch and roll the other between his fingers. He lavishes your breasts with attention, his tongue swirling around your nipple before moving to the other one to give it the same treatment. His other hand slides down your stomach, dipping into your panties to cup your folds. He grows at the feeling of your wet heat, his fingers sliding through your folds teasingly. "Fuck, you're so wet for me. I'm going to fuck you so good, fill you up just right," he groans. Your moans fill the room and he groans at the sound of your moan.

He leans down, taking one into his mouth and sucking gently, his hand coming up to pinch and roll the other between his fingers. He lavishes your breasts with attention, his tongue swirling around your nipple before moving to the other one to give it the same treatment. His other hand slides down your stomach, dipping into your panties to cup your folds. He grows at the feeling of your wet heat, his fingers sliding through your folds teasingly.

He starts to lap at your pussy, his tongue delving between your folds to taste your sweet nectar. He groans at the taste of you, his tongue swirling around your clit before sucking it into his mouth. He brings his fingers up to your entrance, slowly pushing two fingers inside your tight heat, pumping them in and out in a steady rhythm. "Fuck, you taste so good, love. I could eat this pretty pussy all day. But right now, I need to be inside you. I need to feel your tight cunt squeezing my cock as I fill you up with my seed. I'm going to fuck you so hard, so deep, that you'll be feeling me for days. You're mine, Y/N. All mine. And I'm going to make sure you never forget it."

He stands up, quickly removing his clothes until he's standing before you, naked and hard. He strokes his thick, veiny cock, giving it a few pumps as he lines himself up with your entrance. He leans over you, his hands gripping your hips as he slowly pushes forward, his cock stretching you open as he sinks into your tight heat inch by inch. He groans at the feeling of your walls fluttering around him, your pussy clenching down on his cock like a vice. 

He doesn't stop until he's buried to the hilt inside you, his pelvis pressed against your ass. He pauses momentarily, giving you time to adjust to his size as he nuzzles into your neck, placing soft kisses along your skin. "Fuck, you feel incredible, love. So tight and wet and perfect. Like you were made just for me," he groans, his voice rough with desire. He starts to move, then pulls out slowly before slamming back in, setting a deep, powerful rhythm. He pounds into you, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the kitchen along with your moans and his grunts. He angles his hips, making sure to hit that special spot inside you with every thrust, determined to make you see stars.

His hand snakes down between your bodies, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing in tight circles, adding to the pleasure coursing through you. He can feel his orgasm building, his balls tightening as he gets closer and closer to the edge. But he holds back, determined to make you come first, to feel your pussy clenching around him as you scream his name. He redoubles his efforts, fucking into you harder, and faster, his fingers rubbing your clit with increased fervour. "Come for me, Y/N. Let me feel you come apart on my cock. I want to feel you squeeze me, milk me for every last drop. Come on, baby, give it to me. Let go and come all over my cock like the good girl you are."

Your eyes roll back from the stimulation, "John~" you whimper. He groans as he feels your pussy clench around him, your juices coating his cock as you come undone beneath him. He continues to thrust through your orgasm, prolonging your pleasure as he chases his own. His hips snap forward, driving into you harder, deeper, his cock throbbing inside your fluttering walls. He buries his face in your neck, biting down on your shoulder as he finally lets go, his cock pulsing as he shoots his hot, thick cum deep inside you. He grinds against you, making sure every last drop is seated inside your womb, filling you up just like he promised. He collapses on top of you, his weight pressing you into the counter as he catches his breath.

He peppers your neck and face with soft kisses, murmuring words of love and praise against your skin. "That's it, love. You took my cock so well, milked me dry. Fuck, I can feel my cum painting your insides. The thought of you round with my baby, your tits swollen with milk…fuck, it's the hottest thing I've ever imagined. I'll fuck you day and night until my seed takes until you're heavy with my child. You're mine, Y/N. All mine. And I'm going to love you, worship you, for the rest of our lives. I promise you that." He rolls his hips, his softening cock still buried inside you, unwilling to separate from you just yet. He holds you close, savouring the feeling of being inside you, of being one with you. He knows he'll have to pull out eventually, but for now, he wants to stay connected to you, to bask in the afterglow of your lovemaking.

Tags: @liyanahelena @ghostslillady @juneonhoth @Simonssweetgirl @nellsbobells @coralwitchdreamland @nobodys-coffee @sae1kie @anonymuslydumb @goldenmclaren @moonsua1 @frazie99 @saoirse06 @alxexhearts @baldwinhearts @tiredmetalenthusiast @jinxxangel13 @strangepuppynightmare @enarien @luvecarson @nellsbobells @ikohniik @strawberrychita @queen-ilmaree @Llelannie @Macnches2 @bbyfimmie @avidreadee123 @talooolaaloolla @skelletonwitch @bittermajesties @1234beeandpuppycat @sparky–bunny @honestlyhiswife @who-can-appease-me @ghostwifeyy @konigssultwithghost @pinkblossomsworld @kaoyamamegami @the_royal_bee @beansproutmafia @soapybutt17 @asianbutnotjapanese @a-goose-with-a-knife @foxface013 @born4biriyani @thegreyjoyed @mychemichalimalance @marshiely @iruzias @sleepyycatt @noodlezz-bedo @trinthealternate @vampsquerade @azkza @VampyTheGoth

Operation: Unforgettable

The Hunt

MDNI, fem pronouns, cursing, fighting, violence, blood, simon gets hurt :(, just a lil guys, reader does an interrogation. some military inaccuracies. inspo from jonny & simons scene as they interrogate milena—but a slight difference :) reader is involved! smut!! p in v.

enjoy yall ur comments & feedback means so much to me!

Masterlist here

You and Johnny managed to find a stairwell leading to the foyer below, immediately traveling down. You both hopped and skipped steps. Your feet hurt as you’re barefoot but there’s bigger fish to worry about now. The steady sound of your heart racing did nothing to soothe your nerves, as you both try to get away from the detonation site.

However, Johnny couldn’t resist making a joke next to you, sweating and heaving himself. He jumps down, skillfully landing.

“Fuckin’ hell lass, you’re somethin’ else runnin’ like tha’.”

“We have to.” You respond stiffly. Johnny could see the firmness yet the anxiety underneath your gaze, and he rounded the steps with you in tow. He had to admire your strength, you were like a stallion in your dress.

Only then—did a loud boom erupt minutes after Simon relayed his last position. One by one, the windows blew out from the pressure, glass shattering everywhere.

Both you and Johnny collapsed onto the stairs from the violent jolt, rolling down as the building swayed and shook, leaving your visions unsteady. Your head banged several times and Johnny himself heaved.

Eventually, your legs got tangled up in his, whilst loud grunts and groans could be heard from the stairwell.

A beam or two creaked loudly before collapsing, just a few feet away from your prone bodies. It lay haphazardly on the stairs. Dust and debris flew everywhere, attacking your nostrils.

Your palms bury in the ground, digging in for stability. There’s pain in your side but you disregard it as the need for survival comes first. Your blood rushes and pumps loudly in your ear, hot and brazen.

Coughing and shaking, Johnnys’ lengthy fingers wrap around your elbows to pull you up, as a series of screams and shouting erupted.

You two both staggered your way to the foyer and out the main hall through a set of doors. Your dress is ripped at the side where the zipper is at—but your focus is on the damage. Your eyes were wide and chest heaving with adrenaline.

It was distraught. The chandeliers had crashed and fell—people running like mad hens. The balcony top left stair crumbled completely, leaving only one side available for access. Glass shattered everywhere and painted the ground in sparkles.

You look to Johnny and he motions for you to stay put as you’re still barefoot. You then realize he has a small gash in his forehead.

“Johnny—“

“I know, dinnae fash yer’self.”

“Simon? Simon report.” Kyle shouts over the line and you spin around to see Kyle sweating and making his way over to you all. His boots crunch over glass, brows taut together.

Your eyes widened and you all wait for a response—head tilted and breaths held. Johnny pinched his chin in a vice grip, as his arms folded.

After a while noise comes in on all your comms.

“Fuckin’ hell.” Simon groans out, roughly. He heaved and groaned with effort, his voice portraying a slight tremor. You clench your gun as the building rumbled above, your eyes flicker to it as it was unsteady.

Another collapse was imminent.

“We gotta get out.” You breathed out harshly.

Johnny glares and grips his fists tightly, glancing at you, “I cannae leave him.”

“Simon, status?” Price shouts and you could hear the exasperation in his tone. Sharp and tense. Where was he? You know he didn’t exit along with you both. Your heart jumped and you frantically look around—no site of him.

“Shrapnel—I think. Stuck in the goddamned suite. It’s burnin. It’s burnin’ real bad’.” Simon huffs, and for a second you can hear the genuine agony in his tone. The smoothness is replaced by a shakiness and slight cry for help.

“Shit.” Johnny drags a hand down his lips.

“The suite? I have the key card.” You scrambled for it in your bra and held it up for the men. Kyle gives you a look but doesn’t say anything, his brows knit together and hands clenched tightly.

Johnny is too caught up with worry to crack a joke for his life. The site of his stern glare and intense gaze nearly had you pissing your pants. It was such a stark contrast to the chipper and vibrant Johnny.

Price cursed over the line as he didn’t have one. “Johnny, take the card. Meet me at the north side fast. We’ll get him out.” Price ordered tensely.

“Copy that.” Johnny replies instantly through his comm, yanking the card from your grasp. He turned into a blur as he angled between the yelling crowd. He was heading back to the dangerous burning site.

You couldn’t protest, or join him, as you’re left with Kyle. There was nothing for you to do anymore—you’re barefoot. Following would only compromise the mission and rescue op, and it made no sense.

Your dress is ripped at the seam, exposing a small amount of skin. It was easily hidden by your arms though when you lowered it. Your stomach doesn’t ease, though. Anxiety crawls up and down your stomach, making it churn uneasily. You feel the need to throw up but push it aside, closing your eyes momentarily.

The whole mission had turned upside down. With the explosion, and Simon hurt, two men going in to find him, it was a mess.

Kyle then motions for you to move out, from behind. “Come on.”

Turning to stumble out you cough from the smoke, back rattling. A woman races past you, her heels clicking. A fury of short hair flying. She shoves at a person, angling to run past.

That’s the one you recognize from the meeting upstairs.

You don’t hesitate.

Immediately pulling away from Kyle, you ran to her and threw her body against the column, fastening her hands around her back. She shouted and writhed, and Kyle sprinted over, grasping her shoulder to keep her still.

“She’s one of em.” You state roughly, jerking your gaze to him as you hold her wrists, “Stop resisting. We got you.”

The woman snarls and you then jerk her over to Laswell who’s by her SUV, in her tactical vest and wired up. She eyes the woman and recognition flashes in her eyes, “We got her.”

Laswell takes over and arrests her in the SUV for good measure. You sigh loudly, one job less to worry about.

Everyone is evacuated outside beyond a fence line and firefighter trucks roll in—blaring. Their lights flash brightly and you hear the shouts of them as they unload and begin working the aerial to the north side to cool the fire.

“We can’t vent the roof, it’ll collapse.” A firefighter shouted.

Unease fills you as your team members are still inside.

You turn back to Laswell, your jaw set and even the muscle jumps from the tension, “Fuckers figured me out. They’re gonna stall the delivery.”

You cursed and shook your head, praying Simon and Price made it back safely. Your eyes kept wandering back to the entrance, seeing smoke bellow and fire rave from above.

“No use worrying about that. We got her.” Kyles’ brow raised in the direction of the woman sitting in the car. She’s scowling, her head hung low and silent. You had a feeling she’d be tough to crack.

“Let’s hope she knows more than something. Can’t wait for the interrogation.” You scoff and cross your arms, then swivel your head to Kyle and Laswell.

“You and me both.” Kyle said firmly, not removing his steel gaze from her. He watched her like a hawk, eyeing her every movement.

“Has Qattarra cracked?” You ask, brow raised at Laswell.

“No. She’s been silent.” Laswell sighs, holding her walkie.

Just then—her walkie signals and your comms shoot alive.

“Bravo Team—how copy?”

“Good.” Kyle shifted on his soot covered dress shoes and sends his gaze to the entrance of the venue, vigilant and cautious.

“Price?” You immediately say, hand flying to your comm.

“We’re good. Kyles’ with me. Unharmed.” You said firmly, turning over to look at the entrance as well. Your eyes narrowed, trying to see for a sign of them. The smoke is so thick and turning black, a race against time.

Parts of the building structure rain down heavily, people dodging just in time as a statue crumbled down. Rocks collide and slam on the pavement.

Not a good sign.

“Everyone out! It’s gonna blow.” The fire chief shouts gruffly in his walkie, eyeing the blackening fire as he strides around the front of the venue. He grips his walkie talkie tightly, chest rising and falling from exertion. His eyes are filled with a maddening worry you understand.

“On the way.” Price says gruffly before the line glitches. You swallowed, heart pattering. As you watch the entrance, you couldn’t help but feel a rush of anxiety. Of course you cared for the team. You knew Simon was injured, and Johnny was in there helping.

And Price—he sounded okay.

A minute passed and eventually you see three hunky figures come out the smoke and debris. Simon is placed on a stretcher, his mask still on and his eyes are shut weakly. His rugged and pale features were on display—white vest completely soaked red. You know it’s not good. His arm drapes off the side and he then raises it, to give Johnny a thumbs up clumsily.

The blood loss made him woozy, because the real Simon would’ve never done such a thing. It only made you even worried, fingers itching to come over.

Johnny scoffs and can’t help the grin despite the situation. But immediately, Price and him and rushed to the side and Simon is placed in the awaiting ambulance.

“I’m goin’ with him, Cap.”

“Could use the help.” Price said, eyeing Johnny. But Johnny looks conflicted and stressed again—eyes flashing.

Price could sense his unease and then nods his head to the ambulance.

Johnny climbs in immediately and the doors shut.

Behind, a mushroom cloud of smoke erupts and another boom commences. The entire building shifts as the medics drive away to the nearest hospital. The roof caved in—leaving an expansive gaping hole where the fire broke free.

Before you could walk towards them, Kyle grabs your arm. You glance at it before looking at his warm charcoal eyes. You almost get lost in them—they shine so brilliantly in the light.

“Not yet.” He says gently, although his eyes stayed on yours. “Stay with me.”

You stay by his side and more than ever, you’re thankful for your team member. Kyle places a comforting hand on your shoulder and you crossed your arms tightly, brows set in a furrow.

Back at base, it was absolutely tense. Price leaned over his desk, suit jacket thrown aside and tie loose. He looked a mess. He was stiff and silent, bracing his hands on the desk. A strand of his hair flicked down.

And Kyle sat on the couch, elbows resting on his knees, and hunched over. He was tense as well, his leg was bouncing a million miles a minute, the sound of his zipper flapping filling your ears.

“Come on, we can’t waste time.” Price suddenly spoke up and you’re immediately at his side. You moved from the table you were leaning against, causing your gear to shift.

Kyle looks up, alert and awake.

You lean over the table and Laswell strides in—sensing the tension in the office. Her heels click loudly, arms swinging with vigor. A few other men follow in and they set their briefcases down, unloading a bunch of paperwork.

“He’s alright. Just checked in with the surgeon. A bit of shrapnel pierced his lung.” Laswell said—immediately loud sighs and groans filled the room of relief.

Kyle got up and followed them to the table determined as ever. His fists are clenched, as he too understands the importance of his team.

“First name basis, huh? That’ll do ya a lot.” Price said to Laswell, slightly amused to help the situation, although his face was focused.

She scoffed and turned her torso to the interrogation room, chest heaving. She was coated thinly with sweat from all the movement. “Better to have connection with me than to not, right?”

“Damn right.” Kyle said, rubbing his scruffy jaw.

“Is she talking?” Laswells eyes snapped to Price, before the interrogation window again. Inside, the woman sat. It was the woman Laswell arrested.

You craned your neck, eyes narrowing slightly. Your arms were crossed and your blazer pulled tightly at the corners from the effort.

“I haven’t taken a crack at her yet.” You said, then uncrossed your arms and placed them onto the cold glass table. Your eyes peer up at Laswell, seeing Kyle grow irritated at the lack of the woman’s compliance. You can’t blame him. Time was ticking and Simon got hurt because of her incompetence as well as her people.

“Take a stab at her. We need the details.” Laswell cocks her head.

You look to Price who nodded, his eyes tracking you. You clear your throat and enter in. You strode on your kitten heels that gave just a bit of height, whilst not destroying your feet from earlier events. You cross your arms and lean over her, your dress pants straining.

She sat, head down. But upon hearing you, she stiffens up.

“Milena.” You say, slowly. Almost as if tasting her name on your tongue. The glint in your eyes make her stiffen up and she swallowed, clutching at her arms. She doesn’t like the way you say it and it only irks her.

Good.

“I hear you’re not talking.”

Milena grits her teeth, her eyes darting away. That only elicits a dangerous flame to light in you. You take well to hostages behaving stubborn and defiant—especially when the team was under pressure already.

“Who’s your Boss?” You spit, impatiently and frustrated. Your hand slam down on the table, asserting dominance and frightening her sitting form.

She swallowed and her chest heaved.

“I don’t have one. I work alone.” Her russian accent is thick and she enunciates the “t” heavily. You narrow your eyes, not buying it for a second. A lone woman like her? She must have connections and ties. Special relations.

Besides you is a laptop and you grab at it swiftly, leaning over it.

“I don’t buy your bullshit.”

“Believe what you want, if it comforts you.” She spat, and you turn your head to her. Something in your expression shifts and it has her shaking. You raised a brow—almost in admiration and respect for her tone. You’re slightly amused as well, by the hostage.

She sure had it coming. “For someone who’s being held captive, you have a lot of tongue on you.”

Milena glares up at you, resembling a pouting child in your eyes.

You lean forward, not hesitating to grab her hand.

She tensed up. “What are you doing—“

“Taking your hand—“

“Why? So you can cut it off?” Milena snaps, as you drag her finger to the sensor of the laptop. You scoff, a lip quirking up. Now she was giving you ideas. You’re amused by her behavior even more, finding it entertaining.

“Don’t go around threatening me with a good time, Milena.” You say smoothly.

This shuts her up for now.

Immediately you have access to her banking site and Milena recognized the site. She crossed her arms once her hand is free, glancing at it with daggers, her silence was soon replaced by another snarky comment, “Nothing in my bank account will get you closer to Vladimir.”

Your head lowered as you scrolled through her bank account. Sure enough you recognize the transfers and ID numbers. You suck in a breath, and soon behind you, you hear commotion. You don’t turn around though, whatever it is, Price has it handled.

That was until the interrogation room slammed open, revealing a tall and hunky, sweating Simon. He’s coiled and tense, his simple balaclava mask revealing brooding and bloodshot eyes. He leans heavily on the door, his eyes trailing over to your leaning form, and then Milena like daggers. Like he caught his prey.

You clamp your mouth shut—and realize Milena was in for a good scare.

Sure enough, she begins to breathe heavily at the sight and you hear Johnny from behind—“I tried to get him to listen—“

The door shuts.

“Why the mask?” Milena digs at Simon who leans against the wall, burly arms crossed as he watches you work like a hawk.

The Brit has no little to no patience. Frustration rolls off of him in waves and you know he’s seconds away from releasing what he’s holding back. He’s more so pissed off—not by the little lady bickering and trying to start an after school fight, but the fact the mission tossed sideways, wasting more time. Precious time.

He was like a toy box winding up. For now, he stood back.

“To hide my face.” He responds gruffly, his strong Manchester accent spitting out.

Milena jumps, not expecting it.

“Her bank records trace back to the Zordaya Prison. Multiple Konni accounts are hidden in here, damned witch.” You spit, eyes cutting her a stare you know she can’t run from.

“Money for Makarovs escape.” Simon puts two and two together. The name made her flinch and she looked away from Simon.

You revel in her reaction.

“Wealth opens doors.” The smug woman says, shrugging. Despite her cocky choice of words, you could tell she was close to cracking. And Simons presence was making it a helluva lot harder for her to stay still.

You scoffed. “More like blood money. That’s what this is.”

“Swiss account. Personal. It’s been tapped.” You say, unable to help the lifting grin that graces your lips. You lean back on one heel— bent to gaze at the laptop. You got her now.

This seems to have struck her nerve and sleuth of russian escapes past her lips—glaring at you.

“Думаешь, я тебя не пойму? (You think I wouldn’t understand you?)

You return, seeing her shrink down, her heart elevated. Her corotid is jumping at your efficiency Russian—cracking her open. Having another woman beat down on her and expose her, all whilst in her mother tongue was like slicing a knife through her.

Simon nodded his head up very slightly in approval of your tone. He has seen you interrogate a few times, and knows you have nothing in you to sit down and enjoy a game of poker. If anything, you were similar to him. But he didn’t carry the decorum you did.

You go back for her hand and she yells, “What the fuck are you doing—“

Simon then advanced forward, having enough of this. He ignores his pain, and looms over her beside you, head positioned down. His heavy lidded eyes bore into hers like needles, the black war paint illuminating them more dangerously. “Give her the print, or tell us where to find Makarov.”

You inwardly thank him for his support. But for now, you remain focused, eyeing her.

“Fuck. You.”

She should not have done that.

Simon leans forward slowly, angling himself. He searched her eyes and then narrowed them, invading her personal space to where she flattened herself against the chair in terror.

The look in his eyes—the impatience, the way they flickered with something unbridled, made her hesitate.

“We. Need. Makarov.” Simon then enunciated, his voice coming out in a poisonous spit. He never removes his steel eyes from hers, his hand slowly reaching for his sidearm to threaten her even more.

If anything the pain stabbing his lung makes him growl out the words insistently, with a sense of force. “Now.” His lip sneers.

“Where is he?” He demanded, much less of a question. You had to admit, his voice sent chills down your spine as you watched them both. You admire Simon as he worked efficiently despite his injury.

Milena’s lips wobbled and she then shouted his location.

——

You’re busy gearing up before the next mission in the armory, pulling on your shirt. Your hair is tied up and out the way, shifting on your combat boots with ease. You replay the interrogation in your mind over and over again, never wanting to be in Milenas’ position. Simon had her real good. He was getting checked by Johnny in the meantime—to which you heard Simon cuss.

Soon, boots scuffled against the ground and Price appears. He slaps a folder on the table beside him, and enters in, closing the door. A moment with the captain.

You spin around slowly, brow raised. You know he’s here to talk. Your hand works the pouch you wore, tightening the belt.

“That russian sounded a lil’ too good.” He said gruffly, almost with a proud glint as he watched you. He leaned against the door, his arms crossed. The lights above flickered and you swallowed, resting your shotgun rifle in the locker. It slumps from the weight.

His gaze is like a knife tracing over your hot searing skin.

“Price.” You said, eyes meeting his burning ones.

“You think I forgot that little stunt you pulled?” He then stalked closer, after the lock clicked as his hand moved. It hung by his side and your breath hitched. You were clad in your cargo pants, and a compression top, yet the top did nothing to provide pressure to calm your pounding heart.

“Price, I—“ You said his name, trying to explain but he cuts you off when he grappled for your waist and pressed you against one of the lockers firmly. His eyes roam all over you and he shushes you, his breath fanning across your face.

“I know, I know you said it was a game. Is that all this is to you?” He says lowly, a slightly condescending tone to it. You narrow your eyes and something in your heart lurched at his words. Was it all just a game? Only sex?

“What is it to you, if it’s just a game?” You spit back, feeling your head press against the locker metal. You swallow and his eyes track the way your neck moves, a hand reaching up to stroke the delicate skin. It makes you shudder, your resolve weakening. But you grip the side of the open locker door tightly.

“Quite answering my questions with questions, sweet’art. You know where that’ll land you.” Price murmurs and then his larger hand gently wraps around your neck. You nearly found yourself melting into his touch, the simple act drawing something submissive out of you.

Your head tilts and gently his padded fingers press at the side of your neck, not choking, but holding.

“You and that little red dress. All night. Teasing me. I need to get it off.” Price whispers, leaning in to touch the shell of your ear. His tongue licks the curve and you closed your eyes, feeling heat spread between your legs and stomach.

“You think I didn’t think about you? How we could’ve been matching? If you wore a red tie. Matching with my heels. My dress. My lipstick.”

“Is that what you want?” His warm voice traveled deep in you, and sent shivers, “Because if you want that, we’d have to be more.”

You stiffen up and tilt your head to look at him. His hand strokes your belly, before traveling low and under your shirt. He teases your waistband, and removes your gun and pouch. He places them in the locker and resumes his movements, feeling for the thin lacy material.

Your breath catches, “And what? Do you like the sound of us being more?”

“You tell me, with those pretty noises.” Price nearly groans it in your ear, his body weight pressing against yours with need. Your legs shake as he managed to find that pudgy button and warmth explodes in your lower area. You bit your lip to which he grabs your chin and jerks it to him.

He watches as the flesh gets pulled under your teeth and pants at the sight. “I’ll make you forget him.”

“I don’t care about him.” You said roughly, aching with need and desire for Price. Your chest heaved, feeling his hand stroke soothing circles right where you craved it the most. The skin erupts with tingles and you struggle to hold back a moan to talk.

“And you care about me? You can’t get me outta’ that pretty head of yours?” Price hums and it almost sounds condescending. But to you, it sounds hot. The way he teases and taunts you as you’re in no position to bite back.

Your panties are soaked—an admission of your feelings. “When you make it sound like that, it’s as if I care more.” You scoff.

Price pushed against you more—causing a strangled gasp to leave you. His hand presses firmly against your poor throbbing clit, his nose brushing your jaw, then your ear and to the slender curve of your neck.

“You have a nasty mouth on you. Been too long since our last fucking?” He growls out, shoving your pants down swiftly. Before you know it, he delivers a sharp slap to your puffy clit and you jerk, crying out.

“Get on me.” He orders. You jump and wrap your legs around his wider waist and arms around his neck, angling your head to kiss him feverishly. It’s true. Ever since the venue you’re left for craving for him all over again. You want to ravish him and take him all for yourself—much more than ever.

And Price is consumed by the same feelings. The desire to feel you around him, shaking and unable to focus on anything else but the way he stretches you. He wants to make you forget about him—that stupid little boy, and wants you to focus on what he can give you instead.

“I’ve got you.” He whispers in the kiss, almost soothingly, as if reassuring you your desires were safe to explore. Your head spins at his voice and warmth climbs up your arms and neck, as a flush settles on your cheeks.

“You and those pretty little heels. The ones I got for ya. Would love to do you in those.” Price huffs and grabs your face, kissing harder before you could respond. He swings around to dump your behind on the table and it shakes. Your hands immediately unfasten his belt and Price groans with need.

“I made sure to save em. You never know.” You tease, panting heavily in his mouth. Price helps you undo his thick belt and tosses them aside, the metal clanking. His pants drop heavily, and he scrambles to yank off his shirt.

Naked now, all that’s exposed are thick quads, bulky legs and a toned abdomen. Which is covered in a happily trail leading lower. You could see the imprint of his bulge against his boxers and you nearly drool. There’s a wet spot and you only imagine the way the liquids must be leaking down in thin white beads. Over the veins, over the throbbing skin.

You trail your eyes up and take in the sight of his wider chest, biceps flexing and straining as he undoes his boxers. His eyes stare at you hungrily, lips parting to breath harsh and fast—his hair chest rising and falling.

“Eyeing me up as if this ain’t the first time.” He mutters, discarding his boxers and then leaning in. You groan loudly, although muffled as his lips silence yours, moving with a fast unbridled pace. His tongue immediately pushes in, seeking entrance and demanding to explore.

Your tongue twirl and tangle. This isn’t soft and sensual with the usual tender licks—no he was livid. In the way his tongue pursued yours. Your head tilted back and you scrambled off your panties as well.

Soon, he slots himself between your legs.

“Raw?” He mutters, jerking himself off as precum dribbles down and coats his veiny, thick shaft. His balls were hanging low and his bulbous head points at you, red and angry. It’s thick and wide enough to bully your folds.

You moan at the sight, and the sound revs him. “Raw. Get it in.”

And just like that, his hips fill yours. He doesn’t stop, no, he pushes in one go and the feeling has you yelling in ecstasy. Immediately his hand covers your pretty mouth to muffle it and your head is craned back against the wall, feeling him bottom out. His tip kisses your cervix snug, and you had no time to adjust before the man starts pounding.

“Take it, take it all. Every inch. Naughty girls like you need this. You crave it, don’t you?” Dirty words fly out your captains mouth as his hips jack hammer at an intense unforgiving pace. Each pound has gasps leaving you, body shaking. The fat of your thighs jiggle, and your hands scramble to hold the edge of the shaking table.

“Oh, you can’t respond.” Price said smugly, keeping his hand over your mouth. He can feel how you quake and grab at his length, gummy walls squeezing and collapsing. It hugs him down good he groans and vocalizes his sounds. His head lowers, and long groans left him, eyes shutting at the feeling.

You grab at his head with one hand—the other supporting you and you eye him. You’re hazy with pleasure and your head spine, as the table squeaks and rocks.

“Oh? You want to hear me more?” Price leans and whispers, in your ear. His hand stays firm on your mouth and he chuckles shakily—entertained by your actions. The way you can’t talk, completely consumed by his control.

He breaths out loudly, with a mixture of a guttural moan leaving him. The sound has you rolling your eyes back.

“That’s right, you like it when I come in to do you? Hm? And cover your mouth—so no one can hear your filthy noises?” He grunts sharply, sweating. He grips the table with his one hand and then his other rests on your stomach, pressing and feeling his bulge jut in and out.

“Be a good girl and stay quiet, f’me.”

You try—his hand has you gasping and writhing, eyes shutting tightly. You think you see stars, the pressure was making it intense. Your legs spasm and your feet arch, toes curling. You barely repress this noise.

“You’re doing so good, sitting there, legs spread like a doll. Takin’ it f’me.”

“You jus’ needed my cock, didn’t you?”

You couldn’t believe the dirty things flying out his mouth. All you could do was groan loudly and shudder, sweat soaking your skin completely. You were sure you needed a shower before gearing up.

“Fuck, Price.” You could only say, yet be understood how lost in the pleasure you were. His eyes roamed greedily over the way you arched, your breasts jutting out and the skin trembling. Your hair bouncing back, angling your head so your neck was revealed and clavicle. Your brows arched and lips parted to moan.

“God you look so fuckin’ pretty under me.” He rasps, leaning in over you. Your back falls onto the table and you accidentally shove his folder off. It falls—paper scattering about. But none of you care.

If anything, he jack hammers into you, right against your gummy spot where he knows he’ll have you crying out the most. But he quickly covers your mouth to silence you—sweating himself. A strand of his hair falls forward onto his forehead.

“Shh shh, take it.” He can see the pleasure in your eyes, the tears. The haziness has him hooked completely, and he is sure he can never erase you out of his mind. Soon enough he feels his balls tighten and he grunts, eyeing you. You shudder and grab at the table, approaching your orgasm. Your toes curl and your neck tenses up.

Price pulls out before he could release into you, splattering onto your stomach. He grunts loudly and leans his head down to muffle them into your sweaty neck, as you convulse under him.

Soon, the two of you are left shaking and panting for air. You could feel his release traveling against your skin and sinking into your navel and your hands scramble to his shoulders. You’re still experiencing the afterglow and your eyes blink slowly.

“You bloody idiot. You came on me.” Your voice is somewhat groggy.

“Would you have rather me come into you?” Price teased, gruffly. He straightens up, needing a shower himself. He looked at your stomach and reveled in the way it coated you, thick fluids gliding. Your stomach quivered and he sucked in a breath.

“Fuck—no.” You muttered and sighed. Shakily you grabbed a napkin—but Price stopped you.

“Stop. You’re wasting it.” He muttered, holding your wrist. You paused and stared up at him wide eyed, still flushed.

“I’ll teach you what to do when you let me cum like this.” He murmurs and then his finger traces down your stomach. You jump, still sensitive from your orgasm and shudder. You whimper, and he stifled a groan at it.

Before you know it, your lips are wrapped around his finger that feeds you his sticky fluids. He watches the way those plump lips stuck, and he nuzzles your head with his nose. “So good f’me.”

The mere words has you melting. You wouldn’t do something as depraved as this—yet here you were. Eating his release that landed on your stomach. The things he made you do.

He then grabbed his clothes when you finished and you did as well, your back facing him. None of you say anything. The silence pierces your heart and you ignore the dull ache. You wanted to hear him say something. Something soft.

To be held.

The way he held you just now.

More.

But instead, you were met with his muscled back and you frowned. You were glad he couldn’t see you, because you looked like a kicked puppy. You then put your clothes on before heading to the showers. The door shuts, and Price buckled himself up, fingers working fast as he watches you leave.

The one thing he can’t get out his mind, is how you looked wrapping your lips around his finger and swallowing him. Those half lidded eyes consumed by pleasure and a hint of surprise at your own behavior.

Property of evanescencelovrr. do not modify, repost, or translate.

Took me 50 times of this showing up on my dash for me to finally read it, absolutely worth it

old, grizzled retired alpha!Price who gets stuck in his cabin with omega!Reader when the winter roads, the only way in and out of his domain, melt with the encroaching spring. and really. what's an alpha like him supposed to do when an untouched, unclaimed omega like you—so sweet, so desperate—is thrown headfirst into a vicious, blistering heat without any suppressants. it's not like either of you really have a choice, after all.

dub con; age difference; power imbalance; rough sex; size difference, size kink; abo dynamics: knotting; breeding kink (astronomical); mean!Price, Dom!Price; unsafe sex; oral (f!receiving); slight innocence kink; implied kidnapping; coercion; slight baby trapping; possessive, greedy Price pulling strings from behind the scenes, as per usual. this is basically Alpha John Price knotting Omega Reader in mating press, bullying you into submission

It's an accident, of course. 

An unfortunate combination of poor timing and human error.

But this accident culminates in Price folding his body over you—mating press, you note a touch hysterically; you'd have expected him to be all tradition: presenting to an alpha on your hands and knees, cunt bare for the taking, waiting to be claimed. And while it might not be traditional, Price will claim you tonight. Bully his cock into your drenched cunt, split you wide on the thick of him, on his knot (fuck, fuck, fuck—), and keep you plugged up around him until the unexpected heat passes. 

And really. What's an old, grizzled alpha like him supposed to do when an untouched, unclaimed omega like you—so sweet, so desperate—is thrown headfirst into a vicious, blistering heat. It's not like either of you really have a choice, after all. It's agony. It's want. Primal, instinctual. You need him. Ache with it. The urge, the desperation, to be filled. Claimed. Conquered. Owned.

As he presses bluntly against your drenching slit, notching heavy and insistent into your fluttering, aching hole, spilling slick in thick rivulets down your thighs, over the engorged head of his cock, you can't help but wonder how could you be so stupid? 

“Spread your legs for me.”

The command rolls off of his tongue, slips—liquid, molten—down his chin, where it dangles for a moment. Pebbled hest. A globbing demand. You want to roll away when it starts to fall, unspooling slowly until it drips down to your chest, but you can't. You're stuck. Trapped. All you can do is watch helplessly as this barking order, matchstick casuistry, touches your kerosene-slick skin, igniting in a bloom of fire that spreads, rapidly, through your veins. Your body. 

An Alpha's whim must be met. Even this one. This one—

Your former chief, boss. Now retired in the mountains, chiselling out a little place for himself in a corrie, pitching this log bivouac beside a marbled blue tarn. Cut off from the rest of civilisation every spring when the only way in—and out—melted into a raging, uncrossable stretch of river. The ravine frothing too furiously for boats to dock safely on either side. Trapped here with him until next winter—

(oh god oh god—)

You don't know how it got to this point. Scorched. Soaked. With him leaning over you, in all his tartarean glory, making demands of your body as easily as pulling on loose thread between his thick fingers. 

You could blame Gaz for this. 

Sat pretty at his desk, idling a jar of gun oil in his hands. Your gun is spread out on the desk, taken apart. Worrying his lip between his teeth, he said, “someone should check in on Price. Haven't heard from him in a while.” 

Through a quick game of hierarchy, that someone ended up being you. Forced to trek halfway up a mountain just to make sure your mercurial boss didn't die over the winter. Bitten off more than he could chew and too much of a proud Alpha to admit defeat, and call for help. 

You had enough suppressants to last you there and back. Three days. One in the morning, one in the afternoon. Price, despite his surly disposition, is an intense Alpha to be around—

Even for Betas. 

Some, unintentionally, succumb to his whims without even a forethought spared on rationality. It's innate. He says something, and people listen—

Like now. Hours after you discovered your suppressants were gone, and his heavy, cloying scent thickened in the air, suffocating you. When he leaned against the thick log doorframe on the porch of his cabin, thick arms folded across his broad chest, murmured, “come all this way just to see me?” and all at once, the world fell out from under you—

Plunging you into his arms, his embrace. His growl in your ear, “you’re in heat,” he grunted, fists balled against your sides. “fuckin’ Christ—” and the death sentence he imparted on you: “either I take care of this, or your heat becomes too much for me, and I tear you to pieces. But it doesn't matter does it, mm? You can't make it back down in this state,” more snarling anger, dry heat. Scorching. His chin jerked to the river at the foot of the mountain. “In a few hours, It’ll be melted through. Uncrossable.”

Per usual, John Price leaves you very little room for choice, doesn't he? 

Slowly, shakily, your pitched knees part, unveiling your bare cunt to the man towering over you with a condescending coo on his lips, red-hot desire in his smouldering Tartarean eyes. 

“Tha’s it,” he murmurs, voice full of sarky delight. “Such a good omega for me, aren't you?”

It’s not meant to be answered—the jeer chock full of hyperbole. Despite this, your body responds instantly. Back arching, legs spreading out wider around the bulk of his frame, nearly flush against the warmed fur covering the floor of the cabin—wolf, he muttered proudly before he pushed you down against the soft pelt, mouthing teasing at your jaw. Chest heaving. Fingers curling, knotting into the pelt. 

The urge to present for him is intense. An unanswerable call when he pins you down on your back, body a cage keeping you trapped where you lay. Open, inviting. All for him. 

This surly, awful man—

His hands are rough, padded with calluses and hard, jagged scars that jut up from his flesh. It feels abrasive, sandpaper grit, when he leans down, hand pressed against your knee. The drag, then, when he lets it drop down the skin of your inner thigh, makes you keen in the back of your throat. Gnarled palms bleed heat into your soft skin. The contrast is dizzying—size, scale, texture; it all leaves you breathless. Victim to your own instincts, ones that scream at you to roll over. To run. To make this massive, virile alpha yours—

He cups your pussy in the palm of his hand, heel pressed against your clit, fingers sliding between your slit, touching your entrance with the tip of his middle finger. The way the length of it swallows you whole, long, thick fingers reaching beneath you, grazing the cheeks of your ass, sets you on fire in a way you've never felt before. 

Price sees it. He must. He leans back on his haunches, broad chest heaving as he stares, transfixed, at his hand folding over you, wrist propped against your mons. 

He groans low in his chest. When he speaks, desire scorches his words to cinders. 

“Ever had an Alpha's cock here?” 

His question is scorching. 

In a small town, choice is slim. The ratio of alpha to omega, and beta to both, is skewed highly in the latter's favour. You think, Price included, there are maybe five eligible alphas in the whole township. Two omegas, yourself included. Everyone else—

Unbothered, unburdened by this horrific anomaly of genetics, of lingering animal instinct. A relic of when people were more beast than man. 

But even with that, the suitors lining up ready to claim you since you arrived three years ago is negligible. Nearly nonexistent. 

The shame of it is absurd. You know without any shadow of a doubt that your worth is not measured by the number of Alpha's wanting to claim you, but that prickling unease in the back of your head won't be quelled by common sense. Who cares, you want to scream. Who fucking cares—

“No,” you bluster; choking on your anger, your shame. Despite being an omega—rare as they are—everyone in town seemed soured by your scent. Adverse to the pungent pheromones you released innately. 

“No?” He echoes, and the stab of worthlessness needling into your pericardium makes you want to howl, want to cry. 

He doesn't let you. He leans down, hand resting on the floor beside your head, the other still anchored to your cunt, and presses his lips to the shell of your ear. His breath is a humid kiss that tickles across your flesh. 

“Good.” 

The praise bubbles in your marrow. You melt under the heat, whimpering. Head lulling to the side, exposing your neck. Offered up for him to take. 

He huffs, chest expanding. The coarse bed of hair tangled on his sternum in a smattering of black catches on your nipples, the rough graze making you gasp, soundless, into the humid space between your bodies. Aching already and he barely touched you. 

Price follows the twist of your chin, lips pressed flush to your ear. With him crowding so close, you can feel the rumble, the low vibration, through his chest before he even speaks. A soft purr, sultry and rich. Pulling you deeper into the throes of your submission with a startling ease. 

“I don't share, and I'd hate to have to tear another alpha apart for touching you,” his beard scrapes against your cheek, words soaked in possessive fury at the thought alone. “You're mine.”

You want to fight against it. Against him. No one owns you. Has claimed you.

You have only ever belonged to yourself. 

“M’not—”

Price shushes you with a nip, blunt teeth dragging down the plush flesh of your earlobe. “Don't fight it, love. Just—give in.”

You won't. Can't—

Despite the heat—heavy, oppressive, and wet, like the balmy swelter of a tropical jungle; bubbling dross on molten metal—you fight. Rage. Push back against the heady scent he exudes, ones meant to soothe, melt. Until you're malleable. Tensile. Mouldable to fit his needs, his desires, his cock. Putty in his scorching hands. 

It bleeds through, though—noxious and potent. The acrid miasma of a wild, untameable man: leather, hide, and animal rot; bleached bones; felled timbre. A wet forest after a wildfire; charred wood, argillaceous soil. Damp. Cloying. Choking. 

Reeking of authoritative power, he leans over you, breathes in the heaving exhales you let out. Lets the taste of you sit on his tongue, curl between his crooked teeth. 

He's close like this. All fire, all heat. And underneath the scent of a pursuing alpha, you pick up hints of him. Of what he smelled like before, when you were his subordinate and he spent most of his days making yours miserable. Stale smoke, wet tobacco, old leather, dry whiskey. 

You hate how much it calls to you. 

Maybe sensing your defiance, or growing tired of this push-pull game, he huffs out a breath that sounds less aggrieved than you'd want it to, full of playful amusement. Like he expected this. Like he knew you'd fight back with brittle fists and wicked teeth. 

Price pulls back, leaning against his haunches. Content now to devour you at a distance. His eyes leave a scorching trail from your heaving breast, your quivering stomach before fixing once again on the way your pussy is swallowed by his hand. His middle finger circles your sopping hole. The tease is a burst of pleasure, of sensation. A tickle, a taunt. The drag of it makes a loud, sticky noise; the unmistakable slosh, the squelch of just how wet you are for him. 

And it is for him. All for him. 

Your heat is an incipient bloom on the horizon—a slow, crawling sunrise. You shouldn't be this slick yet. This drenched. 

The embarrassment blisters through you when he makes a choked sound in the back of his throat. A loan bitten, swallowed before it can fully form. 

Price coos, voice scorched. Full of char. “All’fer me, mm? Such a good little omega.”

You hate it. Hate it, hate it, hate it—

—but nearly choke yourself on a moan. 

He chuckles, dark and rich. The sound entirely too similar to crushing a fistful of charcoal, and you're reminded suddenly why he's unmated at the age he is. 

Surly bastard. As approachable as a fucking grizzly bear in a rut. 

Your lips twist, jerking downward. “Fuck you—”

He circles your rim once more, chuffing low as he does so, letting the slick noise of your soaked cunt speak on his behalf. 

You bite back a snarl, letting it fizzle out in the back of your throat. However reckless you might be, however much you might dislike him, he's still an alpha. Snarling in his face would only get you bent over his knee (at best). 

And at worst, well. Maybe they'll find whatever is left of you next spring. 

Next spring. 

Thinking about just how long you're trapped here with him—no phone, no service—makes you want to cry. To break down, to—

No. You can't. Won't. Not in front of him. 

Not Price. The awful man who spent three years picking away at everything you've ever done. Writing you up for every little misstep. You wondered then, and you still wonder now, if he hated you because you were an omega who dared to work with him, as his equal, or if his brand of distaste was just for you. 

(The latter, it must be—he’s always been so kind to Alex, an older omega. 

You're just the exception.)

This sprawling train of thought is clipped when he sinks his finger into you, to the second knuckle, and you choke. 

“Ah, fuck, don't—”

He curls his finger. “Protest as much as you'd like, but if you didn't want this, your pussy wouldn't be this fuckin’ wet would it, love?”

He's right. You hate him for it. 

But he doesn't give you a chance to complain. He slips his finger out, the wet drag of your flesh pulling on him, unwilling to let go, is loud. Awful. You burn hot—hotter still when he groans at the noise. 

“Such a good girl for me, ain't you?” 

Price circles your entrance as he says it, pressing two fingers against your rim, rubbing. Gathering slick. You wish it didn't feel as good as it did—electric shocks of pleasure sparking at his touch, but the feel of it is a tease. You want more. Much more—

He presses those long, thick fingers inside again. Two this time. All you can do is mewl around the sudden stretch, the sting. 

Your discomfort is a palpable thing. Unease, distress—the acid scent plumes around you, leaking from your pores. Price stops suddenly, fingers still crooked in a half knot inside you. 

“You're tight,” he drawls, jowls working. Tensing. His eyes flash, heat lightning. “You—”

He cuts himself off abruptly, eyes narrowing into slits. They drop down to where he disappears inside of you, flesh stretched tight around him. Drilling into the way the slick runs down his fingers, over his knuckles, drenching the back of his hand, and he hums. 

“Has anyone ever touched you here before?”

More shame. It bubbles in your chest, this awful, insidious thing. 

It hasn't been for a lack of suitors, really. But rather, other things have always taken precedence over heats, over ruts. School, then your career. And well—

Betas around here don't seem very interested, either. 

Maybe you have peculiar wants. Urges, needs, that you've always been hesitant to fill. A wellspool of desire that runs deep, vicious. You want to mate. For keeps. 

Maybe they can scent that on you. A loud cry that says, stay away. 

You take a shuddering breath before nodding shallowly, twisting your head away so you don't have to look at the patronising gleam swirling in frothing Tryhennian. 

“Look at me.”

The command bludgeons your resolve. Your chin jerks back immediately. Desperate to obey. To listen. Frantic with the urge to quell the alpha, to soothe his plight—

But where you expect anger, you're met with the most peculiar sort of expression etching itself into his brow, his rugged face. 

His lips parted, lax. The picture of surprise.

Your eyes widen. A gasp is ripped from your throat at the raw, fractured look in his eyes. It's new, this. Unexpected. Where you anticipated scorn is instead a slow, unwinding look of want, of greed, so thick, it glues to the air. 

Patchwork hunger, predatory and damning, hews into your skin. Fine needles piercing, pricking, along your flesh. 

Branded ownership. You feel it settle against your chest. Dig in when his chest expands with his, hissing inhale. 

There's a dark tremble to his shoulders that makes your toes curl. 

“I should take this slow, then, mm? Prep you. Get you nice and ready for my cock,” his words have you keening, arching for him. Achingly empty. His hand lifts, settles against your quivering stomach. The slightest pressure makes you shake, quieten; submitting to the touch. “But. I don't have the patience for that.” 

He slots his thighs between your legs, pressing it tight against your cunt. The pressure—blissful pleasure; frantic at the touch—is almost your undoing, but there's a plexiglass between full submission and the urge to flee. Still. The heat is rapacious. The desire, the yearning, doesn't abate. 

The haze is thick. So thick. It would be easy to slip under the veil, to let yourself go. To give in—

"Easy, omega," it comes out as a guttural rasp; the charcoaled command uttered in a mockingly placating tone. The sort one might use to soothe a wild animal or a startled mare. Fitting, of course, when you're rutting against the thick spread of his thigh, leaking slick all over him.

down girl, he doesn't say, but he might as well have because you're clenched tight around nothing, aching hollowly in a way that rings through your bones. You can't help it, you want to whine when he huffs, lips pulling downward in a frown. Disappointed in you, perhaps. But how do you fight instinct when you're hardwired to want to spread your legs at the pungent, lour stench of a virile alpha's incipient rut, the briny tang of his pre-cum saturating the air. A heady elixir that sends shockwaves of agonising need through your body.

It's too much. The burn of your heat is a vicious, deadly combatant. Knife to your jugular, hand around your throat, it demands compliance. 

And when he reaches down to his stained slacks, drawing your eye to the tent in the front, to the dark pool at the front where he leaks his spend into the fabric, you keen. Jealousy scorching through you instantly at the sight; animal instinct that makes you want to bare your teeth at it because his cum is just for you, all for you—

Amusement pierces the air. Punctuates it with the heavy, noxious weight of his satisfaction. 

He hums, reaches into his slacks. Curls his fist around the thick of himself. 

“Want this, don't you?” 

You gnash your teeth against your desperation, legs popping open further. Inviting. Eager. 

“Of course you do. Want this—” he frees his cock, pulling it over the band of his trousers, and you choke. 

It's wet with his spend, and angry looking. The mushroomed head engorged, swollen. Flushed a deep vermillion. Veins run the length of it. Pulsing with his need. His want. 

Price groans, strokes his hand down his shaft. Pearlescent beads of pre-cum bubble up from the tip. 

You ache. Suddenly, viciously. Hollow. Empty. You want him. Need him—

“Yeah? Want this fat cock inside of you, mm?”

And you, finally, give in—

"Please, please, Price—"

"No." He taps the head of his cock against your clit once, twice. A warning. A reprimand. You keen at the whitehot agony, the unfathomable burn of pleasure ripping through your body. He coos into it. Echoing your whimper with a derisive snort. Mocking. Cruel. You hate him. Hate him. Need him so badly you think you might go insane if he doesn't pry you apart right this instant—

"I'll give you my knot when I'm good and ready. Now, be good for me, mm?” His eyes are dark in the harsh flicker of the wood stove. Burning liquid black. Molten puddles of crushed sapphire. You hate the way he looks at you. Hate how it makes you want to roll over on your belly, soft and submissive, giving all of yourself over to this terrible man. “That's it. Good omegas get what they want. Bad ones get punished. And I don't think you'll like being taken over my knee, would you?"

His words send a fresh wave of heat through your veins. Hellfire. Scorching. You want to blame the fever on the stove burning away in the corner of the room, on a sickness you can't scrape off of your bones no matter how many times you chisel into your skin. An infection eating away at you from the inside out. 

But it's futile. He doesn't care about your excuses. He never has—

“Spread yourself. Go on and show me that pretty cunt you want me to ruin so badly.” 

Unspooled, liquid under his bulk, you don't even hesitate before your fingers unfurl from their fight knot in the fur, making a slow, timorous crawl down the supine length of your sun-scorched body. 

Your flesh feels foreign, like it belongs to a stranger. To someone else. Each touch is a phantom whisper gliding along sweat-slicked skin; new and different, and not yours. 

Not yours at all because your skin would never prickle with goosebumps over the sight of your chief kneeling between your legs, the hair on his thigh matted, slick with your wetness. The unruly black thatch darkening into a patch where you shamelessly rutted against him, eagerly seeking friction over the place you ache the most. 

For him. All for him. 

It's impossible. Impossible. And yet—

As your fingers curl over the tops of your thighs, notching into the soft, heated flesh at the bend of your hip and groin, you feel just how soaked you are for him. How wet. How eager. It stains your skin, reaches almost down your bent knees. Beneath you is a puddle drenching the fur. 

Your fingers slip, sliding in the mess you made. You flush when he huffs, humoured by it all, and dip your chin away from the scorching, piercing look in his cerulean eyes, drilling holes in the apex of your thighs. Greedily taking in his fill as your fingers glide over your sopping folds, gingerly parting them. Presenting to him on your back. Ripe for the taking. 

“One hand,” he rasps, words clicking in his throat. He holds his hand up, curling his fingers down and leaving his index and middle finger up in a pointed V. “And the other—” he swallows thickly, Adam's apple bobbing. “I want you to touch your clit for me.” 

You follow his instructions, slipping your fingers between your folds, opening yourself up for him. Your other hand sits on your mons, fingertips brushing your swollen clit as heat floods you. Electric. Each touch is a shock of pleasure roiling down your spine, and more slick dribbles out of you, dripping down your aching, empty hole, down your ass, until it soaks into the furs below. 

The scent of a needy omega fills the air. Your scent. 

Where most are sweet, supple, yours has always had a bite. A tartness to it, an earthy tang. Boysenberry. Loam. Lemongrass. Beeswax. You bluster. Flushing. Embarrassment plumes up, mushrooming in the air—smoked orange peels, coral berry sour—and you wonder if he's repelled by it, this strange smell of yours—

Price’s head rolls back, nose pitched in the air. Breathing in deep, groaning with his exhale. Eyes fluttering, flashing. He eats it clean from the air. Mouth dropping open, panting. 

It's then when the unmistakable musk of a pleased Alpha—smoked tobacco and sage—clots beside your scent do you feel the prickle of free will hewing into your periphery. 

None of what he demanded of you carried the unignorable weight of a command. Before you can even think of the ramifications of that, he's moving. Heavy body falling, sliding down the furs. His hands come to rest, hot and firm, on your knees, spreading you wider, wider, to fit the boxy heft of his broad body between them. 

He hovers over you, head bending to fit in the brackets of your thighs. Leading with nose, nostrils flaring, fluttering, as he pulls in deep lungfuls of your scent. Over and over, and—

His head bows. Humid air ghosting over your sopping cunt when he exhales. It's then when he dips his chin further, further, until the bottom of his face is flush with your pussy, mouth parting around a groan that reverberates through the floorboards, rattles your bones. 

“You smell s’fuckin’ good, love,” he rasps, choked. His eyes are gyres. They might just swallow you whole. You fight back a shiver, resolve threadbare. Stitches coming apart. “Bet you'd taste even better.”

It's all the warning you get before he pushes his face into you, mouth dropping open to let his tongue lull out. Licking a scorching stripe from hole to clit. And, oh—

Oh. 

Your head drops, eyes slipping closed at the liquid feeling between your thighs. The whitehot sensation of his tongue laving across your slit. 

So this—this—is what you've been missing out on. Pure feeling. Molten. It blooms in your loins, knots tight like a spooled bow. 

Your fingertips are in the way from him pressing his tongue flat against your clit, where you throb the most, and you move to pull your hand away. To give him access to everything, all of it. Every part of you he wants. It's all his, his, so long as he keeps doing what he's doing with his mouth, his tongue—

But his hand slashes through the air, snatching your wrist in a vice grip. Stopping your retreat. You whimper, hips flexing up, wanting his mouth. Needing more of what he's doing between your thighs. 

“Look at me,” he demands. You obey. Instantly. His eyes are black holes. Everdark. Eclipsed, totally, by the bleed of his black pupils spreading out. You moan, thighs parting wider, wider. “Good girl. Such a good omega for me, aren't you?”

He doesn't let you answer. Draws your wet fingers to his mouth, pressing the pads against his lower lip, nails scratching his teeth. He breathes in, shoulders bunching up. Eyes fluttering again, rolling back in his head. And it's divine—

To have such a surly, contemptuous Alpha on his knees for you, fat, heavy cock drooping between his thighs, spitting a steady stream of spend onto the floor. Wasteful. You keen again, back arching. Needy. Wanting—

Price sucks in your fingers, tongue laving between your knuckles. The pressure, the feeling, is good. You like this. Like his mouth. 

But your fingers are not where you want him. 

“Please, Price. Please—”

He pulls off with a pop. Leans his cheek on your inner thigh. 

“What do you want? Use your words, omega.”

Heat blooms in your chest, but you're long past the point of embarrassment anymore. Shame. It's all awash under the torrent of need. Desire. Swept in the rage of your heat. Nearly rendered delirious by it. 

“Want your mouth.”

“Where?”

“M–my—” you swallow, fingers spreading your folds wider. Opening yourself up to him. He glances down, nostrils flaring once again. But he doesn't move. Won't. You groan, head rolling back. “My pussy. Please. Want your mouth on my pussy, Price—”

He groans, low. Dark. But then he's moving. Head bowing. His tongue is scorching. Whitehot. He drags it through your folds, teasing at your rim. Presses it inside, just a touch, a shallow thrust. And—

Ah. 

You make a noise in the back of your throat. Awful, wet. Choking. The feeling of his tongue inside of you is good. Beyond words. 

It slips in more. The full length. Stuffed. You keen, arching. Aching. Hips flexing, jerking against his mouth. He lets you ride his face like this, fucking your hole with his fat tongue, nose glued tight to your clit. 

All you can do is sob his name, fingers curling, knotting, into his damp hair, holding him close. 

His tongue leaves you, sliding up your seam until it cups your clit. Laves over it. He lifts his chin, and seals his mouth over you. Sucks—

The spool unravels. Pressure released. You flood around him, on him. Pussy gushing slick over his chin, drenching him. Drowning him. 

Lips sealed over your throbbing clit, he moans low. Deep. Eyes rolling back in his head. Gyre blue. 

“Tha’s it,” he coos, pushing two thick fingers inside your throbbing cunt. “Think you're about ready for my cock, ain't you?” 

He doesn't let you answer. And—

You don't think you can form a coherent thought. Running on sensation. On instinct. You make to roll over on your belly, ass pushed into the air, ready for his knot, but he stops you. Hands squeezing your hips. Firm. 

“No. I'll take you like this.” 

And it's hard to reconcile the urge to present with his demands. His wants. You whimper. He answers it with a grunt. 

“Stay still.” 

You flatten to the fur, body melting. Lax. 

“Good girl.”

The praise is a serrated knife to your jugular, cutting a jagged line across your skin. Spilling blood. You quieten under his bulk, now. Desperate. Docile. Collared in blood. 

His hands push behind your knees, lifting your legs. Pushing, pushing. Until they rest under your ears. Spread open for him. Ready to be claimed, owned. Bred. 

“Price, Price, please—”

He shushes you with a coo, pitching your heels over his shoulders. Shuffling closer until his heavy cock, hanging thick and fat between his legs, bumps against your ass. Your cunt. You whimper, back arching. Needing him to fill you up. Split you apart. 

Ruin you—

“Gonna fuck you now. Knot you.”

It's a warning. A threat. You feel it trail over your skin, branding. A collar. You lift your chin, letting it settle there. So long as he makes you feel this good, he can do whatever he wants to you. Anything—

And so, he does. 

His cock is a heavy weight against you, pressing. Pushing. He doesn't wait for you to adjust, for your body to acclimate to the burning stretch of him splitting you apart. 

Your slick aids in the brutal onslaught of his cock prying your untouched flesh apart, chiselling open a space just for him to fit. 

It should hurt more. And maybe it would if you weren't drowning in the throes of a vicious heat, numbed to everything but the way his cock feels as it slides, inch after inch, inside of you. Thick, fat. Pulsing. You pant shallowly, head turning. Chin pressing into your shoulder. 

It's good. This burn, this ache. This madness—

“Christ—” he spits, sounding almost angry. Furious. You peer up at him, eyes wet with unshed tears. Through the murky haze, you catch the clench of his jaw, the prominent divot between his brows. Face tightening with pleasure. Rapturous. “This cunt was made for me, wasn't it, love?”

“Yes—” it's breathless. An airless whisper. “All yours, all yours, John—”

You repeat this as he reaches halfway inside of you. As he bends down, mouth feverish he slots it greedily over your lips in a bruising, sloppy kiss. You mutter it against his teeth, his tongue. He swallows your acquiescence, your submission, down with a moan. Drinks you in as he takes, takes, until you're full of him. Stuffed. 

John bottoms out with a moan that trembles down your throat, balls pressed flush against your ass. Split apart on him. Claimed. 

He settles, letting you adjust to the sensation. Content to simply mouth sloppy kisses over your face, your cheek, jaw. Nipping your skin. Basking in this, in finally having you stretched around him. His pleasure is ripe in the air. Heavy and acrid. Smoked leather. Fresh, and heady. 

It's novice, this feeling. This pressure. This fullness. Your hand drops, falls, palm sliding between his heavy, hairy belly, resting over yours. Feeling the unmistakable bump of him rearranging your anatomy to fit—barely—in you. 

He lifts up, elbow dropping to the floor beside your head so he, too, can feel for himself the way he fits within you. His hand comes to lay beside yours, flattening over the bulge of him protruding from your flesh. His cock jerks inside of you, twitching. The feeling makes your toes curl, your cunt throb. 

“Like that, huh?” 

Your nod is slowly, languorous. Everything feels unreal. Like you're staring at the world from underwater. Inky. Fractured. Raw. 

The burn of the stretch is there, throbbing like a bruise. A contusion. He scents the sting, the ache, and slides his hand down, cupped over your swollen, stuffed pussy. Fingers tangling into the thick bed of curls grazing your mons. Price quells the burn with a swipe of his thumb rolling over your clit. 

It has you clenching, tightening even further around him. Feeling the thick stretch thrumming inside of you. Plugging you up. And fuck—

If that doesn't just light you up from the inside out. Supernova. Blistering heat. 

Pieces of yourself chip off, fluttering to the soft, downy fur below you with each heavy breath he takes. Your heat swells to a crescendo, breaking over the edge of your lingering cognisance. It's all sensation now. Pure, unfettered feeling.

And Price takes no time at all to exploit it. To batter your melting, liquid body into submission even further. 

It starts with shallow grinds against the plug of your womb. Carving more space inside of you for him to fit, to ruin. 

He fucks you like this. Cock heavy and fat inside of you. Giving you the full length until your rim catches on the burgeoning swell of his knot. Over and over again. Pulling deep, delirious moans from your throat. Breaking you to pieces on the spread of him seated deep. Tugging more and more compliance from your body, wringing pleasure out of every nerve ending. 

The sounds are horrific, and had you any sense of self left to mull over them, your shame, embarrassment, would have burned you alive. The wet squelch of your cunt swallowing him down, over and over and over again—

“Needy little pussy,” he bites out, blunt teeth skirting over your pulse point. A tease. 

The press of them heightens everything, elevating it to a tipping point. 

This is what you were made for. What every atom in your body screams out to. Wanting. Needing to be spread out under him, this dark, awful man. 

“I'm not going to claim you,” he's saying, words wet against your temple, tongue snaking out to catch the droplets of sweat beading on your hairline. 

It makes you whine in dismay, desperate for his teeth buried in your skin. 

“No, no, please—! I need it, John, I need it—”

“Then beg me. Beg for it—”

You do. It babbles out of you. Broken, fractured. Pleas, orisons, screamed to heavens; aching for his teeth on you, in you. Claiming you for his own. You want it more than you think you've ever wanted anything in your whole thing. Half of you, empty and vacant, hollow, begging to be filled. To be completed. 

And really—

You've felt it from the beginning. This stirring, agonising want. Desire. A bone-deep yearning for the man who looked at you, up and down, and dismissed you with a charred scoff and shallow shake of his head. 

“What's a little omega like you doin’ runnin’ around the woods, love? Ought to be at home—”

Where you belong. 

It didn't make sense at the time. He's so different with everyone else—Alex, Farah—but reserves his scorn, his discrimination, just for you. Special little thing, aren't you? 

But even still. Still. You tried. Struggled against the crushing weight of his derision, burying your fingers into the rubble, clinging on for three, devastating years until your nails broke, bled. Left stains on the pavement. Until he, stiff-lipped and clipped, told you he was retiring. Escaping the loose binds of a non-existent town on the fringes of civilisation for the sanctum of the wild, untamed forest. The mountains. 

You wanted him to say, come with me, even if you might have gouged his eyes out for even asking. Tore his still-beating heart out with your bare hands. 

But instead, he nodded at you. A quiet goodbye. Left you bewildered, furious, and unclaimed, unwanted, and now—

Those blood-stained fingers dig into the softness of his nape, biting flesh until it gives, breaks, under the jagged stumps of your nails, and you wrench him forward, into you, snarling mad. Apoplectic with fury at being denied so long. 

“Fuck you,” you bite out, brittle with ire. Disobedient even through the noxious curdle of heat subduing your senses. Your rationale. “Fuck you, John—!”

His skin breaks first. The bitter scent of hot, wet pavement, pennies in the summer sun, sickly sweet iron, fills the balmy cabin. He groans, choked, throat bobbing, jaw clenching. You don't let him get anything out. 

You pull him by the scruff of his neck into you, face buried in your collarbones. Heels dig in, sliding along the slick sweat of his broad back. Finding purchase against the knob of his spine, and pressing. Pushing. Kicking at him until he slots his hips into yours, pressed as deep as he could possibly go. Throbbing inside of you. Spitting molten spend as he wrenches you open. 

The first person to ever do so. 

He must know this, feel it simmering in the air, because he groans low, deep. It bubbles out of his chest, a half-bitten snarl saturated in the smoke of his desire. Feverish, possessive. 

“Mate me,” you demand, head tilting back into the awaiting plinth of his palm, cushioning your crown. “Claim me.”

He—John, you think, delirious; gone—John places a tender kiss to your pulse point, soft despite the uneven, desperate way he fucks into you now. All that careful finesse falling to pieces under your foot, growing choppier as he sinks in deep. Pistoning shallowly into your sloppy cunt, taking. Taking. 

“Please, John,” you breathe, clenching tight around him. Needing that last push to drop over this vertiginous precipice that yawns out, a growling, hungry chasm, before you. Heat spears into your marrow, drowning out all the fight inside of you. Dousing those flames until they're a smouldering heap; clumps of hot, wet ash in your hands. “Please take me—”

The growl he makes is inhuman. Lingering in the shadow of it is a mocking burst of laughter. Dark, hellish. He leans in close, mouth tight against your skin, and whispers, “already have, love.”

Those words lose any meaning when he opens his mouth wider, licking a stripe over your neck. A soothing rinse. And then he buries his teeth into your pulse, tearing through your skin. Claiming. Owning. It rips through you—all heat, sensation: blistering, inferno. You burn alive beneath him, smouldered under his possessive, heavy bulk.

Price leans back with a vicious, terrible growl. Blood dripping down his chin, mixing with the tacky slick of you still covering his face. Pinkish under the waning light of the dying sun. 

The sight of it, the horrible throb in your throat, breaks over you.

His tongue flicks out, chasing the drops. With a swipe of his finger over your clit, you fall to pieces around him, clenching. Throbbing. Screaming with your release. Gushing around him as he grips you tight, working you through it, muscles fluttering, flexing. The deluge of pleasure is molten, spreading liquid through your body. Inescapable bliss. 

He grunts, pace slowing to a sloppy grind. Letting you leech pleasure from the overfull feeling of being speared open on him. Knot swelling. Bumping into your rim. John gives you respite for a moment, content to hump against your messy cunt until you melt into the furs, panting with exertion. With pleasure. 

He keeps his thumb pressed against your clit, stroking. Shoving you into the side of too much, of pleasure-pain. Overstimulated. You mewl, whimpering. 

“Greedy girl,” he chides, cruel, and pulls back. The wet drag of his cock against your sore, sensitive walls is overwhelming. You keen, shaking under him. “Couldn't wait to cum around my knot, mm?” 

He doesn't wait for your excuses. He never does. He just thrusts into you again, a slow climb until his knot bludgeons into you. Fatten up at the base of his cock. He holds it there, grinding it against your pussy as you arch, mewling at the sting of your hole being stretched further around the curve of his knot. 

“You can take it,” he coos. The muscles in his shoulders flex. You reach out, petting along his chest. feeling him. All powerful, corded muscles hiding under a thick layer of pelt. Soft flesh. 

His knot catches. Slips. He bullies it against your sore, stuffed rim, throwing the full heft of his weight behind his shallow grinds until finally, finally, your body yields. Giving in. Opening for him. 

He sinks in with a broken groan, mouth dropping open. Lax. His shoulders slump under your hands as he pumps you full of cum. Plugged up tight on his fat, pulsing knot. It's too much. Too much. All you do is cling to him, nails biting into his flesh. Marking him like the bloody ring around your neck marks you as his. 

Locked together, damned, he leans down. Huffs in your ear. 

“Gonna fuck you full all spring until it takes, love. Until you're swollen, fat, with our kid.” His voice is a thunderclap. A promise. A threat. “Won't keep them lonely for long, though, will you? We'll give him a sister or brother. Gonna breed this pussy as much as I want, mm. Give us a big family. I've already started on the nursery for you. After your heat, I'll let you pick the colours, yeah?”

Satiated Alpha permeates the air. It's thick in the back of your throat, clogging your senses. Drowning you. Pulling you under. 

The last thought before you sink below the waterline is a broken, fragmented sense of dread, confusion. It comes in a daze. Flickering embers. Quickly snuffed out by his palm gliding across your eyes, closing them. 

“Sleep now,” he rasps, hips stuttering as he fills you with more cum. Uncomfortably full, it floods your cunt, locked tight against your womb. “Gonna need it when my rut starts later.” 

And, docile, collared, you obey, drifting. Dazed. But wondering, in the back of your head, in the part of you not yet consumed by the ink-black darkness that eats away at you, why did he build a nursery for you if he didn't know you were coming today—

—swallowed, eaten. his teeth are buried in your neck once more, and all thoughts dissolve in an instant. Dissipate into the gnawing aether where he splits them between his molars, gulps them down. 

nothing matters anymore. you belong to him—

The cabin reeks of satiated omega—sweet, pungent. Rotten apple peels, and burnt orange. It's this heavy scent—sex, loam, and you—that draws him out of his doze, tired eyes blinking against the flickering light of the wood stove pushed into the corner. 

Price groans when he shifts, body aching. Muscles stiff, sore, from disuse. 

It’s been a long, long time since he knotted an omega, and he underestimated the sharpness of your claws, your needle-like teeth. But he wears the marks, the scars, of your aggressive coupling on his shoulders, his back. Clawed up, torn. He grimaces when a clotting scab breaks, peels back from the wound. Blood drips down his spine in a steady, ticklish trickle. 

It took a lot more than he expected to make you submit. Had to force you to take his knot twice more before you finally, fully, relented, slurring his name into the sheets as he rutted into you from behind, begging for your Alpha to fill you up. 

Had you again after that—so soft and sweet for him now. Pulled you down on his lap, let you take what you wanted from him, sluggish and lazy, until he gripped your hips tight, fucking up into you as he thickened with his release. Plugged you up nicely as you drooled on his shoulder, lulled to sleep from three brutal rounds of fucking. 

But the battle was worth the victory in the end. To have you tucked into his chest, purring with contentment and too blissed out from heat exhaustion to worry about anything else, was enough. More than, really. 

Especially now, with you curled on him, snoring lightly, breath tickling his chest hair, he feels more sated than he ever had, breathing in the heaviness of your smell. Your thick miasma. New, now. Different. 

His scent, his mere essence within you, changes your smell already. Chemicals admixing. Body moulding, morphing, to adapt to him. His presence. You smell like the sea, salt water. Algae blooms. He leans down, breathes you in. Tastes his own headiness in the back of his throat—charred timber, smoke; leather. It clings to you. A second skin. 

No matter where you go, everyone will know you belong to him. 

This thought, this truism, makes him purr. A deep rumble from the pit of his gut. Satisfaction rolls off of him in towering waves, hewing the air where it congeals into plumes of conquest. Hard earned, too—

Three years. It only took three years to get to this point. To chisel under your skin, to break you down in his paws. Fine powder. 

He lifts his hand from your back, and scours it down his salt-slickened face. He feels heat blooming under his skin. A telltale flush of his approaching rut. Perfectly timed, too. And that reminds him—

He pushes away from you slightly, spent cock slipping free from your warm, drenched cunt. His cum drips out of you, a deluge that leaks steadily onto your thigh, the ruined fur below. It puddles there and stains the air with his unmistakable musk. The conquering of an omega in heat; claimed. Owned. 

He doesn't go far. Can't. There's a possessive, needy thrill under his veins. A snarling growl in the back of his head, snapping rabid jowls at him. Demanding he stay close to his mate. His omega. Don't leave the nest, it warns, or another could crawl in, fill the empty space—

Price cuts that thought off with an aborted snarl. There are no others. He made sure of it. Bloodied his knuckles against every alpha within a one-hundred-square-mile radius of his territory. Growled in their faces, hand against their throat, and told them to stay away from, you, this pretty little omega. 

Message received, of course. But you were a prickly little thing. Bitter. As much as he wanted to roll you on your belly, make you present your cunt to him, he knew he had to tread carefully. Baby steps until you were close enough to his jaws to snap up, all his. Always. Ever since you stepped foot into his domain, your tart scent coalescing perfectly with the pine, oakmoss, tang of him. You've been his before you even knew who he was—

Wily omega with your shaking fists and bared teeth. Skittish little thing. Needed to play his hand slowly, to box you into a corner before you were even aware of the walls closing in around you. Snapped up tight his maw. Bear Trap quick. Had to be smart about it, bide his time. Push and push until all you thought about was him. 

(checkmate)

John reaches for the loose floorboard, prying it open, and pulls his cell phone out—one he knows he’ll have to bury in the yard before you wake. There are very few contacts on his list, and he idly scrolls through the messages (steaming Jesus, the smell o’er—ye sure ye don’ share, cap?; better take her, Price, before I do) before he finds Gaz’s. 

The last message sent was hours ago from Kyle. on her way. but fuck, didn't realise how fast fake suppressants worked, chief. gonna have to find her quick. might not make it up the mountain smellin as good as she does—

Good boy, he types with one hand, the other petting possessively down your spine. Curled there, a weighty pressure. You found him in the end, right on the cusp of your burgeoning heat. Pawing desperately for the suppressants Kyle made sure wouldn't be there. 

(His parting gift brought on by a conversation ages ago—

“why haven't you mated, cap? not gettin’ any younger.”

“haven't found the right one. ain't gonna settle.”

“more like, your shitty attitude scares all the pretty omegas away, huh?”

“that, too,” he bit down into his cigar. suddenly angry, viciously so. “‘cept one.” 

Kyle followed his gaze, and—

“so, take her. she wants you. reeks like she does. you can smell it, too, can't you?” his eyes flashed. playful. “maybe that'll be my retirement gift to you.”

“not funny, Garrick.”

“m’not tryin’ t’be, cap.”)

Three dots appear almost instantly. It takes a moment. Then: fuckin’ prick. Another message from Kyle pops up seconds after. told you, didn't i? i wasn't bein funny. congrats, cap ;) 

As if sensing the sudden whiplash of his mood—deep, proprietorial—you stir in his arms, mewling in confusion. John drops the phone, hiding it from view, and pulls you tighter in his arms. In his embrace. Mouth pressed tight to your hairline, he rumbles, “shush, shush. I got you.” 

His words make you quieten slightly. Quelled under the susurrus lull of his bellowing purr. But there's still a deep ravine between your brows. Unease lashes the air, acidic. Bubbling up from deep within you. 

None of this must make any sense to you. Mercurial boss to mate, but he knows you'll come around to the idea of him soon enough. After all,

he has you all to himself until winter. 

all to himself. 

His hand falls, cups your lower belly possessively. Covetous. You grimace in your sleep, shifting away from the heavy, oppressive brunt of his smell. Obsessive. Potent like a wildfire. Dangerous. 

But there's nowhere for you to run. Nowhere to go except deeper into his arms, his hold. Gyves around your throat; a bloody ring of his teeth. 

Price hums. “Best gift I've ever gotten.” 

ミmy daddy didn't love me so i guess i've moved onto you

🍓 pairing: captain john price x fem reader

🍓 tags: nsfw, daddy kink, undefined age gap, oral sex, unprotected vaginal sex, rough(?) sex, both reader and price have a daddy kink that they indulge in with very little discussion, allusions to reader having a bad relationship with her father (but nothing concrete), price uses a lot of pet names for reader and also calls himself daddy several times

title is inspired by the song peter bogdanovich by my queen CMAT

masterlist

reblogs are always enormously appreciated!

If there’s one thing you know, it’s that you’re damn good at your job.

You have to be in order to survive in this ridiculous goddamn base. There are protocols to be followed, risk assessments to carry out, weapons and equipment requisition requests to send off, and you have to handle almost all of it for Task Force 141. That’s one thing about working with the military – they’re all about action, and rarely have the patience to fill in their paperwork, and then when they do it’s never done properly.

You’re patient when you need to be, willing to push when you have to, and you make sure shit gets done. It’s not an easy job; you work your ass off, and it’s often thankless. Most of your job is done behind the scenes, whether that’s requisitioning on-the-fly tactical or strategic airlifts, liaising with other units, or trying desperately to smooth over any little problems that might crop up with the higher-ups. 

It’s challenging and exhausting, and you love it, but damn, it can be fucking infuriating. Working in a male-dominated environment is a little bit soul-destroying, with every condescending comment and lascivious gaze that lingers over your body. But none of that matters, because you don’t need male approval to excel at your job. You don’t need male approval for anything.

You repeat it to yourself on the daily, which is something that you’ve never had to do before. But before, you weren’t working with Captain John Price.

He’s not… rude, per se. If anything, he’s always coolly polite. But it’s obvious, so obvious, that he just barely tolerates you. He’s gruff, short, to-the-point, and never speaks to you outside of brusque orders. It takes weeks for him to start trusting you with even the most basic of files, and even then chunks of information are often redacted. And it shouldn’t matter; you’ve worked for men like him before, you know how it goes, and if anything he’s one of the better ones.

In the beginning, when you had first been assigned to the task force, Price had not been happy about it. It had been a tough transition; your assignment had been approved by Laswell in order to take some of the strain of liaising off both her and Price, but the Captain hadn’t been too pleased about it. He had seen you as a sort of interloper, a silly little pencil-pusher sent in by the brass to do the grunt work of administration that no one else wants to do.

But you work hard, you always have done. And maybe… maybe, part of the reason that you end up busting your balls so hard is because you want– no. Maybe you need his approval. You’d prefer not to think about it; it’s easier to throw yourself into your work, and pretend that you’re doing it for you.

You’re not even sure how it started, but at some point, Price starts looking at you differently. Maybe he realises that you’re competent at your job, or maybe he just needs to get used to you. Maybe, you hope, he’s finally starting to realise that you’re good at what you do; that you can be an asset to the team, so long as they actually work with you. 

Whatever it is, he eases off. Stops being such a hard-ass, starts giving you space to do your thing. Eventually, he starts delegating too — stops hoarding the work like a miser, and finally starts treating you like you’re capable of something more than just photocopying.

He’s not a bad boss, not by a long shot. He’s kind, determined, patient when it matters, with a wry sense of humour. He’s also fiercely protective over his team, and that includes you now. 

But he’s also older, by at least fifteen years, and he’s not always the most diligent with paperwork. Typical man of action, you’ve seen it a hundred times before. There’s always something more important to do, and while he’s always so cognisant of your workload and careful not to add to it, he is also all too happy to let you take the reins when it comes to bureaucracy. You like to think that you’ve proved yourself to him, but maybe he just respects competency.

That should be it.

But you’re so ashamed to admit that even when Price stops treating you like you’re a hostile target, you can’t stop hoping for his attention. Your mental chants of I don’t need male approval for anything, I don’t need male approval for anything become a daily thing, and sometimes a several-times-a-day thing.

Because the thing is, Price can be a difficult man to please. He’s always so busy that he doesn’t have time to give you the approval that you’re straining for, but when he does it gives you the most shameful warm glow in your belly. 

A brief nod or a low grunted ‘Thanks, sweetheart’ is enough to fuel you for days now. Even better is when you’re walking along beside him, briefing him on the latest update from the higher-ups, and he leans his head in towards you as he listens intensely, sometimes even laying his large palm against the small of your back. Ostensibly, it’s to lead the way and guide you out of the path of the running cadets, but it just toes the line of professionalism and you flounder under the touch.

It’s stupid. You’re stupid. He’s just a coworker, and you need to keep your issues to yourself.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ

You’re perfectly self-aware enough to admit when you’re in a bad mood.

You start the day tired, and when you check your reflection in the mirror first thing that morning you’re greeted with the sight of a big, fuck-off pimple on your chin. It’s big, it’s throbbing, it practically has its own fucking heartbeat. You barely restrain the urge to pick at it, though you can feel it even when you’re not looking at it.

Your mood doesn’t improve when you get to the small kitchenette by your office and find that someone has used the last of the fancy French Vanilla flavoured coffee that you’ve stocked for yourself. As if that’s not bad enough, your little stash of chocolate digestives you keep for yourself for emergency bad days have disappeared too.

You clench your jaw and continue about your business. Whatever. You can survive without your coffee and chocolate.

Your resolve falters when you see the pile of paperwork on your desk, but whatever. It’s all part of the job. A little chocolate biscuit to nibble on would definitely make your job easier, but you’re a big girl and you’re just going to have to go without.

Then you get the phone call. One that makes you want to bang your head against your desk hard enough to knock yourself unconscious so that you don’t have to deal with this.

It’s time to update the TF141 personnel files. Orders from above, since there’s been significant changes to medical and surgical history in the last couple of months from injuries on missions.

 Normally, that’s not such a big deal. It just involves updating their medical and technical files, making sure that nothing major has changed with regards their addresses or other personal information, even though a big portion of it ends up redacted anyway. 

And, naturally, updating their photographs for their files.

You start easy. 

Gaz is happy to come to your office when you text him, and he stands obediently for you as you take his picture. He’s gotten a metal plate fitted in his kneecap from the last time his file has been updated, and he sits and chats easily with you as you go through his information. He’s a sweet guy, and so easy to talk to, and you sigh with the knowledge that no one is going to make your job as simple and leisurely as Gaz just has.

After he leaves, you target Soap. He comes to your office as easily as Gaz, but he’s significantly more difficult to photograph.

He just keeps smiling, no matter how many times you tell him to quit it. 

“It’s a personnel file photograph, not a photo for your Instagram.” You sigh, irritated. “I need you to have a blank, neutral expression. It’s like a passport photo, Sergeant. It’s for a government document.”

“Can’t help it, lass.” Soap says easily, that stupid grin not even dimming. “I see a camera, I smile. It’s muscle memory.”

You think that your irritation is only encouraging him, which only worsens your mood. In the end, you don’t get a single usable photograph of him for his file. You have to give up on him, swearing that you’ll come get him to try again later. He leaves your office still chuckling, like he thinks your frustration is cute.

You have tougher targets to tackle.

The difficult part isn’t even taking Ghost’s photo — the difficult part is catching him in the first place.

You spend almost three hours trying to track him down (because he won’t read your texts and your phone calls go unanswered), wobbling all over base in your stupid high heels and somehow missing him by mere moments every time. You arrive in the gym, the mess, the firing range, even the barracks, only to see the man’s enormous broad back disappearing out of the other door as soon as you get there.

You can only assume that Soap had given Ghost the heads up that you were on the prowl with a mission and a camera, because the lieutenant is avoiding you like the goddamn plague.

So yeah. You’re in a real bad fucking mood. But you can’t help it — some days your job is entirely thankless, and your mood drops so low that you feel like going home and crying. But you can’t, and you don’t want to show weakness in front of these military idiots, so all you can do is lock your jaw and go about your business the best you can.

You go back to your office, jaw and fists clenched tight, and collapse at your desk with your head in your hands. You have to take a few deep, slow breaths to try and calm yourself, but then you make the mistake of checking your reflection and your mood sinks lower again when you see that the stupid pimple on your chin has worsened.

God, this is just not your day. You have to get these stupid files updated, or it’ll fall on your head. 

Eventually, you reluctantly stand up. There’s no point moping; you have a job to do, whether you like it or not, and your next victim is Captain Price.

You walk to Price’s office swiftly, your feet aching in your stupid heels. You wish you had worn something more sensible, but… well. Even subconsciously, you want to impress.

When you reach his office, you throw the door open and march inside without even bothering to knock. 

Price is sitting behind his desk, and his head snaps up as soon as you walk in. His expression is set in a hard scowl, though it softens when he sees who it is. You guess you don’t exactly pose much of a threat, so he sees no use in posturing.

“I need you for a moment.” You bite out, allowing the door to slam shut behind you.

You hear Price sigh, before he leans back and settles into his chair, making himself comfortable. He’s wearing the same dark compression shirt that he usually wears for training exercises or to the gym, and he’s recently groomed his beard down too. He looks good, though it takes a colossal amount of effort for you to not notice, because you have other things you need to focus on right now.

“Hello to you too, love.” He grunts, wiping a hand over his eyes. “What’s the problem?”

You struggle not to react to that, his low voice both soothing and igniting something in your blood. You take a breath, try to calm down. You’re a professional, and you’re not here to embarrass yourself in front of the captain.

“I’m updating personnel files,” You say, and this time it comes out calm and steady, “I need to take a picture of you.”

Price’s gaze lingers on you, his stern brow softening a little. For a moment, you think that maybe this is actually going to be easy. That he’ll just stand up and take the fucking picture, so that the two of you can go back to your jobs and relax for the rest of the day.

But then–

“Jesus, kid.” He sighs, already shaking his head. “I’m up to my eyes right now. Leave it ‘till tomorrow.”

For a moment, you don’t react at all. You just stare at him, letting those dismissive words settle over you. He’s already looking back at his paperwork, mission briefings and maps littering the desk, and you feel so effectively dismissed. You feel small, so silly and stupid standing in front of him in a way that you haven’t felt since you first started working with the task force. You had thought that you were past this, that you had earned some meagre sort of respect from him.

“I need it done today.” You say, and your voice comes out a little hollow to your own ears.

You don’t need male validation. You don’t. But damn, you’ve had a rough day and the fact that your captain isn’t even bothering to look at you makes you want to cry.

Price sighs, and rubs at the crease between his eyes. He looks just as tired as you feel.

“Yeah, well. I don’t have time. Tomorrow.”

You swallow, pursing your lips. He’s so effortlessly dominant, which means that his careless dismissal stings all the more.

“I have to get the whole team done,” You say, struggling to keep your voice firm. “Soap wouldn’t stop smiling for the camera, I couldn’t find Farah anywhere, and Ghost–”

Price gives a sharp, derisive snort. “Forget Ghost.”

You scowl. “I need to do the whole squad.”

“Not Ghost.” Price repeats, this time slower and with more emphasis. “Simon doesn’t do photos.”

You take a deep breath, trying to stay calm. You’ve been working alongside the task force for a while now, and you’re familiar with Lieutenant Riley’s penchant for covering his face. It’s not something you have a problem with – usually.

“There’s no reason for him to be the exception to personnel photos, Captain.” You say through gritted teeth. “Everyone else is being photographed. The task force might be covert, but Lieutenant Riley is no more–”

“Christ, enough.” Price snaps, his voice a deep boom that has your mouth closing with a click. “The One Four One is my squad, in case you’ve forgotten. I know these lads, and I’m telling you to leave it out.”

You stare, a little taken aback by the harshness in his voice. He hasn’t been this sharp with you in months, not since you had started to prove yourself competent, useful. Now, you can see the warning signs of his bad mood; the circles under his eyes are pronounced, his skin dull in the ugly fluorescent lights of his office. He looks exhausted, his skin lined and dry like he hasn’t been drinking enough water.

You realise, a little too late, that you might have been pushing your luck by insisting on something as silly as personnel file photos. TF 141 had only returned from deployment at the beginning of the week, and Price has no doubt been drowning in reports since.

“This is why I told Laswell you weren’t necessary,” His snarl is entirely unlike him, and he rubs his face furiously, his palms rasping through his beard. “I don’t need someone coming in here and making demands of my squad for– for fucking photographs.”

You inhale shakily through your nose; to your utter horror, you can feel your eyes burn with hot wet tears. It’s stupid – you’ve dealt with far crueller words from far harsher men. The nature of your job often puts you in the firing line for frustration, and when it bubbles over it’s frequently directed at you. 

But this… this feels different, for some reason. You’ve been working your ass off to try and earn some recognition from Price, to show him that you’re a valuable asset to the team, and so his sharp, frustrated dismissal of you cuts deeper than it should.

You hate that your eyes are burning like this. You don’t want Price to think of you as useless, or as the silly little girl who was put on the team by the brass who can’t even do her job right. He was just starting to think of you as competent, and it hurts your ego to have to go to him for help with something that you should be more than capable of handling yourself in the first place.

“Right,” You say, and even you’re startled by the sharpness in your tone. “Fine. Forget the file updates, then.”

You step forward, jaw clenched hard, and toss the files you’ve been carrying around all day onto his desk. They hit the surface with a smack that feels uncomfortably loud in the tense silence that’s fallen over the room.

“I’ll tell the higher-ups that you’re handling it.” You continue, your voice coming out brattier than you’d like. “Since obviously I have no idea what I’m doing–”

“Oh, don’t do that.” Price sighs, as though you’re the one being unreasonable. “What I’m saying is, if you’re going to work with the team, you have to understand the team–”

That, you think, might just push you over the edge.

“Do you think I’m stupid?” You snap out, and Price’s mouth closes. “D’you think I’m– that I’m some kind of idiot?”

Price blinks. It seems like you’ve managed to take him by surprise, as though your bad mood rivals his just enough to pull him out of his own grumpy form entirely. He opens his mouth again, but you’re not ready to hear him speak again just yet.

“I’m here because Laswell put in a request for me to work with you and your squad, Captain. I’m considered an asset to the teams that I work with,” You’re scowling thunderously, all the tension and frustration that’s been mounting all day spilling over. “And I don’t have to put up with being dismissed and unappreciated when I know that I would be respected in other squads for the work that I do.”

Price raises his hands, a frown creasing his brow. “Kid, that’s not–”

Usually, being called ‘kid’ by Price has a warm glow settling in your stomach that you’re absolutely not interested in examining, but this time it only lights an infuriated fire in your belly. 

“Don’t!” You snap, your breath juddering unsteadily. “God, you think I enjoy being treated like an idiot? You think I haven’t had to deal with this from men my whole career? My whole life? Even my father–”

To your abject horror, a lump forms in your throat and you can’t finish that sentence. Your eyes are hot with unshed tears, and you’re pretty sure your lip is trembling. 

Price stands, his stern expression slackening into something like uncomfortable surprise as he moves to step around the desk.

“Hey,” He soothes, lifting his hands. “I’m not your father.”

“I know that!” You snap, irate. You’re frustrated with yourself, embarrassed at what you’ve unintentionally given away. “I wouldn’t want you to be!”

Price’s expression flickers, as though he can’t decide quite how to react to you. You’re more than aware that you’re being childish, but you find yourself unable to temper your overreactions. In the face of your tears and your frustrated anger, Price looks like he’s at a loss.

“All I’ve done is work hard, and tried to take the burden off you to make your job a little easier.” You continue before he can interrupt again. “And all I get in return is stress, and my chocolate biscuits eaten, and breakouts, and– and–”

“Kid–”

“The only person who wasn’t an absolute dickhead to me today was Garrick,” You rage, on a roll now. “Everyone else has just been so– and look how bad my skin has gotten from the stress of having to deal with men who want to act like children–”

Price watches you with an expression that is plainly bewildered as you gesture at the stupid pimple that’s been throbbing on your chin all day. You don’t even think you’re making sense, too lost in your frustration and humiliation to be properly aware of what you’re saying. 

“Your… skin.” He repeats, a little disbelieving. 

You whirl away, agitated. You’re not getting your point across well, and Price must think you’re simply demented. 

“Hey,” He says slowly, approaching from around the side of his desk. “I didn’t mean to suggest that you weren’t doing a decent job–”

“Whatever.” You mutter, running your hands over your skirt in an attempt to straighten out the creases. “Whatever.”

It’s too little, too late. He’s always been a bit of a hardass, and you’ve always tried so hard to please him, to impress him. But you can’t bear to make a fool of yourself like this any longer.

“I’ll leave the paperwork to you. Update it, or don’t. It doesn’t matter.” You say shortly, turning on your heel and marching towards the door.

“Wait,” Price calls out. His voice is firm, echoing with the grim certainty of a man who is used to being obeyed.

But you’re not one of his soldiers, and his command falls on deaf ears. Your skin is still prickling with humiliation; you don’t think you’ve ever been so desperate to get away from the Captain before.

“Sweetheart, just wait a minute,” Price says, and this time you can hear the exasperation in his voice. “I understand that you’re stressed, that’s normal. Everyone gets stressed in this line of work. But you can’t just go and get your knickers in a twist because some of the lads are bein’ difficult–”

“My knickers are none of your business!” You yell. Truthfully, it’s more of a shriek, high-pitched and unsteady enough to have Price’s eyes widening and darting towards the door as though worried about someone overhearing from the corridor.

“Whoa, okay,” Price says with the air of trying to soothe a spooked horse. “You're right. Your... knickers... ain't my concern. But helping keep this squad running smoothly is, and that can't happen if my admin is on edge."

“Oh, give me a break!” You’re beyond on-edge now, sailing right into fury. “You ignore me most of the time when you're not on deployment, you dismiss me when I’m just trying to do my job, but now you’re telling me you need me to not be on edge?”

You’ve reached the door now, your hand clenched tight around the doorhandle as you take one last moment to turn and look at him. He’s stepping towards you, no doubt with the intent to stop you before you can leave, but you don’t plan on giving him the chance.

“Kid, just hang on a damn minute–”

“Sort the files yourself, or do whatever you want.” You bite out, yanking the door open but pausing in the doorway. “I don’t even care anymore. It’s your squad, you do it.”

Price takes a breath, visibly fighting for patience. Truthfully, you don’t know how he hasn’t lost his head with you already. He was already exhausted and in an obviously bad mood when you had stormed in here, and it couldn’t be more obvious that you’ve just made it worse with all of your frenzied anger and borderline hysteria. 

The fact that Price is staying calm and level even in the face of your stress-induced meltdown only makes you feel all the more ridiculous. You wish he would get angry, that he would snap at you like he had when you had first walked in – at least that way you could pretend that you don’t notice the way his stressed scowl had melted into a look of concern as soon as he had seen the tears welling up in your stinging eyes.

“And you don’t have to wear that stupid hat, we’re indoors!” You yell, your voice teetering on the edge of hysteria.

You just have enough time to see his hand reach up to touch the brim of his boonie hat before you hurriedly bolt out of the room, escaping into the corridor before he can stop you.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ

“— just thinking that maybe I’d be better suited with another team, that’s all. I heard Kortac’s liaison is approaching maternity leave—”

“That position is going to be filled internally,” Laswell’s voice is calm over the secure phoneline, a stark contrast to the shaky undertone of stress in your own. “Besides, organising a transfer like that is more trouble than it’s worth.” There’s a pause, then a sigh crackles over the phone. “You still haven’t explained what happened. As far as I can see, you were doing good work there.”

Yeah, you think sourly, because all you see is the paperwork end of it.

“... Internal conflict.” You mutter, playing with the fraying edge of your sweater sleeve. 

There’s a long pause, protracted enough that it makes you squirm. You know what she’s thinking – in your line of work, it’s impossible to avoid clashing with some of the big dominant personalities who are used to getting away with whatever they want. But you’ve always been able to handle it, well-versed enough in diplomacy to know when to stand your ground and when to bow out to avoid unnecessary strife. 

“Internal conflict.” Laswell repeats, her voice as bland as you’ve ever heard it. “Meaning?”

God, it feels like you’re disappointing your mom or something. You scrub a hand over your face, pacing in the living room of your small apartment.

“I know how it sounds,” You say, “But– they don’t want to work with me. There’s only so much I can do if I’m being met with resistance at every corner–”

“You’ve worked with resistant squads before,” Laswell interrupts. “It’s part of the job.”

“Yes, but…” You start, before trailing off. 

She has a point, of course. It is part of the job. There’s no way to professionally explain to your superior that the reason this assignment is so difficult is because you have a mortifying crush on the Captain of the Task Force. It’s making you stupid, making all the stupid bullshit that you’re usually able to look past feel so much worse, especially because all you’ve ever wanted was Price’s approval.

Another sigh. This one, at least, sounds a little more sympathetic.

“Look,” Laswell says, and this time her voice is a little gentler. “I’ve never given you an assignment that I didn’t think you could handle. Whatever is going on, you need to sort it. You’re a capable girl, and the One Four One is far from the most difficult team you’ve had to deal with. There might be some big personalities there, but nothing that you shouldn’t be able to tackle.”

“Mhm.” You grunt noncommittally.

“Sort out whatever’s going on with you.” Laswell’s tone leaves no room for argument, her suggestion falling just short of a command. “If whatever issues you’re experiencing continue, I’ll talk to John–”

“No!” You blurt.

God, you can’t think of anything worse. You’ve already made a show of yourself in front of him, the last thing you need is for him to learn that you’ve gone crying to Laswell about the whole thing. You don’t want him to think of you as any more of a useless little girl than he doubtlessly already does.

“No,” You repeat, calmer this time as you clear your throat. “I’ll… sort it. Sorry to bother you with this, ma’am.”

Laswell hums, and you can imagine her eyes narrowing. Judging by the wind whistling in the background of the call, she’s not anywhere near her cushy office. You’ve interrupted her on whatever assignment she’s on, and she’s been kind enough to listen to your silly little complaints for at least fifteen minutes of her valuable time. You feel more ridiculous than ever, and you pinch at the bridge of your nose.

“... Right.” She says. “Fine. Keep me updated on the situation. I want a sitrep by the end of the week, understood?”

“Yes, ma’am.” 

You understand what’s not being said. Laswell expects you to work your own shit out, but you can hear the concern in her voice when she demands an update. All you can do is agree. Laswell has been by your side throughout your whole career, always having a hand in your assignments and your progression, and she’s always been an advocate for you and what you’re capable of. Now, after this conversation, you feel silly for getting so overwhelmed in the face of what is a relatively minor obstacle.

“Good. I’ll speak to you then.”

You hum, wish her goodbye and good luck, and hang up the phone.

For a long moment afterwards, you sit in silence in your living room. God, how did all of this spiral into such a mess?

For the last few days, you’ve been avoiding the base entirely. You have a few PTO days built up, and you’ve taken the opportunity to just chill out. It’s the first chance you’ve had to relax properly in months, since you had started working with the task force. The space is good, and it’s needed.

You get out of the headspace of work, and reports, and files and requisitions and debriefs, and instead treat yourself with full body self-care. You exfoliate, you moisturise, you use a hair mask, you take bubble baths. You even catch up on the trashy Netflix romance series that you had put on hold for ages, just waiting for some free time to indulge.

And you almost, almost, forget about why you’re hiding away in your little flat in the first place.

But your third day off creeps around, and you can’t help but feel as though your little bubble of isolation is about to pop. There’s only so much time away from the office that you’re able to swing, and the longer away the more you feel that your position on the team is untenable. No matter how you currently feel about the task force and your place with them, you’re not willing to let your hard work go down the drain just because you’re too cowardly to face them again after your little meltdown.

So, you go back to work after your little break away.

You manage to slink into your office mostly unseen, other than polite hello’s from other admin staff as you slip through the halls. Your office is far from prime real estate when it comes to office space on base – it’s well out of the way, down several corridors that no one ever goes down, and once you get past the main thoroughfares you don’t come across anyone. Even still, it feels a little like you’re doing a walk of shame, but you walk with your head held high before you finally get your office door closed behind you. 

To your surprise, your desk is clear. Typically, any slight break away from your desk results in work piling up on it, just waiting for your attention once you get back. You don’t know what to make of the absence of work; you can’t help but wonder, somewhat uncomfortably, if Price had taken your words to heart and dealt with all of the paperwork himself.

You check the drawers of your desk too, just in case, and come up empty yet again. 

Well. Okay, then. 

You sign into your desktop, waiting for the encryption program to load before accessing your emails. There’s a lot to catch up on, so you spend the next hour or so organising your to-do list in order of urgency.

You get lost in making your little lists, allowing yourself to relax into finding order in your schedule. You barely even look up until there’s a soft knock on your office door, and by the time you’ve raised your head the door has opened and Farah has slipped inside.

“Oh,” You straighten up in surprise. “Commander. What can I do for you?”

It’s a surprise to see her, especially since you hadn’t received any email correspondence. Your office is tucked away down a remote corridor, and soldier’s usually prefer to just email you their requests rather than make the trek down.

Farah offers a polite smile, approaching your desk. “I hear you are taking photographs.”

Your smile slips a little. “Oh. No, actually, I wasn’t–”

“Captain Price said I was to be photographed,” She says, pulling the chair out opposite you and watching you expectantly. “I tried to find you yesterday, and the day before, but I believe you weren't on base.”

You shift, feeling abruptly rather awkward. “Right. I was– Price said that to you?”

“Mhm.” Farah leans back in the chair, her dark eyes alert as they track over your face. “He said that you have been stressed.”

You feel your face heat, mortified. Oh, god. How embarrassing. Has Price given the team a goddamn debrief on your little meltdown? Farah tilts her head as though she knows what you’re thinking, and a tiny smile quirks at the corner of her lips.

“That’s all he said,” She says. “That, and that we should try to make your job a little easier.”

“Oh.” You shift, embarrassed and awkward. “I– Listen, I had a… rough day at work a few days ago, that’s all. I’m not– things are fine.”

Farah just nods as though that’s perfectly convincing, and you find yourself wildly appreciative of her for a moment.

“So, then,” She says, and raises her eyebrows. “The picture?”

You can’t find a way to explain that you had thrown that particular responsibility right back at Price in a fit of pique, but it turns out you don’t have to. Farah produces a slim folder that you hadn’t noticed her holding, and you realise with another flush of embarrassment that it’s her personnel file.

“There wasn’t much to update, just a recent blood work test.” She says as she lays it on your desk. 

“That’s… thanks.” You say weakly, taking the file in hand. You flick through it briefly, feeling something in your stomach squirm at the sight of Farah’s details all filled in – Price’s handwriting is unmistakable, the small neat blocky letters standing out amongst the messy scrawl of Farah’s medical report.

You dig out your camera, still a little flustered, and direct Farah to stand against your plain white-painted wall. She’s an easy subject to photograph; she stands perfectly still, unsmiling, and you get the perfect picture after only a couple of attempts.

“Lovely,” You murmur, flicking through the pictures. “Thank you.”

Farah hums. You’re expecting her to dismiss herself, and it takes a moment for you to realise that she’s still lingering. You glance up, blinking, only to find that she’s standing with her lips pursed, obviously considering something.

“The Captain is worried about you.” She says, as though it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Is everything alright?”

You gape at her like a moron, camera still hanging loosely from your hands. You feel uncomfortably seen; there’s no way that Farah could know what happened, but she’s looking at you with an awful lot of sympathy right now.

“What?” You squeak.

“You fought?” Farah speaks slowly, obviously conscious of overstepping her boundaries. “I don’t mean to pry, it’s just…”

“No, that’s okay.” You say hastily. “We didn’t– there was no fighting, exactly.”

She just nods, as if you’re making perfect sense, then smiles politely. She gathers herself up and steps towards the door, and you feel your head spinning as she turns to go. 

“You look tired,” Farah murmurs, low enough that you almost miss it. “When Price wants to fix things, let him.”

“Mhm.” You nod quickly without really hearing her. You’re pretty sure you’d agree to anything right now just to escape the knowing intensity of Farah’s gaze. “Yeah, of course.”

After Farah leaves, you feel like you need another day off. It’s all you can do to just sit in your comfortably padded office chair and groan like a moron, because Jesus Christ you’ve made such a mess of things. 

It was bad enough when you were pining like an idiot from afar; you’ve had crushes before, and you know that you would have outgrown it eventually. But then you had your stupid little meltdown in front of Price, and revealed more than you intended, and all of a sudden you’ve made yourself into a fool in front of the squad you’ve tried so hard to impress these last few months.

You have to try hard not to spiral. In fact, it’s a challenge not to cave and grab your phone to call Laswell all over again to demand a reassignment right this second. You have a pretty good idea of what she’d say to you in response, but still, the impulse remains.

All you can do is put it from your mind. You potter about, printing Farah’s photograph so you can tuck it neatly into her file with a paperclip, and then decide to start replying to the many emails that have built up in your absence.

The emails vary in tone, from polite enquiries to not-so-polite demands for you to solve some administrative issues, and you sigh quietly as you respond to some of the more snotty messages from upper management. And if you’re a little bit passive aggressive, then you don’t think anyone can blame you.

Your mind has finally quietened, focusing on your work as the buzz of your thoughts settle down, when another knock sounds out from your door. This one is firmer than Farah’s soft knock from earlier, and a little louder, though this time you don’t look up from your screen.

“Come in.” You call, chewing at your lip as you struggle to keep the wording of your email civil.

You’re half-expecting it to be Soap this time around, or maybe one of the recruits hoping to get you to sign off on their leave. So when you finally glance up only to catch sight of the broad, thick-shouldered figure of Captain Price stepping into your office, you think you might go into cardiac arrest.

Email abandoned, you half jolt to your feet before changing your mind mid-movement and attempting to sit back down. It ends up being a humiliating sort of jerky motion, and you pray that he somehow missed it entirely.

“Captain.” You wheeze, your voice coming out a little weak.

Price’s cool blue eyes dart over your face and then down the length of your body, and you become suddenly, mortifyingly aware of the state you’re in. You might not want to admit it, but your wardrobe definitely changes when the Captain isn’t on deployment. Instead of professional trousers, you wear your tight knee-length pencil skirts and fitted shirts, and totter around in your heels. And it’s silly, but… well, you can’t help but notice the way Price’s eyes follow you when you dress like that, and you like his attention on you.

Except today, you hadn’t been planning on running into Price. You hadn’t planned on seeing anyone, so you had dressed for comfort — you’re wearing a pair of frumpy grey wool trousers and a super over-sized soft purple sweater that practically swallows you whole. You haven’t even done your hair nicely, and you curse yourself. This has to be the least sexy you’ve looked in months.

“D’you’ve a moment, love?” 

His voice seems loud in the quiet of your office, even though realistically you know he’s only speaking in a murmur. In the quiet days you’ve spent alone in your apartment, you’d almost forgotten how lovely and low and gruff his voice is, and you feel your toes curl in your shoes at the sound of it.

It’s not as though you can refuse him, though you’re already embarrassingly aware of the way in which you had stormed off the last time you had seen him.

“Yeah.” You swallow thickly in an attempt to strengthen your voice, but it still comes out high and thready. “Sure.”

As if he had just been waiting for permission, Price steps into the room properly and closes the door behind him. All of a sudden, the room feels a little claustrophobic. Price is a big man, broad-shouldered and thickly built with a soft layer of fat cushioning those hard muscles, and you can’t help but feel as though his presence is sucking all of the air out of the room.

But still, he approaches slowly, like you’re some kind of feral cat. Those sharp eyes of his are still tracking over you; he never misses a beat, and you know that he’s taking stock of you in the same way he would for an enemy out on the field. You feel raw, uncomfortably vulnerable. You find yourself wishing wildly and ridiculously that you had worn your usual fitted shirt and pencil skirt, or at least put on a bit of makeup.

“You look rested.” He notes, coming to a slow stop just in front of your desk.

You suddenly curse your last minute choice to stay seated, because now Price’s big body is towering over you in a way that’s honestly making your head swim a little.

“Yeah.” Your voice is a little hoarse. “I guess.”

Price nods, inhales through his nose. A moment passes before he clears his throat and reaches out to place a handful of files on your desk. Despite the plain manila envelopes, you recognise them for what they are almost immediately; the personnel files for 141.

“Finished ‘em off for you while you were gone.” He says gruffly, as though it were no big deal. “Nearly had to nail Soap down to a chair for that damn photo.”

You stare at the files for a long moment, making no move to open them. You find yourself totally, utterly lost for words. 

“This is–” You start to say, and truthfully you’re not sure where you’re going with that. You think you’re about to thank him, but he doesn’t really give you the chance to.

“Why don’t we talk?” He says, and motions to the dinky little couch in the corner of the room as if he owns it.

You hesitate a moment, a little peeved about the effortless way he takes command in your own office, but relent and push yourself up from the desk. You don’t make eye contact with Price as you step around him, walking to the corner, but you can feel his eyes on you all the same.

 The couch had come with the office, and you don’t even really want to think about how old it is, but you sink down awkwardly onto it anyway. The cushions are worn and threadbare and the springs creak gratingly when you settle your weight onto it, but it’s fine. It does the job.

You’re half-expecting Price to drag the spare chair at your desk over so he can sit opposite you – you’re not expecting him to step right up next to you before he drops down next to you, sighing as his thick thighs spread wide.

You barely bite back a squeak, a little bewildered. You’re not surprised that he’s asked to talk to you. Your behaviour had been wildly inappropriate, and you couldn’t exactly protest if he’s decided to caution you or something.

But you had expected it to be a more formal affair; sitting together on the pathetic, dingy little couch in your office feels entirely too casual for the dressing down you’re sure you’re about to receive.

“Think we’re due a discussion about the other day.” He says, gentler than you had been expecting.

You avoid his eyes, though you can feel his stare boring into the side of your face. Ugh. Time to eat humble pie, you think miserably. 

“I’m sorry, sir.” You keep your voice as dispassionate and prim as possible. “My behaviour was unprofessional and entirely unacceptable, and I have no excuse. It won’t happen again, I assure you.”

It’s as professional an apology as you can manage, and you chance a quick side glance at him to see his reaction. Your stomach sinks when you see that his brow is creased in a frown, and you panic a little at the realisation that your apology hasn’t helped matters at all.

“Well,” His voice is gruff enough to elicit a little shiver from you. “I wasn’t–” He clears his throat. “I wasn’t looking for an apology.”

That finally makes you turn properly, your eyes darting nervously over his face. He’s already watching you, his blue eyes searing under the brim of his stupid hat. He’s trimmed his beard since the last time you saw him; the salt and pepper bristles of his moustache and chops are neat and shortened. He looks good, though you try not to notice. He doesn’t look as dehydrated or drained as he did a few days ago either, though he still leans into the couch with an air of quiet exhaustion.

“Paperwork has never been my favourite thing in the world,” He confesses with an air of chagrin that’s painfully endearing to you. “Always found it a pain, to be honest. Puts me right out of sorts. I was… short with you, the other day.”

You frown, making yourself small on the couch. “You said I wasn’t necessary.”

Price winces, then reaches up and pulls his boonie hat off his head so that he can drag a hand over his short-cropped hair. Though you had insulted it only the other day, it strikes you as odd to see him with a bare head.

“Shouldn’t have said that.” He mumbles, resting his elbows on his knees and letting his hat hang from his hands. “You’ve been great these last few months. Don’t know what I’d have done without you, sometimes.”

You’re stupid. It’s the only reason you can think of to explain the way blood rushes to your head and turns your face hot, your whole body going hot and prickly in response to his low praise. You fidget, glance away, and pray he doesn’t notice. 

“You know I’m no good at deskwork,” He says, and leans in a little closer like he thinks you’re not listening properly. “Don’t have the head for it. I think you’re the reason the team runs so smoothly in the first place, love.”

The flattery is being laid on a little too thick, but it works. You fall for it entirely, a warm glow settling over you like a blanket, wrapping around you tight and soothing the jagged edges of your anger and anxiety. You hate that you’re so easy to appease, a couple of sweet compliments and assurances falling from your Captain’s lips assuaging all that upset that you’ve been carrying around with you for days now.

But still, part of you isn’t quite willing to let go of the sting, the hurt that his words and his harsh tone had caused. 

“Is this you apologising, then?” You ask, watching him from the corner of your eye.

He smiles, close-mouthed. “Yeah. It is. Not doin’ too good, am I?”

“You’re doing okay.” You murmur, before deciding to try to be a bit cheeky. “But you can keep going, if you’d like.”

Price laughs, rich and warm and low. You don’t think you’ve ever actually heard him laugh in all the months you’ve been working with the task force, and the sound of it rumbles right into your bones, settling something inside of you and finally allowing you to relax. No longer tense with stress, you melt a little into the corner of the couch.

“Shouldn’t have snapped at you,” He says slowly. “You do good work. Great work. You shouldn’t feel like you’re not a valued member of the team.”

You swallow thickly. You feel too warm, your head swimming a little. His attention feels too heavy, heating your blood and going straight to your head.

“I overreacted,” You mumble reluctantly. “I shouldn’t… your hat isn’t stupid.”

That gets another bark of laughter out of Price, and he slaps a hand down onto your knee. The contact makes you jolt, eyes widening, but Price’s hand doesn’t shift. His palm is so large, spread across your thigh as his fingers curl over your knee. The touch feels almost scorching even through the thick fabric of your trousers.

All of a sudden, your tongue feels very thick in your mouth. The hand on your knee is not in any way suggestive; it’s chaste, innocent, just resting there like a reminder that he wants your attention on him (as if it could be anywhere else). But your nerves are jangling all of a sudden, every one of your senses straining towards him as you hold your breath.

“The hat isn’t the problem,” Price mutters, though you barely hear him. “I wanted to ask you about something else you said, love. Something you said about your father.”

That has some of the heat in your veins cooling, your eyes blowing wide. “I– what?”

To your bewilderment, Price’s cheeks have reddened beneath the whiskers of his beard and moustache. Despite his clear chagrin, he doesn’t break eye contact with you, his thick fingers squeezing cautiously around your knee. 

“Don’t mean to overstep,” He assures you quietly. “And– and don’t mind me if I’m talkin’ nonsense. But I know that you’ve been working so hard, and you’ve got a tough job. Can’t be easy. And I just wanted to say that if you'd like some… guidance – someone to steer you on the right path, that is– well, that I’m here if you ever want to talk."

Oh god. You feel your mouth go dry. 

It’s funny, because even though Price isn’t even yet forty, he’s always seemed so much older. Maybe it’s the weight of the responsibility that he carries on his shoulders, or the battle-hardened icy blue eyes, or the paternal sense of protectiveness that he shows over his team. He’s always been like an almost father figure for the squad, regardless of age; you’ve seen the way he’s so protective over Ghost, the way he claps Soap on the back or shoulders in praise to boost him up, the way he beams with pride when Farah excels, the way he always makes time to guide or give advice to Gaz.

It’s sweet. He’s always been sweet, so aware of the personalities on his team, even when he’s acting like that typical military authority figure. 

"Sounds like you want to be my daddy." You mean to say it in a derogatory fashion, laughing as though it's ridiculous, though when it comes out you can hear that it’s missing some of the sarcasm you had intended.

Price reacts instantly. He reels back, eyes widening, the pink in his cheeks flares into a deep red flush, and you see his chest heave as his breath catches. You hadn’t been expecting a reaction like this; Price looks as though the words have hit him like a physical slap.

“Jesus. That’s not–” He says, and the gravelly hoarseness in his voice is a shock. “That’s not what I meant.”

There’s a moment of charged silence. Fuck, what have you done? Why would you say that? Why would you say that, to the captain of your task force? Hadn’t you embarrassed yourself enough in front of him the day you had had your silly little meltdown? It’s like you just can’t keep your damn mouth shut around him, like your brain turns to mush the second he looks at you and you just lose the run of yourself.

“I’m sorry.” You blurt. “I shouldn’t have said that. I don’t know what– I didn’t mean it.”

The next silence is even worse than the last, tension humming between you like a live wire. He’s so close to you that his scent fills your nose – a blend of sweet cigar smoke, sharp gunpowder, and a heady masculine musk. You feel so fucking stupid, and more than a little panicked. You don’t think you could survive the humiliation of having to call Laswell and beg for a reassignment twice in one day just because you’ve completely humiliated yourself in front of the Captain again.

Price swallows, the sound painfully loud in the silence.

“Right.” He says slowly, before coughing roughly to clear his throat. “Mm. ‘Course. I didn’t mean to– perhaps I overstepped. Since you mentioned your father–”

“I don’t want to talk about my father.” You say swiftly.

God, you feel like your issues are out on display with a big damn spotlight. You feel so pathetic, so damn pitiful, as though your desperate need for approval and affection from an older male authority figure is written across your forehead.

But if your issues are on display, then so are Price’s, because you can’t help but notice that the vibrant red flush on his cheeks hasn’t faded. If anything, that deep flush has spread down his throat and over his chest; you can see how the skin that’s stretched over his pectoral muscles is glowing crimson beneath his shirt.

A niggling boldness begins to creep in, and you find yourself straightening on the couch. You turn, bring one of your legs up on the couch so that you can turn your whole body towards him, one of your elbows resting on the back cushion of the couch. 

Price’s eyes sharpen when your body turns towards him, and his body draws tense. Those cool blue eyes dart over you, and you’re surprised to see heat in them despite your oversized purple jumper and unflattering wool trousers. The whisper of his fatigues brushing against the fabric of your own trousers is both a distraction and an invitation, your thighs sliding surreptitiously against each other.

“What if I did mean it?” You blurt out before your courage can flee you.

Price goes so still it looks preternatural, even the breaths in his chest slowing. 

“Kid.” He says, and it sounds like a warning.

You don’t heed it, adjusting yourself so that you’re shuffling closer yet again. You don’t think you’ve ever been so close to him, his scent and his body and his heated gaze filling up your consciousness until he’s all that you’re aware of.

“What if I meant it?” You ask again, the whisper coming out low but charged. 

Price takes a breath that sounds like a groan, and it surprises you. You hadn’t expected that reaction; it sends a trickle of heated desire running down your spine, and you’re startled by how much you want him in this moment.

“D’you know what you’re asking for?” He asks, the gravel in his voice flooding wet heat between your legs. 

His carefully laced words linger in the space between you, daring you to accept, to shred the formal boundary that looms between the two of you. You get the sense that you’re walking a fine line here, that you’re getting close to the point of no return. 

“Yes.” You breathe, although you’re not entirely sure that you do know what you’re asking for. All you know is that he’s so close, and he’s staring at you with an expression of such hunger that it’s making you feel weak.

Price moves fast for such a big man, and all you can do is let out a soft sound of surprise when one of his big hands wraps around the back of your neck to pull you in. A deep, guttural sound escapes him when his lips crash into yours, his mouth demanding and greedy.

It feels like you go both lax and rigid simultaneously, before you positively light up. The hand that Price has wrapped around the back of your neck keeps you grounded, and before you can stop yourself you’re burrowing closer. It feels like the tension, your childish argument, the sexual friction – everything has culminated to this electrifying moment, where Price’s full lips are consuming yours, the hair of his beard rubbing over your cheeks and chin and keeping your nerves straining towards him.

The kiss doesn’t start out slow; it skips straight to hungry, fast and dirty, with Price’s big hands on your hip and the back of your neck, holding and guiding you. Overwhelming. 

Price’s big fucking body is leaning in, caging you against the couch. The wide shoulders and barrel-chested mass of him pressing you into the cushions is just short of breath-taking, but it’s not enough. You want to be right up against him, under his skin.

You swing your leg over Price’s, and climb up into his lap. His thighs are thick beneath you, wide and muscled, but you’re still hesitant to fully settle your weight against him. You just want to be closer, to feel the heat of him pressed against you, but the second you start moving Price grabs at your hips and pulls you down properly, uncaring of your weight.

“I’ve been–” You manage to say in between kisses, your words muffled and a little wet. “I’ve been working my ass off, for the squad, for you, and you never say or do anything–”

Price grunts, grappling with his sudden lapful of you. His eyes meet yours, and in them, you think you might see the spark of admiration, for your brave stupidity if nothing else. 

“Sh, I know,” He says as he grips at your hips under your oversized jumper, encouraging you to settle down your full weight on his thighs. “I know, love, you’ve been working so hard. What would I do without you, huh?”

And the thing is, you’re a very capable woman. You’ve had to be, in order to survive in your line of work. You know that you’re capable, you know that you do good work, you know that you help keep the wheels greased and everything moving behind the scenes for the 141, but even still, Price’s praise sinks into you like warm honey.

“Watching you walk around in those tight little skirts, Christ.” He hums, and his big palms land on your ass and squeeze there suggestively. “And those heels– completely impractical for a military base like this.”

You wheeze a laugh, clutching at his shoulders. It feels completely surreal that you’re currently perched in your Captain’s lap, with his big shovel-like hands groping your bum as he nips at your lips and confesses that he’s been watching you. It goes straight to your head, makes you dizzy, makes you wish wildly that you had worn one of those skirts for him today.

Oh, you could get used to this. Realistically you know the size difference between you two isn’t that immense, but Price is built like a man whose reality is all war, and when he shifts beneath you his muscles roll, unwittingly showing off his physique. You think you could stay here forever, feeling safe in a big man’s lap, cushioned by his body as he tells you that you’re valuable, and important.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Price groans, nipping at your lower lip before capturing your mouth wholly again. “You’re a handful.”

You’d love to argue that – you like to think that you’re perfectly measured and sensible, after all – but you’re already squirming in his lap, your legs spread wide over his thighs. Arousal pools in your stomach, makes you slick your knickers, and you can’t stop the slow grind your hips trace against his thigh.

Price’s breath shudders out of his chest, and his hands clench tight around your hips. “Hang on a sec,” He breathes, “Hold on. I’m still– I’m still your Captain–”

You think that it’s meant to be a warning, or at least a word of caution about the precarious situation you’re in regarding professionalism and inappropriate workplace relationships. What you’re doing right now is ridiculous, after all. You’re still on base, you’re in your office, and if the two of you get caught you don’t even want to think about the consequences. The fraternisation rule shouldn’t apply here, since you’re only considered part of the team by a mere technicality, but even in your lust-hazed mind you can still recognise that sitting on his lap and kissing like this at your workplace is wildly inappropriate.

But if it is a warning, it doesn’t work. The reminder of his authority only inflames you further, and a quiet whimper is torn from your throat when you rock against his lap.

He swears, and beneath you his cock stirs in his fatigues. You can feel the way it fills out where it’s pressed against the seam of your trousers, right between your legs. You reflexively squish your thighs together, tightening them around his hips.

“Christ,” He grits out like a curse. “Alright, then.”

He moves quickly, his hands secure on your back as he lunges forward, flipping you over so that you’re laying on your back on the shoddy, worn-down couch. You go so easily – 

you’re soft now, pliable and eager to please, and he could direct you anywhere he wanted.

He’s too large to be climbing on top of you on a couch like this, but somehow it doesn’t even matter. Now that he’s above you, holding himself up with those strong arms on either side of your head, he looks down on you with an expression that you don’t know what to make of. His eyes are still intense, but the lines around them are softened as he stares down, his gaze tracing your face. 

“You think I haven’t been looking?” He asks, and his voice isn’t as harsh or gritty as you’d been expecting. It’s softer now, fond, almost. “How could I fuckin’ miss you? Always so pretty, always workin’ so hard. ‘Course I noticed.”

When his fingers creep beneath your big purple jumper, you launch into helping him remove it, eagerly stripping it off so you’re laying in your bra. It’s one of your simple utilitarian ones, and you curse yourself for not wearing a sexier one.

But Price groans at the sight of your simple white cotton as though it’s premium lace. His palms are rough as they trace up your sides, the callouses on his fingers coarse against the soft squishy flesh of your belly. He leans forward and nuzzles at your ear, kissing behind your lobe before scraping his teeth along your jaw until he’s kissing messily at your mouth all over again.

“So gorgeous.” He says, his voice a low rumble that has your nerves buzzing. “I was too mean to you before, wasn’t I? Too harsh, when all you were trying to do was help.”

“Yes.” You whisper, though you feel a little bit petulant for it.

“Let me make up for it, darling,” He whispers back, and it sounds like a plea. “Hm? I’ll show you how good you’ve been.”

You’re nodding before he even finishes, desperate. God, yes. You’re not even sure what it is that he’s offering, but you know that you’ll take anything that he has to give you.

He’s looming over you, so large, as his hands fall to the closure on your work trousers. His fingers are so thick that he fumbles with the delicate button and little zip, and it takes him a couple of tries to pull it open and down. When he’s got it, he shucks your trousers off easily and tosses them aside, then stares down at you in your ugly shapeless underwear as though you’re wearing something else entirely.

Even though you’re laying unclothed and vulnerable, squirming and wanting, Price is so slow to get moving. He doesn’t grab at you, or grope greedily, or take impatiently. He acts as though he’s got all the time in the world, leisurely looking you over as though he’s committing you to memory.

“Need you to say it,” He says, strained like he’s trying to hold himself back. “Need you to say it out loud.”

“Want you to show me how good I’ve been.” You say immediately, your desire leaving no room for shame. “Want you to look after me.”

The request comes out a little bit plaintive, and Price sighs out before ducking his head and kissing you again. He’s so much more affectionate than you had ever imagined, and you feel as though you’re drowning in it. His attention is like a warm blanket, settling every craving you’ve ever had.

“I will,” He breathes like it’s a promise. “Oh, I will.”

His palms are rough and hot as they drag over your skin, deceptively gentle as he reaches your tits and pushes your bra up so that he can knead at the soft flesh there. He doesn’t even bother to unclasp it, impatient enough that shoving the cups up so to free your breasts is enough for him. 

He bends his head down, and licks a stripe over your nipple. His tongue feels scorching against you, like you’re hypersensitive to his touch, and he groans against your skin as though he’s tasting something incredible.

You writhe, hips arching up in search of some kind of friction, but Price doesn’t give it to you. He’s too distracted, peppering dozens of kisses over your tits as though they’re something precious even as his hands coast down your back to grope at your ass again where your plain cotton underwear is riding up.

“So pretty, ain’tcha?” He groans against your chest. “Fuck, even when you were walkin’ around with a face on you like a slapped arse, I thought you were the sweetest fuckin’ thing I’d ever seen.”

“Charming.” You snap, but there’s no anger in your tone anymore. In fact, you don’t think there’s a lick of anger anywhere in your whole body anymore, like Price’s hands and mouth on you have washed it all away.

All the brattiness, and the prickliness of your bad mood, is entirely forgotten now that you’re laid out and squirming beneath him. You can hardly even remember what you had been so stressed and angry with him for.

He finally reaches around to unclasp your bra, then tosses it to the side to let it slump sadly to the floor. His next target is your underwear, pulled from you roughly enough that you think the fabric might tear even as his hands cradle the plush flesh of your ass like it’s a treasure.

“Mm, so gorgeous, princess,” It seems like the name just slips out of his mouth, and you feel your whole body draw tense and hot. “So lovely, and I bet you taste even better than you look… like sugar, my sweet girl.”

Jesus Christ. You think your whole fucking body throbs, blood pounding and nerves straining as you wish so desperately for him to touch you. You can’t handle him talking to you like that, so fondly, as if you haven’t just acted like the biggest brat in the world for several days straight.

You can hardly even reconcile this man with the usual stern, gruff man that acts as your Captain, and you let out a choked whine of bewilderment as he slides down your body.

Your thighs are clamped together, shy under his gaze despite how desperately eager you are. You want this, you want him, but you can’t help but feel so mortified by the vulnerability of being nude beneath him on the couch while his big formidable body is still entirely clothed.

Price’s fingers stroke against your hip, his tone low and rich as his lips find your throat again. You can feel his tongue darting out against your skin, his hunger so palpable now that it’s infectious.

“Let daddy see you,” He croaks against the hollow of your throat. “Spread your legs, sweetheart.”

It’s not like you could ever say no to that. The request sends liquid heat shooting straight to your cunt, making you hot and sticky. You spread your thighs, and feel embarrassment flare when there’s a squelch as your cunt unsticks. And– Jesus, Price’s eyes fucking light up, and you realise that he’s clocked your reaction to his honeyed words, the way he calls himself daddy.

The kiss he gives you is claiming and hungry, consuming your lips with a fervour that leaves no room for doubt about his intentions. It’s a taste of both command and reverence — in equal measure. When he pulls away from your mouth you’re breathless, still gasping softly even as he pushes himself down the length of your body.

In the blink of an eye, he’s there — between your welcoming thighs, his hands resting securely on your soft hips, as much a lifeline as a promise of what’s to come. Your pussy is already sloppy, slick and wet in anticipation of him. He shoves his head between your thighs, using his thumbs to spread apart your folds and just look at you.

Your back arches at even the suggestion of his touch, feeling his breath ghost over the heated slick flesh of your cunt. Despite your obvious willingness, and his apparent eagerness, he doesn’t immediately touch you.

You crane your neck to see that he’s staring at your pussy as though the sight of it is earth-shattering. His gaze drinks you in, heated blue eyes taking in the sight of your swollen sticky folds, no doubt throbbing invitingly under his attention. You’ve never seen a man look so hungry, like he’s about to risk anything for it. A dark, groaned "fuck" escapes him as he kneels between your spread legs, head bowed as if in reverence.

"Daddy needs a taste, sweet girl," His deep voice a heavy rumble, vibrating against your soft inner thighs. 

It takes a beat for you to realise that he’s holding himself back, that he’s essentially asking for permission to lay his mouth on you, but then you gasp, “Yes, fuck, yes, please–”

Price takes it as the enthusiastic invitation that it is and bursts into movement immediately, reaching out and guiding your legs wider so that he can muscle in between them properly, before leaning in and finally getting his mouth on you.

You choke, hips aching as you try to spread your legs even further. Price drags the flat of his tongue along the seam of your cunt, groaning as though he’s savouring the taste of you, before wrapping his arms around your thighs to keep you all spread open for him as his tongue rasps over your sensitive flesh.

You want to call out for him, but his name stalls on your tongue. What would you call him – Price? John? Captain? Daddy? You think you would die if you said it out loud.

Then his tongue finds your clit, and your thoughts scatter. He flicks the tip of his tongue over you, back and forth, then flattens it to grind eagerly. You had thought, given the way he had taken that moment just to look at you before he’d pressed his mouth to you, that he would start slow. But instead, he gives you everything he has.

You cry out as he devours your cunt, his bushy eyebrows pulling up in delight as you give him your first moan. While your legs had spread wide in the beginning, eager to let him in, you now close them tight around his head to keep him in place. You have a brief, hazy thought that maybe this is an asshole move of you, a little like if a man were to hold your head down while you were sucking cock, but Price doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, judging by the snarl he lets out when your thighs close around his ears, he likes it.

You toss your head back against the worn couch cushions as jolts of white-hot heat spread from where his mouth is working at you, playing with you, tongue painting long, broad strokes up and down your pussy. 

Your cunt is syrupy hot, throbbing as his tongue rubs relentlessly at your clit. You’re so fucking wet, and you can’t help yourself from rolling your hips more assertively into his mouth. You’re leaking on his mouth, his tongue, your slick drenching his cheeks and his beard.

Seized by a sudden urge to watch, you clumsily raise your head so you can look down. It feels entirely illicit, watching Price’s head between your legs as he buries his face so enthusiastically into your folds. His eyes flash as he glances up, the bottom half of his face hidden entirely in your pussy as his jaw works, the soft hair of his beard tickling your sensitive inner thighs.

With a jolt, you realise that one of his hands has fallen to his lap, his trousers hastily pushed open. He’s fisting at his dripping cock, red and angry and still begging for release against the thick dark hair of his stomach. Sticky pre-cum leaks from his flushed head, pooling into his skin and clothes as his cock bobs and twitches at the sounds of your moans.

The sudden realisation that Price is getting off on this, on the taste of you and the smell of you and the way you’re whining, sets you aflame. He grunts, one of his big hand’s wrapping around his throbbing skin to pump his length to the rhythm of his tongue inside of you.

“Oh, oh fuck,” You press your lips together, stomach pulling tight as his tongue thrusts up inside of you, “Fuck, fuck, fuck that’s so good, oh god, Captain–”

“Yeah,” Price grunts, his words all wetly muffled, his arms wrapped tight around your thighs to keep you in place as he feasts on you, sucking on your clit like it’s a sweet. “I know, baby, I know.”

He’s so accommodating, so nice to you. You tilt your hips up and grind your cunt into his mouth, sighing in satisfaction as his tongue drags along your clit before dipping to lick inside of you. He barely even shifts when you hump your pussy into his face; he only opens his mouth wider, licks at you more enthusiastically as though your desperation is contagious. 

Your belly goes hot and tight, and a high-pitched whimper is torn from your throat. It feels as though you’ve been strung high and taut for months now, and your breath catches at your imminent orgasm. You’ve just been so stressed, and having Price hunched over you on the couch like this with your legs thrown up around his shoulders as he licks and sucks at you so eagerly that it has your eyes rolling in your head feels like it’s curing you.

You think, somewhat madly, that an orgasm like this, with Price’s mouth sealed over your cunt, will solve every damn problem you have right now.

“Wanna come, wanna come, Jesus fucking Christ, please please–” Your chest heaves as you scramble, one of your hands reaching down to cup Price’s head to keep him in place, face buried in your cunt. “Oh god, please make me come–”

Maybe it’s not fair to be so demanding of him, but to his credit Price responds with restless enthusiasm. You double over in pleasure as he heeds your broken little pleas, your nails scraping into the couch as you cling on for dear life. His tongue swirls over your clit quickly and with fervour, tight circles to make your vision go blurry.

You’re lost in the sensation of his hot, wet mouth in your cunt, the way he licks into you like a starving man tasting his first meal. It feels like a sensation overload, as though you’re just completely lost to your own desire, but you just want more of what he is offering. 

You grab his hair again and pull him closer, greedy with need, and he hums in affirmation as he allows you to guide his mouth to exactly where you need it. Arching your hips up, you grind into his mouth, chasing your orgasm. You groan, eyelids fluttering as you wrap your other leg around Price’s shoulders, up around his neck, and his hand snakes around your thigh to anchor you there.

Price’s fingers are gripping at your hips, surely hard enough to leave bruises there. You smile, almost deliriously; you could live with some souvenirs from tonight.

Your feeble gasps start to spiral into whimpers as that hot coil begins to tighten in your belly, and your toes start to curl. When your climax finally hits, it does so with a sense of relief that almost knocks you flat. Your body winds tight then releases, and you convulse in a wave of shudders that has you sobbing out loud.

Your chest heaves as you sob, squirming as Price licks at your clit insistently. It feels like your breath has caught in your chest, your toes curling so hard that your feet cramp. You’re panting like a damn dog as your orgasm rocks through you, until the waves of it subside and you can finally get a full breath again.

From one second to the next your nerves turn red-hot and oversensitive, and you clamp your thighs shut around Price’s ears and whimper-whine pathetically. Mercifully, he gets your unspoken message easily, and finally pulls back, chuckling breathlessly to himself as he pushes your legs apart in order to retreat.

“Fuck,” He says, and his voice comes out as harsh and gravelly as you’ve ever heard it. “Jesus Christ. Knew you’d taste sweet, knew that you’d come so pretty.”

The praise practically slams into you, ripping through you like a forest fire. It feels like you’ve lost your breath all over again, and ridiculously you suddenly feel shy. 

“I–That–” You start to say, but you still feel a little fuzzy-headed from your orgasm and your thoughts fizz away like TV static. 

“Mhm, I know, sweet girl.” He murmurs hoarsely as though you had said something coherent. 

When Price finally sits up, you blink hazily. He had been all hunched over you, crammed into the corner of the couch in order to squeeze himself between your thighs like that, but now that he’s straightening back up again you’re reminded with a tired jolt just how big and broad and strong he is.

A small, self-conscious part of your brain screams at you to close your legs. Your thighs are still spread wide, your cunt on display; you’re still all sloppy and wet, spit-slick and dripping, all puffy from the attention Price had lavished on you with his mouth.

But instead of closing your legs, you let your thighs fall open a little wider and shift restlessly under his intense gaze. Your desire makes you stupid – how could you ever experience anything as mundane as self-consciousness when he’s staring at you like that? He’s looking at you like he wants to fall atop you all over again, and you feel yourself throb – you feel so empty, your body craving something to fill you.

And Price notices the way you keep yourself all spread for him, the way you don’t make any move to cover yourself. Beneath his beard, his face splits into a wide smile, the apples of his cheeks practically glowing with pride.

“Oh, my girl, you're so pretty. Just the loveliest girl in the world with your beautiful face and your hair all wild like that.” He leans in then, and presses a hungry  kiss to your mouth. He tastes salty-sweet, the iron tang of yourself lingering on his lips. His beard is wet too, practically soaked through.

You gasp when he pulls back, overwhelmed by the kiss and the praise and the electric aftershocks of your orgasm. “Your beard is wet.” You observe dumbly.

He chuckles, as though you’ve said something terribly endearing. “Of course it is, sweetheart. That’s all you.”

You mumble a little incoherently, mostly because you’ve just spotted the way his trousers are still unbuttoned and his hard, swollen cock is jutting out from the band of his boxers. It’s angry looking, the head of it so red it looks a little painful, and you feel a sudden urge to return the favour seize you.

But when you reach out, Price is quick to grab your wrist. He transfers his grip to your hand swiftly so you don’t feel as though you’re being held down, his wide palm and thick fingers winding around yours.

“Don’t have to do that, love.” He grunts, shifting. He’s looming over you, hips tilted towards you and his wide shoulders blocking out your view of the office. “D’you think you could take me?”

It takes you a moment for your slow, stupid brain to catch up and process what he’s asking you. Then you nod swiftly, eyes widening. You're wet and sticky and so so empty, and you have no doubt your body is so ready to take him inside. 

You’re still a little limp and drained from the satisfaction of your orgasm, but you keep your thighs spread and wait eagerly for him to touch you again. He doesn’t keep you waiting long; he coos softly at you as he adjusts himself, kissing your tummy then up your sternum and back to your throat. The soft, sweet kisses distract you as he presses his hips between your thighs.

You gasp softly, your clit sensitive enough that when his cock rubs against it, you jolt. Despite the overload of sensation, you find yourself grinding back against him, so desperate for something. As if he can sense what you need, he presses a kiss to your jaw and dips a hand between your thighs. Two thick, calloused fingers circle your clit for a moment and make you whimper, only to dip lower and press inside you.

His fingers are larger than yours, but they still slip into you so damn easily that it’s embarrassing. You barely even feel a stretch, your body so eager for him that your cunt practically sucks his fingers up.

The worst part is the way Price laughs, all soft and breathy as he rubs his callous-roughened fingers into the spongey walls of your cunt. 

“Oh, fuck,” He murmurs, his lips dragging over your overheated skin. “Yeah, you’ll take me just fine.”

You burn with embarrassment, but you still don’t close your legs. It’s silly, but there’s still an element of pride as his fingers rub against the soft inside of your pussy; you want him to see how much you want him, how well you’ll take him. It’s obvious how wet you are, and you hope he’s imagining how good you’ll feel on the inside.

“Need you to turn over for me, love.” He murmurs, gripping at your hips and easing you over so that you’re on your belly beneath him. “That’s it, arse up. My knees aren’t what they used to be. Make it easy for me.”

You usually would make a joke about that, some sort of jab about being old before his time, but you simply don’t have the mental capacity for it. You’re too busy dropping to rest your weight on your elbows as you stick your ass up towards him, arching your back and hoping you look pretty.

He doesn’t waste any more time, much to your relief. Your mouth drops open with a sigh as you feel the blunt head of his cock glide between your slick folds, tapping once against your clit just to watch the way your legs jerk, then finally lining up with your entrance and pressing lightly in. His cock notches, catches, then slides in so slowly that it makes you want to scream.

“Gotta let me in, petal.” He says, using his grip on your hips to pull you back onto his cock in increments. “Relax, relax.”

You had wanted this, you’re more eager than you think you’ve ever been for anyone in your life, and yet Price is a big man and the stretch makes your breath stall in your lungs. Your cunt is sucking his cock in further with a hunger that’s almost embarrassing, even as you wince a little at the feeling of being stretched out to your limits. Though you’re wet and eager and ready, two of Price’s fingers briefly testing inside weren’t quite enough to prepare you for how fat his cock is. 

Your head is spinning. You’ve never taken a cock this big with so little stretching, but neither you nor Price are patient enough to wait. But the stretch feels good, and you find yourself wheezing like a moron as he presses inside inch by inch.

“Fuck… you alright, love?” Price breathes, adjusting his knees on the couch behind you and wrapping his hands around your hips. The motion only succeeds in shifting him far enough away to make you aware of the feeling of him sliding into you again. You both groan, and you feel Price twitch, deep inside you.

“Fuck,” You moan, breath gasping out of you. “You’re fucking huge.”

It feels like you’re learning for the very first time what it really means to be full. For a few seconds, it feels like you can’t even breathe. It feels like his cock is lodged somewhere in your belly, forcing the breath from your lungs as he nestles his way deeper into the eager clutch of your body.

“Am I– s’it too much, honey?” He asks, his voice rough and low as his hands squeeze at the flesh at your hips. “Need me to take it out?”

“No!” You blurt, and your body clenches up hard as though you’re trying to lock him in and keep him from escaping. “Don’t you dare!”

His cock still feels so big, and when you tighten up as hard as you do it almost feels as though he’s fucking impaling you. Price groans as though he’s been shot, and his head lowers so that he’s burying his face into the space between your shoulderblades. His body lowers too until his chest is pressed to your back, joined at the hips as he rocks inside of you. 

“Okay,” He grunts, and you can feel his chest expand as he takes a breath. “Okay, love, but you need to relax. You’re going to squeeze my cock right off.”

“Sorry.” You try to do as he asks, taking a deep breath and allowing your body to go limp and pliant. He grunts in appreciation, and you feel his whiskery beard rasp against your throat as he presses a kiss to your neck as if to reward you.

Your spine is still taut from the pressure of being all stretched out around his cock, and you reach back clumsily to grasp at his belly, the soft fabric of his shirt rucking up between your fingers. Price reaches back and grabs at the neck of his own shirt, tearing it over his head then tossing it aside. Your eyes are all hazy and a little blurred from your overwhelmed tears, but you look back over your shoulder and blink frantically in an attempt to get a proper look at him. 

God, he’s so big and strong, his chest furred with a layer of brown hair curling in whorls over his nipples and down over his belly. You feel yourself pulse in response, your mouth dropping open in a thoughtless gasp of desire. He’s exactly the kind of man you think of when you think of masculinity, and your belly tightens in anticipation when he presses all up against you, heavy and hot.

When he begins to pull out and press back in, the noise you make is utterly pathetic. It feels like he cleaving you in two, carving out a space for his cock every time he fucks back into you. He’s cautious at first, conscious of hurting you, but when your thighs close around his hips he grunts and begins to pick his pace up.

“Christ, you’re tight,” Price says, his voice all rough and muffled against your shoulder. “And you're all mine, love, my own sweet girl, ain’t that right? And daddy's gonna love you so good, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” You gasp stupidly, pressing your face into the couch cushions.

Typically, you find that doggy style can be a position that’s a little detached – usually, you like seeing the face of the person you’re fucking. But right now, with Price plastering his whole hairy body against your back as he ruts into you and the sweet filthy words he’s murmuring to you, this position feels so far from detached that it has your head spinning. It feels like he’s blanketing you, the heat from his skin igniting what feels like an inferno between the two of you. Sweat beads at your forehead, and you moan softly as Price begins to fuck you properly.

You’re bouncing against the couch, clutching at the cushions as your body moves under the weight of Price’s powerful thrusts. The sound of it is sloppy and wet, your bodies smacking together quick and hard. And fuck, it feels good. His cock is hitting that perfect spot deep inside of you, and your entire body jolts with pleasure every time he pounds back in. 

It’s enough to make you squeal, your nails scrabbling desperately for purchase on the threadbare couch cushions in an attempt to stabilise yourself. Your nipples are sensitive from Price’s licking at sucking at them, and your toes curl as your tits are pressed into the rough-textured cushions, electrifying your nerves to the point of almost too-much. 

The noises you make are entirely undignified, and you struggle to muffle them into the couch. Little burbling ah ah ah’s are being torn from your throat every time Price fucks into you, the sensation of his furred balls slapping against you with every thrust has your eyes rolling.

Your body is all loose and pliant from your earlier orgasm, and you whimper as though you’re being fucked absolutely stupid. It’s not that he’s fucking you all that hard, but he’s filling you up so deliciously and knowing that it’s him, your Captain, the man that you’ve worked so damn hard to impress and to please, makes you feel like you’re going to explode. Even through the haze of desire and pleasure, a little part of you is still so aware of making him happy. You keep your back arched, practically waving your ass up in the air as he fucks into you.

“Tell me how you like it, sweetheart. Tell me how it feels.” Price says in a low, rough purr. His chest is still pressed to your back even as the two of you pant and sweat as you rock together. “Tell daddy how good he's making you feel.”

Jesus Christ, Price feels like a fucking furnace against you. It feels almost as though you’ve been glued together, your skin sweat slick as he ruts into you like an animal. Your lungs are burning, and your mind is completely scattered. Getting fucked like this feels feels primal, an exchange of power through pleasure; you’re aware that he’s asked you a question, but you can hardly string two thoughts together. All you can do is squirm and whimper in below him as his weight pins you in place.

“Good,” You groan, vaguely aware that tears are leaking from your eyes and soaking the couch beneath you. Your vision is blurred, and you can’t even see straight. “I just– it’s so much–”

“I know,” He rumbles. “But you can take it, can’t you? You’ve been so good, sweetheart.”

The praise does exactly what he’s hoping for; you practically melt into a puddle beneath him. Your thoughts are slow and sluggish, and your jaw hangs open as you fucking drool. Even still, you manage to nod your head clumsily. You can take him – it feels like a point of pride to prove it now, to show off how good you can be.

Price’s rhythm is practically machine-like, and you make a quiet sound of pure appreciation when his cock slams into that gummy spot inside of you that makes you lose your breath. It’s as though he takes note of it, because from that point on he stays absolutely jackhammering into that little spot, making you see stars and have to bite your lip to stifle your moans. His balls would slam against your clit in a repeated motion that made your underbelly tighten like a coil so close to snapping.

He groans every time he sinks into you, his growls rumbling into your back and ratcheting up the intensity another notch. You feel lost in a sea of sensation, moored only by the places of contact between you and Price. Your hips are humping back against Price’s cock unconsciously, unable to help yourself and unable to get enough of him.

“I wanna come again,” You say, and it comes out in a demanding sort of whine. It’s a little humbling to hear yourself and realise that you sound so honest to god bratty, but you can’t bring yourself to care when Price is apparently in such a giving mood today. 

“You’re gonna come, love.” He promises. His voice has that tone to it, the one you’ve always tried to ignore during work because it makes you so horny. The authoritative one, when it drops just a bit in pitch, when it sounds just a little like a threat.

But despite his promise, he doesn’t change his steady pace. You’re just this side of overwhelmed, but you still need more to push you over the edge into the second orgasm that’s simmering in your lower stomach. 

“Please, daddy,” You let the name pass your lips on a whimper, finally giving in and calling him by the title he’s so clearly craving. He’s fucked all the shame out of your body at this point, leaving you with nothing but white hot desperation. “Please, please make me come again–”

“Fuckin’ Christ–”

Price’s arm reaches around your front, and you’re startled when his big palm wraps around your throat. You think for a moment that you’re about to get choked, but no pressure follows. He just grips you there, gentle and secure, before using his hold on you to pull you back against him so that he’s rutting up into you at a speed that’s overwhelming in the best way. His other arm reaches around your belly so that he can rub at your clit as he rails you into the couch. His soft grip on your throat ensures that no matter how much you try to squirm your way back into meeting his thrusts, you’re forced into stillness. 

It’s exactly what you wanted, and it has you wheezing and hiccuping out moans on every stroke. It’s better than you ever could have hoped for, and you’re nearly sobbing from the sheer sensation of it all. You feel your abdomen drawing tight, heat beginning to build rapidly in the bottom of your belly as he strokes at your clit hard and fast at a pace that matches his fucking.

You know that you’re already starting to shake, trembling from head to toe. You can’t even keep your back arched anymore, though you don’t think Price gives a shit because he just nuzzles at the base of your shoulder as he fucks into you. Between his cock and his fingers, everything just feels too much but your body is strung taut as you proverbially climb higher and higher.

“Oh god, I’m– yes, yes, yes–” You chant, your voice high and reedy and so damn needy.

Then the world falls out from under you. With one last whimpering moan, your body convulses beneath the heavy weight of your captain’s big body. Your vision practically wipes out, and you squeeze down around Price’s dick and pulse. Your whole body rocks with the flood of pleasure, the warm fuzzy feeling that makes you feel as though you’re losing your mind. You know that your hips are twitching madly, simultaneously trying to get more and less as you get overwhelmed by the feeling of him fucking you through it all.

You’re still coming down from the sweet release of your orgasm when Price practically tears himself away from you, leaving you cruelly empty and clenching around nothing. You let out a sharp sound of loss, startled that he’s pulled away so suddenly, and you find yourself slumping bonelessly against the couch now that his hands are no longer supporting you.

The wet shlurping sounds from behind you prompt you to glance lazily over your shoulder from where your face is smushed against the cushions, and you’re blessed with the sight of Price tugging his cock furiously behind you. His cheeks are bright red as he stares at the mess he’s made of you, his jaw soft and his mouth open as he pants.

He sees you looking, and whatever expression is on your face seems to be his undoing. He takes in your tear-clumped eyelashes and your dazed expression, and you can practically see the moment he hurtles over the edge. He practically snarls, his nose scrunching in a way that’s unexpectedly adorable right as his cock gives one fat pump of thick white come, then several smaller sputterings that collect in a creamy puddle right at the base of your spine, just over the swell of your ass.

You sigh, your eyelids fluttering lazily shut as you relish the feeling of his hot come hitting your skin. You still can’t manage to pull yourself together, feeling loose and floaty like you’re on another fucking planet entirely. You’re only distantly aware of his big palm rubbing gentle circles on the small of his back; you think for a second that he’s just trying to soothe you, until your fucked out brain catches up and you realise that he’s rubbing his come into you like it’s goddamn lotion. Your cunt gives a tired throb at the realisation, fluttering as though it’s sad that he didn’t come inside.

“Fuck…” You hear him rumble from behind you, then a hot heavy weight settling over you yet again. This time, he pulls you back into his arms to hold you tight against his chest. 

You go perfectly limp, curling into him and nuzzling into his sweaty hairy chest. Despite yourself, you’re reminded of cuddling with a massive teddy bear. All you can do is hum, basking in the affection and hardly able to think at this point after he’s turned your brain into a slurry of feelings without thoughts.

“You okay, love?” Price asks. You can feel his nose nuzzling against your temple, though you can’t quite summon the energy to open your eyes again. “Did I go too hard on you?”

Your legs are still shaky, your hamstrings aching and your back throbbing a little from the pounding you’ve just taken. But Price is being so lovely and soft, so gentle with you right now. His hands coast over your hips, your back, your waist, squeezing a little bit just because he seems to like the way you feel in his hands.

“Shhh,” You drawl shakily. “Don’t make me think right now.”

A low chuckle, and you feel his broad chest rumble with it where your head is laying atop him. His fingers run up the length of your spine, the touch making you shiver. He touches you like you’re delicate, a stark contrast to the way he’d just fucked you into your sad little office couch. It makes something in your belly squirm.

“Alright. My girl just needed to switch off for a while, hm?” He murmurs, and you can hear the clear undertone of amusement in his voice. “How are you going to finish out work today if you’re all sleepy like this, huh?”

That wakes you up a little, and you finally blink your eyes open again in order to look up at him. An edge of panic is beginning to creep in as awareness comes back to you, and you take a deep breath as your hands curl against his chest.

“Oh my god.” You blurt, eyes growing wide. “I– we’re at work!”

“Sharp as ever, darling.”

Not even Price’s lazy wryness can distract you now. You try to wiggle off the couch, already craning your head around in search of your clothes, but Price’s thick arm locks tight around your middle and keeps you pressed to him.

“We have to– oh my god, we have to get dressed, what if someone walks in–”

“Shh, shhh, I locked the door when I came in,” Price grumbles. He doesn’t appear too impressed with the way you’re attempting to wiggle away, but it doesn’t matter so much; even with one arm he’s perfectly capable of keeping you pinned in place against his chest. “Lie back down, love.”

Slowly, you let yourself relax back into him. It’s hard to hold onto your panic when he’s so obviously unbothered, so you end up hesitantly snuggling back up against his chest as his arms come up to close around you. Despite his encouragement, you’re unsure whether or not you’re allowed to be touching him like this. But his hands don’t stray from you, not even once, and gradually you return to your previous state of being a puddle of limbs and pliant muscle.

“That’s it, relax.” He coaxes, clearly pleased now that you’re melting back into him. 

“I have so much work to catch up on.” You grumble, though you have no intention of actually going anywhere now that he’s given you the greenlight to stay like this.

His chest vibrates beneath your cheek, and you realise he’s chuckling again. It feels good, and you sigh softly as your fingers stroke lightly over the defined shape of his soft pecs.

“You think I wasn’t capable of keeping the ship afloat for the couple of days you were gone?” He asks, one hand stroking over your flank then dipping lower to flatten his palm over your left asscheek. “I finished out those little files you were stressin’ over. No picture of Ghost for his, but like I said, that’s standard.”

You had known that he had finished updating the files for you when you had seen Farah’s, but hearing it straight from his mouth is something else entirely. You purse your lips and lower your eyes, still embarrassed about your little freak out despite his apologies. 

“Thank you.” You mumble. 

You try to hide your face in his chest again, but a large hand on your jaw stops you by tilting your head back and forcing you to look at him. A thumb strokes over your cheek, and then he’s leaning in and pressing a sweet kiss to your mouth. You respond tiredly but eagerly, still hardly able to believe that your boss that you’ve been mooning after for months is being so affectionate and intimate with you.

Price pulls back slightly so that your lips are just barely touching, breathing each other’s air for a moment.

“Ask for help when you need it, sweetheart.” He murmurs, his lips dragging over yours. “That’s what I’m here for. We help each other with the workload, alright?”

“Yeah,” You breathe, leaning in eagerly in the hopes of getting another kiss. “Alright.”

Price smiles, his cheeks going all full and round as his eyes crinkle, and you feel your heart throb so violently it feels as though it jumps right up into your throat. He leans in and kisses you again, soft and sweet as his beard rasps against your chin.

You want to stay like this forever, wrapped up so warm and cosy and safe in his arms. He makes you feel so safe, like you’re valued and appreciated, and you can’t even feel bad about being lazy because he so clearly doesn’t want to move either.

“Let me come home with you tonight,” He says suddenly, and you feel his bicep contract as he squeezes you closer. “You have an apartment off base, don’t you? I’ll… why don’t I cook you dinner, hm? Want to show you how much I appreciate all the work you do.”

There’s a pause, then he adds cautiously, “If I’m not being presumptuous, that is.”

You can’t stop the shy smile from overtaking your face. He’s so sweet, and being on the receiving end of this kind of attention from him is more than you ever could have expected. Ridiculously, he seems a little nervous as well, and you come to the slow realisation that he had been vulnerable with you as well when it came to his interests when he had fucked you.

“I thought this was you appreciating the work I do.” You say coyly, glancing pointedly at all of your bare skin pressed up against his.

“Mm. You do a lot of work, and I’m very appreciative.” Price murmurs, squeezing teasingly at your ass.

You giggle despite yourself, relishing the light-hearted air between the two of you. At the sound of your laugh, Price’s expression brightens further; it’s strange, seeing your usually stern, stressed captain being so sweet with you. You’re so used to seeing him with that flinty determined look in his eyes, or barking orders, or with his eyes sagging with exhaustion after a long deployment only to return to a pile of mission reports. Seeing him like this, with those soft eyes and a fond smile, makes your heart feel as though it’s beating out of rhythm.

“I said I’d look after you, sweetheart.” He murmurs, and this time his voice is missing that teasing undertone from before. He sounds so earnest now, almost painfully so. “You just need to let me.”

Yeah, you think to yourself as you let yourself succumb to the drowsy haze that’s been tugging at you, allowing your eyes to slide shut as you nuzzle into Price’s bare chest. You think letting John Price look after you might just be the easiest thing you’ve ever done.

I'm ROLLING!!!!!! THIS S[no]TS FUNNY AS H[still no]L!!!!!

Credit to the creator MAKE MORE THIS IS FUNNY!!!!!

You have the habit of saying out of pocket shit.

Not so much that it makes you mean, or crazy rude, but just that it’s apparent that the military training didn’t exactly wring out that personality of yours.

You hang with Gaz a lot, mainly cause it’s funny seeing him come up with quick answers for your random inquiries.

You just can’t keep quiet.

“How was your day, Sergeant?”

“Just fine, got a new deodorant from versache cause of a raffle. Been sniffing that shit like it’s cocaine.”

“Given the history I wouldn’t be surprised if it had it.”

“…oh shit-“

He entertains it more than not.

Soap is surprisingly more motherly like when it comes to your random meltdowns.

Probably because you're giving him a taste of his own medicine.

“(Y/n), yer goin to combust if ye keep stressing over this work that’s not yers.”

You were looking over his paper work for a bomb diffusions.

“What the fuck are these fucking formulas-“

“Somethin ye don’t have to worry about now go sort inventory-“

“Soap how do you do this everyday-?!”

“(Y/n) I’ll not wipe blood snot or tears off this floor, leave my stuff be, before ye fucking off yerself.”

He just doesn’t want you to stress.

“Fine I guess I’ll go ‘off myself’ then.”

“Hang on-“

Then Gaz’ll join. “Don’t tell 'em to ‘hang’ on! The kid just said they were gonna off themselves!”

Price and Ghost are two of the same but with different ways of handling you.

“Ghost what the odds of me surviving this mission.”

“Bout 50/50.”

“Now how do I lower the chance-“

“That’s quite enough, (L/n).”

But it comes in handy. Especially after a long and grueling training with the others. Instead of heading for the showers you actually head to your barracks. Ghost is the one that spots you.

"Just where do you think you goin', Sergeant?"

You turn to look at him. "Lt, I'm five seconds away from quitting the military and plastering my ass or feet online for the cash. I'm tired. Please let me skip the meeting."

He stares at you for a bit before shaking his head. "Sweet dreams, lunatic."

Drowning In The Depths

Hey, life has been busy and rough and I am so sorry it has taken this long but by god I have finally finished so I hope y'all enjoy

Part 13

Pairing: Price x Male!Reader

WC: 9.7k

Synopsis: A stressful flee home

Warnings: Blood but I think that's it

“I can’t do anything else, sir,” quiet words reached your ears as you neared a corner. “We need to leave. Now Price. We never should have stopped in the first place.” There was a slight pause just before the Scotsman continued in this one sided conversation, “The bullet in his abdomen never exited and the one in his thigh barely missed his femoral artery. I can patch up a wound or two but not…” Another pause succeeded in making the worry bubble back up, and so soon after you’d just put it to bed, “Not that.” The admission in Soap’s voice reverberated throughout the stairwell. There was nothing else they could do.

A thought to interrupt slid into your mind, to interject and offer whatever help that you could. No, they obviously wanted privacy and you were going to give it to them. You pressed against the wall of the hallway just beside the doorway, staying where you were just out of sight and therefore out of mind. 

They’d had to seek out the solitude of the stairwell to avoid the other team members, and though you weren’t sure exactly why they did at first, you were pretty sure you knew the reason for it now. Though they didn’t seem like the type of team to hide anything from one another, this was a bit different. If Konig had heard Soap talking like that you were almost certain the man would have lost it. No more operator and hello worried best friend who would do anything to protect Watcher.

You reached a hand down to the freshly rinsed fur, your fingers running gently over one of his ears as they continued their hushed conversation inside the stairwell. You could feel John’s concern from here but your blood ran a bit colder when he asked, “Can we even move him, Soap?” There was a tense silence that followed the question, neither daring to say anything for a second before one of them finally let out a breath and you imagined the shorter man giving the Brit an unsure shrug of his shoulders before the older man responded for him, “Dead if we do and dead if we don’t.” John’s hushed tone made your stomach sink, Watcher really was as fucked as you had been afraid of it would seem. Or at least he was on the fence enough that neither were comfortable with the potential outcome.

Soap answered quickly after that realization and you could imagine him nodding along as he did, “Aye sir. There’s nothing more that I can do here. Just keeping him comfortable for now. He’s gonna need another transfusion soon though and I’m out of my O negative. I can’t give anymore blood either, so we have to be fast before he bleeds out. And, you’re going to have to give him some of yours, Price.” You didn’t need to see them in order to picture a tense jaw and the storm in his eyes while his mind whirled, trying to come up with a solution.

You could picture it in your mind, his mustache flaring upwards as his mouth worked in that unique way you’d only ever seen him do. His upper lip not so much curling as it simply seemed to just lift before returning to its resting state. Broad, muscled shoulders undoubtedly tense as he remained unnervingly still in the shadows of the stairwell. Thoughts were whirling through his head at this point, you knew that from your own experiences leading a team. The worries and the potential roads never stopped. A constant circle to get lost in if you weren’t careful. You even found yourself, for a short moment, happy about the fact it wasn’t you that had to make the decision this time. The weight of responsibility had finally been lifted and you enjoyed it, no more tough calls for you.

John not only had to take into account Watcher’s life which hung in the balance, but also the rest of your lives. Hell you’d all been forced to stop the night before to tend to his wounds after he’d nearly bled out in the van with only Amaan’s hate-filled words to drown out the horrendous groans of pain that rattled around the enclosed walls. Though that might have been a bit unfair to Watcher, after all it hadn’t just been his unstoppable bleeding that had forced you to take shelter in the only safe place around that any of you knew. This was a complicated equation that not one team leader you’d ever met had truly wrapped their head around. It was hard to sacrifice a man you spent every day with, even for the good of the others.

And driving in the middle of the day you were sure as hell to hit a roadblock looking specifically for you and your team. Sure night in no way eliminated that possibility but it lessened it a great deal, especially nearly a whole day afterwards. Even if you were to hit a roadblock in the dark it would be easier to slip by unnoticed with tired guards and the darkness to hide the inconsistencies of your disguise. When Laswell had said they were set up on every road from here to the border last night it had been a no-brainer to stop in the one place the team was guaranteed safety at least for now. Especially when not even her and her team with their unlimited resources could find a way through the maze that had erected around you.

The real question being asked now though was whether John was ready to risk the rest of the team’s lives in addition to Watcher’s. The rest of you could have stayed holed up in this little, run down building for at least another week if you had needed to. There were enough rations to last you in here along with running water. But the kid was in a bad way, for him it was no longer an option. Either you all left now or he died before he ever really had a fighting chance to stay alive. A losing situation either way for John if things went south.

It was now the difference between a known fatality and a risk for more. An easy decision this would never be, but you already knew what you would do in this situation back when you still ran your own team. You also knew how the rest of the men you led would react in the face of this risk. To save one of the men who’d put their life in your hands you’d have moved heaven and earth to ensure you did everything you could to not let them go home to their families in a box. And there would have been no man on those teams who would have done any differently. That mentality was nurtured and honed from the minute you had signed up for the military and it still had yet to die.

Whether you were invested or distant, callous or passionate, these men quickly became the one thing in life you could rely on. They were your family. They were your friends. They were your brothers in everything but blood. John’s face filled your thoughts in that moment as another lingering thought whispered in your mind, they became your lovers.

Oh the things you knew you would have done for that damn Brit at this point. Moving heaven and earth couldn’t compare in the slightest to what you’d do for that man. He was a reason for dying. No Speck let’s be honest with yourself, he was so much more to you now. John was a reason for living. You were in far too deep for barely even knowing the man, but you didn’t need to know him to know how you felt about him. Fuck it, when did you ever take the safest option on the table? You were a SEAL for fucks sake. John had caught you like a fish; hook, line, and sinker.

Finally that guttural voice grabbed your attention again, snatching you back from the depths of your thoughts and throwing you into the present, “Get him ready to move, Soap. And go ahead and get a line ready, I’ll give you a bag just in case he needs it.” Soap didn’t say anything but you nearly immediately heard boots hitting the floor in the next couple of moments. You slipped back around the corner, pressing your back to the wall with Cerberus standing idly at your side. The young man turned out of the door and down the hall back to the main room and towards his patient, and you observed quietly as he went. Not once did the Scotsman’s focus waver from the objective he had been given. And you had no reason to distract him by making it obvious you’d heard nearly every word.

Neither man probably would have ever known you’d been there if John hadn’t stopped at the threshold to watch Soap heading back. Staying silent you listened as he took in a deep breath, there was worry etched in the way he stood, the way his head hung just a bit and you knew he was questioning himself. Not even John Price could be a Captain all the time. You slid around the corner silently just before his head slowly turned and he locked eyes with you. His brunette brows raised in question though not surprise, never surprise. Then you spoke softly, “I’d do the same.” Not much comfort coming from someone like you but it seemed that it was enough for him.

John’s dark brows lowered then and he gave a short nod before he stepped towards you. It was an instinct, a reaction you couldn’t help as the taller man pressed his body into yours and your arms locked around him. You almost didn’t know what to do, you certainly had no clue what to say. Just stay quiet, no need to ruin this with your inability to conjure the right, soothing words. His forehead laid against your shoulder as his arms squeezed your midsection. He pulled you impossibly closer as he took whatever comfort from you that he could, and both of you knew this would be the last physical intimacy you would be getting from one another for the foreseeable future. A last dose to tide you over until you got your next fix of one another.

Then just as suddenly as it had happened he was pulling himself away from you once more, his fingers dragging over your sides as the both of you regretted the loss of one another. Without a word he turned on his heel to head after Soap and vanished through the door at the end of the hall. It would seem the team needed to get ready to move, sooner rather than later. Time to get yours and Cerberus’ shit together and finish this thing strong. You couldn’t be a burden now, the team was already dragging around a helpless Watcher and that deadbeat Amaan, whatever you felt and however much guilt you were carrying was irrelevant now. Focus up and get it done.

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

The van jostled the lot of you around in the back as y’all rode in a tense, unbroken silence. John was next to you stock still, it was like he’d forgotten he was alive instead of a marble statue. More than a few times you’d found yourself stealing a quick glance his way just to make sure he was still breathing as worry bubbled up inside of you. Meanwhile Ghost and Konig were across the narrow aisle, the latter leaning forward over Watcher’s resting body just as motionless as the man beside you was. 

Despite the hood across his face you could see the worry that had taken up residence in his expressive green eyes. His whole body seemed like you could have cut a single cord and he would have fallen to the ground in a heap of body parts. Konig’s gaze was focused solely on the young man who had been going in and out of consciousness for the past hour, showing more concern for him than you’d ever seen out of anyone before, of that you were almost certain. 

Gaz was stuck in the driver’s seat up front, disconnected from the rest of the group as he tried to get everyone home in one piece. Meanwhile the only other Scotsman on board was sitting between Ghost’s spread legs, all of you having to make the most of the space allotted to you which wasn’t much in this little closet-like cubby that had been carved out. Soap had taken the worst seat as he needed to be as close to Watcher as he could be, however you doubted proximity would have mattered much at this point. Not after you’d overheard Soap and John before you left the safehouse.

Darkness engulfed the road outside as the other Sergeant drove the lot of you back to base. So far you’d been lucky to avoid any of the roadblocks while Laswell, and whoever worked directly under her, secured the team a plane home once you got back. Another pothole shook the whole van and Watcher groaned out in pain at the sudden movement. Skinny, blood soaked fingers tried desperately to clutch at his wounds just before Soap guided them elsewhere, as much of a distraction as he could be.

Konig slid to the edge of his seat, his body going rigid as he watched the young man helplessly. There was nothing he could do, at least not right now. Y’all were in the middle of a warzone, it was a miracle he was still breathing, it was almost asking too much for him to make it through this if you were being honest. The tip of Konig’s boot slammed into yours, a slight shock of pain rattling up through your ankle and dissipating as it reached your knee. It wasn’t like you could move any further away though, not with Amaan snoozing and under sedation beneath yours and John’s feet. Konig physically couldn’t get closer no matter how much he wished to in that moment.

As Watcher’s face evened out and he settled down once more you all seemed to take a breath in unison that no one had even realized they were holding. Oh thank fuck he hadn’t erupted into some fit of searing pain, the bullet had to be agony inducing still stuck inside there. You could only imagine the pain if you were being honest. 

Slowly your gaze slid around and back to the small space between the front seats, watching Gaz’s lone form as best you could through the small slot. There was no telling how far you still had to drive at this point, it could have been hours or minutes and you would have been none the wiser. You still had no idea where the base was even located, though you could wager an educated guess. God how long had you spent out here? Too long you knew, but the days always seemed to mold together, turning into an immeasurable block of time that one day you were almost sure you would end up forgetting. That was if you made it that long anyway.

A heavy thwack against your leg broke you from where your gaze was stuck on the young man up front. Your eyes dropped to find the excitable dog as he inched closer to Watcher, as careful as any human would have been; it was like he knew how close the young man was getting to meeting his maker. Cerberus laid down with the gentleness of a much more intelligent creature, curling next to Watcher’s slender body as his nose gave a few cautious sniffs and he went still. 

Pale, bloody fingers slid away from where the blood was still leaking out from the bandage wrapped around them before they nearly disappeared in the thick fur and held tight onto the dog who was currently the only relief the poor young man could find. At least the Dutchie was a patient dog in the face of just about anything, and he was more than content to become Watcher’s caretaker at least for now. After all, anyone would be exhausted after this long with no down time and even Cerberus was no exception.

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

The border was inching ever closer now and the tension that had dissipated not so long ago was suddenly mounting once more, growing thicker with every second. There had been too much downtime now, too many hours spent stuck together in the heat of the van with the smell of iron so close that all of you could taste it. Y’all needed to do something and yet there was nothing that you could do.

Watcher was beginning to shift again and as all eyes shot to him you realized just how the rest of the team saw him. Not as a young man but instead they saw him as more of a child in need of protection than an actual operator, and the attention they paid him would end up getting them all killed one day if they weren’t careful. It was getting harder and harder to believe that they respected him seeing how protective they were in that moment, and you probably wouldn’t believe it if you hadn’t been there when they had actually treated him like an adult. It was a weird combination of emotions everyone felt for him, however you’d seen it before, even in your own teams back in the day. Everyone protected the new guy as best they could even while they hazed the hell outta him and gave him hell any other time of the day

“Oh fuck,” the voice from the front seat almost startled you just as it did everyone else, their attention turning simultaneously from Watcher and instead towards the front of the van in search of the culprit. John, who had been sleeping lightly next to you, immediately stood up and stepped over Amaan’s body to lean towards the front of the van so that he could peek through the small opening between the seats. Your view was blocked but you could see him glance out the windshield before the man in the driver’s seat muttered, “Slight problem up here Cap. There’s a roadblock,” you leaned up in your own seat then to glance out the front window as well as you looked around John’s broad form as best you could, investigating the sight of flashing lights.

A line of cars had been stopped on the road and you had about four car lengths to figure out how to not get caught running an op on foreign soil- you could only assume without permission- with a man near death and another sedated into oblivion. You could hear Gaz tapping his finger nervously against the steering wheel and glancing back at you and John as subtly as he could. With Gaz at the wheel you all knew full well there was no way of making it through this damn roadblock unscathed. It had nothing to do with his skill; he simply didn’t speak the local dialects…You did.

The man who had been on idle next to you for the last few hours was spouting orders in a heartbeat, directing the flow of traffic like a pro. “Trade places with Speck. Now, Gaz, move it.” There was an urgency in his voice that you hadn’t heard since the mission the day before. Your head whipped around nearly immediately as the other man in the front waited till none of the guards were watching and then threw the van in park. He tumbled through the small slot in the van and into the little cubby you had been afforded as he slid onto the bench next to Ghost and then suddenly all eyes were on you.

It was dark outside now so at least most of your movements were covered by the shadows of the night. With darkness hiding the chaos currently unfolding in this already too small space. John was tearing into one of the bags thrown in the corner just as quickly as he’d started shouting orders, pulling out clothes that you quickly recognized as Watcher’s. Well fuck. He tossed you the taqiyah and thobe the ginger usually kept for when y'all were driving, especially over the borders. Your eyes shot between the clothes now in your hand and the brunette who’d given them to you.  It was no secret you were a great deal bigger than the young man, hell Soap had a better chance at fitting in them than you did. The unwavering gaze that stared back at you apparently meant that he didn’t give two shits though. This was the expectation and lord you were gonna have to deal with the lot you’d been given.

A quiet curse escaped your lips before you started pulling the long thobe over your head, maneuvering your shoulders carefully inside the suffocating fabric before you reached up to affix the taqiyah as well. You could barely lift your arm, feeling the fabric tighten dangerously around the muscle of your shoulder, and damn how skinny was this kid? It felt like you were holding in your gut for dear life, had you really put on that much weight recently?

The thobe was much too short and clung to your chest and shoulders like a straight jacket, feeling more like a corset that was trying to reshape the proportions of your body than the loose fitting piece of modest clothes it was supposed to be. Good lord how were you gonna pass this shit off to a bunch of a men who knew what it was actually supposed to look like. Role or not this was gonna be a difficult one to pass off, and you weren’t entirely sure you were going to be able to do it. The whole thing was too rushed, there was too much riding on your shoulders and it’d been too long since someone had relied on you like this. Fuck it though, it was time to play the ill dressed cargo van driver who had no business being out in the middle of the night trying to cross borders. Lovely.

Glancing down at Cerberus you gave a quiet command of, “Bleib,” afterall the last thing you needed was him trying to follow you into the front and causing a scene. Unclipping the lead from your belt you handed it off to John quickly, undoubtedly running out of time now. Peeking between the seats into the front you took a quick glance at the men, making sure they weren’t paying attention before you hopped through and into the driver’s seat, throwing the van back into gear as you rolled forward in the queue.

You could feel the eyes on the back of your neck as you forced your gaze to remain dutifully on the road, suppressing the nervous glances you wanted to throw behind you. Complete silence had fallen over the men in the back, even Watcher’s groans had hushed completely now as the severity of the situation seemed to bleed into every aspect of this oncoming confrontation. The only sound that you could hear was John as he mumbled something about the false wall behind you. Then there was the sound of something opening before it clicked securely back into place again. What in the hell were they doing back there? The question itched at the back of your mind as you struggled to keep yourself from looking behind, human curiosity in a situation like this could absolutely get you all killed.

Everything went silent again for a few more moments before the separator between the front and the back closed and you were completely alone. The hot, suffocating cubby completely cut off from you now, and yet the air out here was choking you more than the close quarters behind you had. It was as if you were back to that one man show you’d been so used to lately, and not a single part of you wanted to be there anymore.

Lifting your foot off the brake slowly, you listened as they squealed with protest at the movement, trying to refuse your request to roll forward. Too bad though, there was shit to do. Besides, it wasn't like you actually had a choice as the van continued to roll forward in the queue. Uniformed guards loitered around the roadblock seemingly devoid of sound as their attention shifted completely to the van. Your mind ran through the infinite list of dialects the man was about to throw at you, it of course had to be one you knew. They weren’t about to sit someone at the border without having someone they knew could communicate with everyone who came through here…Right?

One of the men, with his rifle on his shoulder and a frown set firmly on his mouth, made his way over to you. He lifted his hand and signaled to the window which you were quick to comply with as you rolled the window down and sent a prayer up to the God your mother had always told you was real. You’d do anything to just let this go smoothly, anything at all. Please God just don’t let us get thrown in some jail or get shot up in the back of this van. Just go smoothly.

The man was eyeing you carefully as he approached, words rolling off his tongue that you didn’t quite understand. There was a semblance to the languages you knew but it just didn’t make sense so you shook your head and his cautious gaze started to turn to suspicion as he asked in Farsi, “You can understand now?” You nodded in answer before he continued his line of questioning, “Where are you headed?” And so the game began, and you felt yourself beginning to relax into this. Enjoying it even.

Where the hell were you? On the road from Zabol to somewhere south of that. Just say a city, any city south of Zabol, Speck. Easy, “Zahedan,” you answered him and in turn earned the attention of another narrow eyed guard as the men inched closer. The car in front of you rolled off past the rest of the guards as they moved on from the checkpoint and drove off into the night. It was just you now, truly alone and with all the attention focused on what you were determined to make a masterful performance. 

You could feel eyes as they traveled down your neck, fixing to the sight of the tight thobe around your shoulders and chest as he inspected you or at least he tried to, part of the darkness was still hiding the bits of you that didn’t quite make sense. His hand moved down to his hip and for a moment your hand tightened on the wheel, a flash of fear that he was about to pull a pistol on you despite the rifle still resting against his shoulder. And before you could even truly react a beam of light leveled at your face and blinded you for a moment.

The guard flicked the beam towards the rear end of the van before giving you an order that left no room for interpretation, “Unlock the back. We need to inspect what you’re transporting.” Immediately your hand moved to the button and the locks clicked, ‘Please have y’alls shit together, John. Please, please, please, please, please,’ a muffled noise came from just around your shoulder and you resisted the urge to look back. You wouldn’t be able to see anything anyway and it would only make you look even more suspicious than you already did. 

“What is your business in Zahedan, Mr…?” He left the end of the question open as he continued to fix that narrow eyed gaze upon you. The beam of light blinding you as he kept it leveled at your eyes. Jesus man, you’d think he could at least let you see. 

However you gave him as pleasant a smile as you could manage even though it was still tinged with a bit of annoyance, afterall who wouldn’t be, and answered as quickly as you could, “I’m just transporting some goods for the market there, sir. My boss needs it there by morning, it was a late order by one of the stall owners,” you glanced in the side mirror towards the back watching one guard disappear around the open doors.

A couple heavy bodies hopped inside, shaking the van as they moved objects around in the back. Their muffled voices came through the thin walls of the van as they inspected the pointless boxes in the back. Nothing they did though could compare to the way the van rocked violently and something shattered as you heard the contents of a stack of crates dump out and across the floor of the van.

The reaction you had was almost as genuine as it appeared. Your brows began to furrow and you gave the man at the window a look of indignance as you began to shift in your seat, even going so far as to curl your lip up. There were only a couple more seconds that you could take of the crates crashing down behind you and the goods spilling out. The threshold had been met and you scoffed and turned in the seat, your voice raising in what could have only been worry and stress, “Come on really? You cannot just break everything back there because you want to, I have a job to do and a boss to report to, same as you man.”

Dark eyes shot back to your face and you immediately flitted your own gaze away feigning submission to what was, in reality, one of the highest authorities you would have known. Sure you could be exasperated and frustrated with the way they searched the van but the last thing you needed was to bring about your own personal demise because you wanted to get all high and mighty now. Another crash and the muscles of your back tightened, your shoulder blades coming together as you bit the inside of your cheeks and remained as still as possible, still avoiding the eyes of the men currently standing outside your window.

Just keep acting normal Speck, as long as everything stayed quiet back there and they didn’t find the little latch you had nothing to worry about. Nothing at all. You’d sail right on through this roadblock and be home in time for supper...Or really you'd be in time to save the young Scotsman currently fighting for every second of his slowly pumping heartbeats just behind you. After all, wasn't that all that really mattered right now?

The eyes of the man continued to bore into what felt like your very soul, and all you could do was refuse to stare back. You had to keep your head down and remain unremarkable for the sake of all of your lives. Being memorable, a “hero” was how people died and you were all too aware of that fact. Staying out of the way was your specialty, and you’d been doing it as long as you could remember. Much longer than you were willing to admit to anyone. 

So keep it together, shoulder the burden for the good of the many. It was the only way you knew really. A hollow knock sounded behind you. Echoing through the cab of the van and amplifying, loud enough for even the man standing outside your window to hear. Out of the corner of your eye you saw his head tilt in…Confusion? Curiosity? Suspicion? Your hands tightened on the wheel as you fought to keep the moment of pure panic out of your facial expressions. Even a bit of fear slithering its way into this instinct driven part of your mind, ‘Do not turn around, turn around and they’ll know something is wrong. Eyes ahead and act normal. Do not turn around, Speck.’ 

The man at the window pursed his lips, still eyeing you carefully as he took another step closer and insisted, “I need a name.” A name? The fuck was a name? Your name? No, your name would get you killed. Fucking hell, why was it always something. Just gotta be on some other shit today, huh? Always gotta be something in this damn job, always fuckin somethin.

He wanted a name? Couldn’t live without one? Fine. Fuck it. “Kareem Abdul-Jabbar,” your eyes lifted to find a face absent of anything. Even the man behind him was quiet as they both stared at you with slowly narrowing eyes. Were you fucking stupid Speck? Jesus christ. That’s what you decided to go with? Anxiety prickled over your skin, raising goosebumps across the back of your neck and along your forearms. The already too tight thobe suddenly felt that much more tight, a vice around your body like a corset as it tried to cut off your dwindling supply of oxygen.

The commander, or the man who you assumed to be the commander, gestured with a flick of his chin to the man standing behind him. The pen in his hand scribbled quickly, and you followed the movements silently wishing you could read the movements of the pen and nervous that you would stick too readily in their minds. That they would remember this and you, that if anything went wrong you would be the first person they would point to. Then again did it really even matter? You should be long gone from this hellscape by the time they even turn that damn ledger in.

The van shook, rocked back and forth on its worn out shocks once and then twice. Muffled voices spoke what seemed so far away and yet like they were right over your shoulder. Discussing what though? What could they possibly have been saying? Was it about you? Had they found the latch and the rest of the team? What could you do even if they had? Question after question after question rattled around in your mind without a single answer even daring to try and enter. And then as quickly as they had begun they were cut off with the slamming of one door and then the next. Only a single thought remained, ‘Holy shit we actually did it.’

The commander glanced at the guard behind him who nodded and then looked to the men at the rear of the van. Again the voices reached your ears though they were devoid of meaning. Either a language you didn’t know or too quiet for you to truly make out. Slowly you turned your eyes from the road and the steering wheel in front of you to find the face of the Commander. In one quick movement the man turned back to you and nodded, “You’re free to go.” The tension in your back released immediately as you reached for the gear shift.

Throwing the van into gear you tossed the commander a quick nod, not bothering with a smile, hell the man had basically allowed the entirety of the back to be destroyed. He turned to look at the men blocking the road in front of you, illuminated by the headlights, and waved his hand yelling an order at them in another language you didn’t know. They were quick to lift the gate, following their orders, as you rolled forward slowly through the now opened blockade. The sounds of the tires over the asphalt crackling in your ears in a satisfying sound before you rolled the window back up.

Continuing on down the road you finally glanced in the mirror, watching the lights of the blockade disappearing behind the hills as you went. “Well that was fuckin close,” you muttered mostly to yourself, almost forgetting that there were a group of men separated by less than an inch of metal right behind your shoulder. The panel opened the moment you spoke and you glanced back to find an ocean blue gaze staring back at you, darkness surrounding him like a shroud. You were lost in those features for a moment, unable to pull away as your world whittled away to brunette locks and a full beard perfectly kept and straight out of the 70s.

At least until a huge gasp of air came from behind him and the both of you seemed to be shocked from your reverie. His dark brows knitted together and yours quickly followed suit in worried confusion. “What happened, what’s wrong?” Your question broke the assumed silence of voices, though as much as you needed to look behind you, you forced your eyes back to the road ahead. After all if you drove the van off into the ditch what would be the point of getting through that check point back there.

The Captain slid back into his seat before he glanced across the small space to the men on the other side. Muffled noises echoed around behind you, bouncing off the walls before they made their way to your ears. Someone was struggling. It wasn’t until John finally turned to find your gaze again that he shook his head as if to say absolutely nothing was wrong, it took only a second longer of your hardened gaze in the rearview mirror before he finally gave you a real answer, “The sedative wore off. Ghost took care of it.” You gave a slow nod in response and pulled over onto the shoulder of the road slowly, checking the mirrors to make sure there were no headlights headed your way.

You threw the van into park before you turned in your seat to look into the back and finally satisfy your curiosity. Gaz sat on the edge of his seat ready to slip through and take the wheel back and so the two of you did, trading places in a less than graceful motion as Gaz got the lot of you back on the road. The taqiyah was off your head in a moment before you handed it off to John and were forced to catch yourself against his shoulder as the van lurched forward unsteadily. A warm hand wrapped around your wrist and another caught against your hip as he instinctively reached to steady you, blue eyes traveling up to your face with raised brown eyebrows resting just above them.

Warmth flooded into your face and you tensed at his touch even though you wished you could melt into him, thank him with a smile on your face. That wasn’t a possibility though, there were too many eyes on y’all right now. So instead you pulled away, untangling yourself from his grasp as you huffed out a quick, deflecting comment, “Good Lord this thobe is tight. Thought the seams were gonna pop before we got through that damn blockade. Hell felt like I couldn’t breathe in the damn thing.” You pulled at the hem feeling it catch under your arms as you tried to wriggle your way out of it. You couldn’t manage to get it off though as your elbows caught in the fabric and you froze, your shoulders moving painfully one way and then the other and yet still you remained frozen in this awkward shuffle of limbs.

Shit. Once again you made a subtle attempt to free yourself, shifting your shoulders and pinching at the fabric where you could just barely reach it before a defeated sigh left what had to be the very depths of your soul. You had to have looked like a big child standing there with your arms stuck above your head and fingers reaching desperately for an unattainable fabric, unable to even push it back down so you could just pretend like nothing happened. Another moment of dead silence passed and as your fingers began tingling ever so slightly you dropped them to the back of your head in defeat. Your elbows were still held aloft, pinched together painfully as you stared into the white fabric stuck around your head, arms, and chest like a binding. “Well…” You said aloud, following it quickly with a single declaration, “Shit.”

Soap’s laugh was nearly immediate, the escaping near giggles edging on becoming wheezes. You could imagine all the eyes that were probably staring at your hogtied form in the long, ankle-length thobe, and you could feel heat rising in your face and not the kind you had started to enjoy. Embarrassment welled up in your and you swore you even heard Konig let out a quiet murmur of amusement accompanied by the Lieutenant and Captain’s quiet snickering as they looked at your helpless visage in the near complete darkness of the little space. The only thing that made it all worth it was the small giggle of laughter you just barely caught from Watcher somewhere below you, hell you couldn’t see a damn thing around you but that little laugh just suddenly made the whole experience worth it.

A couple seconds of gawking at you and the quiet laughing before strong hands grabbed at your upper arms and you quickly lifted your hands back up in response. As your arms straightened the fabric drug across your skin, and as the collar stuck underneath your chin you shut your eyes and pulled free. It took a few blinks before your eyes readjusted to the dim light only to look back up at the smirking face of John Price who was already balling the fabric back up in order to shove it back into the bag he’d retrieved it from originally.

You couldn’t help but to follow his form for a few moments, eyes trailing over his features before you managed to tear your gaze away and find the others that were still left in the back. Ghost had Amaan shoved underneath his and Konig's legs underneath the makeshift wooden bench passed out once more, either from the big man choking him out or another sedative you weren’t completely sure though you doubted there was any sedative left. At least he seemed to be making a comfortable seat for Soap who was still sitting between Ghost’s knees so he had easy access to the young man who was taking shaky breath after shaky breath.

You situated yourself carefully back where you had been forced to vacate earlier as Gaz continued what now had to be a frantic drive back to base. "See,” you began as you leaned forward on one knee, “Yall are laughing now but I ain't heard not one of ya laughing when I was saving your asses five minutes ago from becoming POWs. Not a single peep," Soap had tears forming in his eyes as his quiet giggles turned slowly into silent wheezes. A quick glance around and you caught Gaz red handed with his phone resting on the steering wheel as it played the sight of you trying to get out of the thobe on repeat while somehow he was still managing to drive. What the hell had you gotten yourself into?

Ghost, the last man you would have imagined would throw even more wood on this fire, was the first one to come back with a quick remark, "What the fuck does 'ain't' mean?" He did his best impression of an American accent, failing rather miserably as he leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and his chin resting just above the short dark hair of his partner. Eyes were watching you with what you were almost positive was amusement though sadly it was covered up easily by the darkness that still enveloped the lot of you, not to mention the mask that still shrouded every feature but those striking eyes.

The question struck you like every mocking comment of your accent and where you were from had. Reaching up you pulled on your tac vest that John proffered you and began fumbling with the buckles, you shot him a quick glare and lifted your chin just before you did the same with your middle finger as you feigned anger, "Means fuck off skullface, how bout that?" He gave a light chuckle under his mask and you saw his head shake in the darkness as he leaned back once more, huge arms crossing over his chest. The big man wasn't the most talkative but at least he knew how to joke around, a worry you had been carrying up until this point.

Everything began to settle shortly after that, the giggles dying and the whispered comments quieting. Soap sobered back up as he went back to tending to Watcher the best he could, the latter grimacing as he searched for something to grab hold of with his free hand, the team’s medic packing his wounds with a fresh set of gauze and wrapping them up with bandages. The last bandages he was quick to inform the Captain about. Watcher’s lithe fingers tangled into Cerberus’ fur once again, and you watched as the dog seemed to settle in the attention while the corner of your mouth turned up in a small smile.

Gaz sat quietly in the front seat as he drove now, his phone long forgotten along with the video of your quiet struggling. In the meantime Konig had resumed his quiet vigil with his elbows resting on his thighs once more and the worry obvious in his taut frame and the way his leg bounced. As it always seemed to, your attention returned to the Brit who had found his place beside you once more.

You half-expected to see him watching Gaz in the front seat and helping to keep an eye on the road. Or at the very least watching the youngest Scot as he had the whole ride before now, as most of you had succumbed to doing since you’d loaded him into this van. Instead though he was sitting with his rifle laying across the top of his thighs, his hands holding it steady. That gaze though, those ocean hues were focused solely on you. The heat of it was pouring into you, raging like an inferno as it warmed your otherwise frozen limbs.

A quick dart of your gaze down to his lips and before you could return it to his eyes they had shifted just as he did next to you. His legs spread a bit wider and his knee knocked against yours, his gloved fingers sliding over the gun as he situated himself more comfortably on his seat. John’s warning was silent but clear and you were quick to acquiesce, turning your eyes away to find something else to distract your thoughts. The other men avoided looking at the both of you. Soap was much too busy, Konig much too worried, and Ghost just finding the idea of eye contact in such an enclosed space awkward at this point probably.

The rest of the drive seemed to inch along at a snail’s pace as the last of Soap’s blood bags began to run dry. No one else was able to give blood and so the countdown had begun on how long the boy truly had left. The smell of bloody bandages permeated the entirety of the enclosed space now and choked you in its distaste. It clogged your senses in the suffocating smell, churning your stomach with its odor. It was not quite metallic, not with this much coming from the cavity of his stomach. This smelt almost rotten in comparison. There was an itch to gag tickling at the back of your throat that you were fighting to suppress. It was taking every fiber of control not to let your nose wrinkle at the odor of all these men, and the blood, and the dog mingling together like the beginning of a terrible joke.

Overwhelmed. It was the only word that came to mind as to how you felt right now. You were losing yourself in the way it felt, the way the silence of the van’s small space dampened every sound as if Watcher were already dead. Even the smells seemed to think so. Your eyes slid down quickly to his hand still grasping desperately at Cerberus’ fur and the pain written on the young man’s face. Not dead. Not yet at least. He was certainly getting there though if Gaz didn’t hurry the hell up. You’d lost track of the time but you could see the first rays of light now coming through the front windshield.

Soon, you had to make it there soon. Right? Watcher had long since lost consciousness, his breaths coming shallow and shaky in slower and slower succession. You should have been there. He shouldn’t have breached that room at all, you had just taken too long with that woman and her child. It was always the children that gave you pause. Their wide eyed stares cut too deep and struck too hard. Watcher should be sitting where you were. Why was it always someone else paying for your incompetencies?

Brakes squealed and the van locked down, throwing the lot of you nearly off your seats. All except for Price who was on his feet before you knew what was happening while Ghost quickly followed suit. Your eyes darted back and forth between them as you stood hurriedly, searching their gazes for some kind of order. They all seemed to know what to do next without even speaking, meanwhile you were kept out of the loop. Completely disconnected from this hivemind they all seemed to have slipped into. A routine?

The back of the van opened sending a cascade of light into your eyes just as Laswell’s voice cut through the silence finally, “Let’s go boys, Feea already has everything ready to go. And Wade has the plane loaded, let’s be quick now.” Everything was already happening though, she had no need to ‘get them moving’. Quicker than you thought any of them could manage it, the men in front of you were tossing bags from one set of hands to the other. From John, to Gaz who was now at the tail end of the van, and up the ramp to the waiting blonde vampire you’d nearly killed however many days ago that was now.

Engines roared on the runway in front of you, ready to take off whether yall made it on or not from what you could see. What the fuck kind of operation was this? You’d heard stories of Price, you’d heard stories of the 1-4-1, but to have such ease in finding a plane home without all the paperwork? They just had planes and runways and whatever they needed at their disposal whenever and wherever they needed it to be. You wish you had that kind of pull, you wouldn’t have been in that market about to get yourself blown to high hell if you’d had that kind of pull.

John didn’t spare a glance over his shoulder as he headed out of the van, stepping down it looked like versus hopping out. Konig and Ghost had already knelt down to grab Watcher underneath his arms and knees as Soap shouted out something to Wade about supplies and such he needed for the boy. They had the young man out of the van before you even had a chance to react as Soap followed the both of them. Gaz hopped into the van then, reaching down to gather the Amaan’s limbs before he hauled him up as if he weighed nothing.

This was the end of it then. They were off to wherever the fuck, rest a recoup until their next orders were received and then they’d be off again. Of course this was the end of things, you’d gotten Amaan and that was the only reason John and his team were here to begin with. And now you would be back to living your life, whatever that meant anyway. You had no job, no orders, and no way to get back home. There was no life or money, but that was neither here nor there you’d figure it out eventually.

Cerberus was still laying down where he’d been as Watcher’s company. “Fuss,” you muttered and watched as the dog rose slowly, it was unlike him to be so…downtrodden? A bit of concern touched your thoughts until you realized just how long it’d been since he’d properly rested. Probably just tired, hell you were you suddenly realized as you stepped down out of the van with your gun still slung over your shoulder. You stretched out your abused body, weary from the traveling and the fighting. Your bones ached and seemed to creak with every movement, your muscles and joints screaming and pleading for mercy only to find none. Not even your mind would find a merciful quietness here.

John had forced himself into your life and wrecked you completely, body, mind, and soul. You hadn’t even been sure you had a soul until you’d met him. Now he was about to disappear from it again, just as quickly as he’d appeared in it. There and then gone at the drop of a hat to leave you wanting for more. Always wanting. Your eyes darted into the dark interior of the plane as you tilted backwards. Weariness had finally won over as your knees buckled against the bumper of the van and you took a heavy seat.

God you were tired. There was nothing left to give. The tank was empty as they say. Even Cerberus had spent every last bit of energy he had at this point. Non-stop working had that effect on everyone, dogs were no exception, not even him. Your fingers found themselves in the thick fur of his neck as he sat staring ahead just as you did, watching as Wade loaded the last of the team’s supplies onto the plane. The roar of its engines deafening as you witnessed the departure of yet another chapter of your life. Though you had to admit it was probably one of the happiest chapters, even if it was one of the shortest.

It was time to disappear back into the frays of society. Become the man who other people looked over with glazed eyes, as if you weren’t even really there. A shadow in their memories when someone tried to ask them what you looked like and the best answer they could give them was, ‘He was just a man.’ For a minute there you’d been memorable though, had a taste of what it was like to be seen by one of the…No not one of the, there was only one John Price. He and his team were gonna be hard to move on from, him most of all.

Your eyes slid down to the dog sitting beside your knee then, running the tips of your fingers over the top of his head to ground yourself before you stood. Casting a last long glance up at the plane you were done, ready to walk away. As ready as you’d ever be anyway. Prepared to free these men of the curse that hung around you like death’s shrouded veil, one that had already struck poor Watcher.

He saw you. Of course he did, he had since those nights in the bar. He saw everything, for Christ's sake it was his job. Blue eyes pierced you through the heart from the top of the plane’s ramp as the two of you remained completely still. For once you weren’t nestled into the background of a painting barely warranting a single stroke of the brush. To him you were the artist’s whole subject, the one thing they had set out to capture. The one thing John had set out to capture.

There was one thing that man didn’t need to do though, he’d had you from the first day you saw him and not even you had known it then. He was your everything and it didn’t matter about anything else in life because he was all you needed. Hell he was all that you wanted.

You watched as he jerked his chin, beckoning you silently with both his eyes and his actions. The man before you didn’t need words, it wasn’t like either of you were poets with them anyway. It was as if the exhaustion and weariness in your body dissipated the moment he was back in your line of sight.

Pushing yourself off the bumper of the van you started forward, watching the corner of his mouth turn up in the smallest of smirks. He turned back inside the plane as you started up the ramp. You crested the top of the ramp Cerberus at your side and the moment you did it began to close behind you, the sound harsh on your ears and even worse than the engines in your opinion.

He had been waiting for you. An unexpected yet welcome thought, John had wanted you to come just as much as you’d been begging to follow. You slid past Wade with a satisfied glint in your eyes, barely glancing at him for a moment as he secured everything under cargo nets. Crossing over the empty space of the plane you made your way towards the rest of the team, stopped only by someone clearing their throat beside you.

Your focus darted to the perpetrator and you took in the blonde woman staring back at you. Confident and above you, above everyone to be fair, it was safer for her that way and so much easier. That was something you could understand. “Ma’am?” Your drawl slipped into the word as you watched her, your brows drawing closer together in your confusion as to why she would want your attention.

Laswell’s face remained stubbornly neutral as she looked the two of you over, a man and his dog. As normal as it got, just about anywhere in the world you would find similar combinations. The most memorable thing about you was Cerberus but even he could blend in under the right circumstances. “I have an opportunity for you, Speck. If you’re interested anyway.” Slowly you gave a nod, hesitating only a moment before you remembered if it involved her that it probably would involve John as well. “Good, how would you like a job?”

About me:

I am 22 years old and use they/them pronouns. I will not be giving my real name to anyone on this platform (just personal preference) but you can call me ray (like the manta ray)

What I write:

Call of duty in the future I hope to expand this list

Requests:

On / Off

What will I refuse to write?:

Age regression,pedophilia,baby trapping,domestic abuse,teen/adult relationships, (I’ll add.)

Rules:

racism, homophobia, or sexism is not tolerated under any means. No minors if your age is not easily accessible you will be blocked. (I’ll add.)

My blocked list

Other creators works:

Gaz Price Ghost

Graves Soap Konig

Alejandro Alex Keller Farah

Rudy Kate

Help people out:

Mothana - @mothymunson

Ellie’s go fund me - @stargirlrchive

Car help - @stuffireadandenjoy

Daily click

Esims for Gaza

Donate feminine hygiene kits

Learn about Palestine

Extras

Discord server - @gothghostiie

Toby’s twitch - @tobytaco15

Food - @112-darling , @parksrway , @regalvoid , @robotics5

My writings:

Ghost

Dividers made by: @cafekitsune , @saradika

Price fics from other creators

Red= dark fic

Orange- fem reader

Green- g/n Reader

Purple- male reader

? - I'm not exactly sure

(I’ll keep adding DONT get mad bc there may be more than others..)

Pub crawl - @the-goddess-of-mischief-writing ?

Collage boyfriend price - @tfone4one

Nightly endeavors - @tocka-ibris

Concentrate - @the-goddess-of-mischief-writing

Fire watch - @roosterr

Reprieve - @sprout-fics

Falling asleep on him - @witchthewriter (tf141 included)

Retirement party - @sentientcave (tf141 included)

Price wants his birdie to fly away - @dumbbitchgalore

It’s a match! - @going-to-ikea-for-the-fries

Honeymoon with old man price - @dumbbitchgalore

Sweet tooth - @bookbrokelibrarian

Retired John price - @letsnotperceive

Cheater price - @ungodlybre

Smoke filled kisses - @tocka-ibris ?

Mouth watering sun dress - @squishycheekanon

Dividers by - @cafekitsune

Header by - Pinterest

[COD MW2 HCS] 141 + Los Vaqueros + König with a Neutral Gender! Writer! Reader

A/N : How come we never see a Reader as a writer in whatever fandom - or am I blind - in headcanons ? I mean... So many people writing amazing fanfictions or headcanons on this platform or everywhere else and... No ? Really ? We’re talking about a military Reader here, by the way. 

TW : none (for once) except the ugly typos you may encounter. Only one very little mention of smutty litterature 

John “Soap” MacTavish 

So... Let’s start with our lovely Scottish sergeant 

It is apparently canon that he likes to draw on a small notebook he keeps with him dearly. 

So he knows. He is acquainted with the ‘writer’s zone’ we flee into when inspiration holds us within its graceful arms. When the images of action flood through out brain when a stroke of genius light up our features and how we appear lost in some kind of parallel universe only us are able to interact with (well... it’s how it looks like for me, feel free to comment - writer or not - how your imagination works) 

However, Soap is mostly aware about the tropes and what we can consider as the technical side of writing such as relashionship dynamics for your characters - if it implies the said relashionships - 

I think he is the kind to prefer roomates universes because of the domesticity he is able to find there and friendship warms his heart. Although, that’s just an impression. 

He is actually the biggest help out of the 141 because when he draws he also uses the codes of his type of creation for his cute doodles you suspect him to scribble on the yellowed paper of his little diary. 

He knows what it is to lack of insipiration, even though he tends to throw his thoughts on the paper and reproduces his surroundings. 

He appreciates the smallest details that compose his world. He notices them all. 

But I digress. 

You two share a world not so accessible for the rest of the team. When you talk about [Insert fiction character of trope here] in a very specific context, the others gaze at you confused. 

More than writing, it is a little sweet thing you two share and you would never lose that for anything in the world.

Simon “Ghost” Riley 

He... Understands... Not like Soap. He doesn’t have that much imagination. 

He gets it is your hobby. It is as valuable as any other activity. 

Simon thinks it’s cute in some way. You, lost in thought, next to him, about and into something he can’t quite grasp. And a sheet of paper or the blank screen of an app on your tablet or whatever device you judged comfortable.

At first, you asked for his help about some details, or his opinion, or his advice. Then, you understood he was too down-to-earth and wounded by his abusive past to allow himself to relax this way next to you. 

Yet, you used your hobby as a way to stay with him as a support. He had just to tug a bit at your sleeve and all your attention would be on him. 

It was the first step. 

You understood quickly that your writing might be able to help him unwind and finally get comfortable. 

You write him silly stories, made for him to laugh, or to smile at least. It wasn’t a big deal, just fables. You have no idea what he does with it. You just hope it enables him to dream even if just during the day like a fleeting thought clinging to him. A distant echo of something nice his heart and his memory agreed on keeping dearly underneath his leaden shell. 

You also may be the one reading your own stories to him. But the mistakes, the inconsistencies or the lack of meaning and every little flaws in your writing may appear much more visible once clearly uttered. 

By dint of effort, you manage to soften him a bit. He doesn’t want to ask you if he could read either what you are writing or if you have something for him. However, he eventually hopes within the depth of his heart that he can flee from reality for a few minutes. 

He is so grateful to you even though he is bitter on the fact he can’t bring you much constructive criticism. 

Kyle “Gaz” Garrick 

Another one who understands one might have such a hobby but he may not relate. 

I don’t see Gaz as someone who reads a lot. It’s just not his thing. He’ll read for sport news or something related to one of his own hobbies. 

I guess he doesn’t have the patience to sit somewhere comfortable and allow his mind to wander this way thanks to your words. 

Except maybe when he desperately needs to unwind and his thoughts are too noisy so he needs to occupy his plagued mind with something totally different. 

However, he is curious about the creation process. 

He’ll ask about your ‘tools’ after you explain to him that your scenario and elements of the story doesn’t entirely pop out of thin air and you may have to rethink and to shape your ideas to make up a story both understandable and enjoyable. 

He laughs when he notices about your nonsensical Internet history. How can it be so weird ? And then, he remembers what kinds of research he does when the night isn’t kind to him and he doesn’t laugh anymore.

Sometimes, your brain amazes him. You sound so cool when you take the time to explain some of your ideas. 

Kyle is awesome at helping you for worldbuilding. He has a lot of imagination when he manages to leave his military universe on the side and peeks at yours. 

He is an excellent beta reader since he is actually very neutral about writing in general and he’ll try to give you the most help possible when you ask him. Too short ? Too long ? Not enough or too much emphasis on a detail ? He just aims at your betterment ! 

John Price 

You are a writer ? Well... As long as you do your duty you can be whatever you want. 

He is neutral with the idea of you being a writer. He is a soldier before anything. And a leader at that. He’ll support you because Captain Dad... I mean... Captain Price always supports his team but sometimes the said team gives a hard time to his comprehension and patience. 

You’re mostly quiet, with music for your ears, typing or penning something on a sheet of paper. Moreover, it seems like you have some sort of natural distance with Soap’s or Gaz’s - or both - usual chaos. 

Price has to say that it amazes him how you are distant of everything when you are in what Soap would call a writer’s fever. 

By the way, he happens to watch over you both when Soap draws and you write on the couch of the common room. If you both eventually show him what you created - if you don’t he will not force you - he’ll gaze at you like a proud momma duck despite his best behavior. 

He is mostly the one staring in disbelief as you use vocabulary, tropes, imaginary events for your own type of art since he can’t understand it even though you all speak the same language. 

Price notices very early you are a skilled writer, or at least you have some experience. The reports he gets from you are probably the best from the soldiers he got under his orders. He might have something to say about the spelling and the shape of your letters if you give him handwritten reports. Depends on you I guess. 

He will not ask to read what you write. You can call that the appropriate distance induced by hierarchy. You remain soldiers. You may as well act like it. 

Sometimes, you’d like his opinion. An outside point of view about your work is always good, no ? Well... John Price has a Ghost syndrome. He is annoyingly ass deep in his military life. Hence, he faces a very limited imagination except when it comes to interrogate an enemy. 

The worst about him is that he could be an amazing beta reader. Constructive criticism and probably giving you ways to improve yourself in what you already are so good at. 

Just give him time. He’ll get interested one way or another. First, you may try to be closer emotionally to him. Might be a good start to go past this military hierarchy and to know what his tastes are to get his heart beat only at the tone of your phrasing with your unique talent 

Rodolfo Parra 

He thinks it’s so cool to have a hobby as enjoyable as he thinks you have just by the way you act when you are writing. 

Rudy doesn’t have the time to delve that deeply into a hobby. Los Vaqueros constantly demand his attention. However, when he gets the time he - like Gaz - tries to ask about the process of writing. He even tries to write by himself. 

You explained about the tropes and dynamics and he seemed to get it immediately. Childhood friends to lovers is his favorite one by the way. 

It was just a little story he came up with. It was the first thing that stuck to his imagination, appearing out of an obscure place of his brain. It was uncertain, somewhat shaky but simple and, in a way, adorable.  

He almost took it personally when you said this small piece of text was just like him. 

However, before you sink even deeper in awkwardness, you dismissed this last interaction and tried to correct him the best you could. 

After that, he was looking forward the little time when you could write with him and he could learn. Another thing, it’s quiet around you, focused, relaxed. Alejandro knows where to find him when he is looking for his right hand. 

He could be an amazing beta reader if he wasn’t so kind. He forgives you everything. “Have you noticed inconsistencies or flaws ?” you’d ask. “Maybe a little something here but I’m sure it’s me” he’d reply. Unnerving, right ? The gentlest reader but you don’t need him to be so nice. You need him to be observant. 

He also comes up with very simple ideas when it comes to writing but his way of apprehending things has something one can’t quite describe. My closest synonym would be a vibe, something like raw talent that only needs to be explored thoroughly. It resembles to cutting a diamond, sharpen the edges to make it glistening and precious. 

His imagination is not too chaotic but his thinking and reasoning develops and fill in the gaps of his originality. 

Anyways, Rudy is amazing. As always. 

Alejandro Vargas 

There has to be one who does not take you very seriously. Well... It is Alejandro. The Mexican colonel is... something else, to say the least. He considered himself a man of action and not a man of words. So, to him, whatever you were doing with those scraps of paper during your free time was none of his business. 

He’ll try some kind of joke with you writing nasty things in the secret of that little head of yours. Two answers now. “No, colonel, I’m not into writing that kind of litterature” would be the first reponse with a hint of scorn hidden behind your deadpan aspect. 

The second answer though... “Yeah ! I write smut ! Now that we’re talking about that, do you mind if I use your features for my next...” and then you proceed to make a very descriptive, thoroughly explained speech about your imaginary Alejandro and what you planned him to do in this small story of yours. The point was to make the colonel embarassed. Although, it worked better on Rudy who went blushing like a tomato. 

If you choose the second option, it will end up in nasty jokes each time you meet each other. This silly game is absolutely unsufferable for everyone making the mistake to listen to you. 

If anything, your relashionship suffers from this disregard. You didn’t ask Alejandro’s appreciation, hardly tolerance even but it left a sort of bitter taste. Rudy is... Kinder. More understanding. 

However, what happens is that you tend to be consequently more distant from Alejandro. It may have been a silly joke about a pastime of yours but writing is so personal that it was as if he made a joke about your own self and this was intolerable. He had no business disrespecting you this way. 

Beyond that, you banished him from your writing process. His opinion, his hypothetical help, what he might like to see within a story - doesn’t matter how silly it may be - he was no part of it. 

If he changes his mind, you’d tend to retort him something alike “Let’s stay in our own field of expertise colonel. Let me dream about my stories. And you, dream about chasing El Sin Nombre. Good fences make good neighbors as one says”. 

Something that also might happen is that Rudy’s new habit of unwinding with you quietly in the common room and having long conversations with you about that hobby you were now both sharing made him feel weird. Alejandro was surely passionate and admitting he’s wrong - at least for this - was no part of his character but this was the proof he should’ve acted differently. The realisation took its time but he eventually accepts the fact he made an asshole of himself. 

He’ll apologise when he catches you alone, writing. Now the question may be about how much time do you want to play with him for having been such an arse. 

Eventually, Alejandro learns his lesson and he even asks you to read what you write. When he’s done, he is so silent, gawking. You laugh at him. 

König 

Our gigantic, adorable Austrian operator is a book worm. It’s horrendous. The heavy bullying he has been a victim got him to be safe between the shelves of library. The scent of old paper and the calm of the library got him out of his skin, journeying between worlds out of his appalling daily life. He was typically the dreamy, lonely kid who had characters inside his head as sole company. 

So yeah. Books mean relief, respite, getaway for him as well as a way to heal himself from the pain he received from his classmates or whoever hurt him in his younger days. 

He doesn’t have much time for reading anymore and these books are a little too bulky for the small package he was allowed to have. So having you near him is like a blessing. He can talk out his thoughts.  

Beyond writing, it is the vibe around you that convinces him to sit next to you in the common room. He tried to make himself small, to not take too much of the couch but you couldn’t deny his thigh touching yours. You raised your head and smiled at him. König did not utter a single word, already flustered to fail at conversing. But, as time goes on - and after numerous times he just sat next to you enabling himself to move a muscle - you made most of the conversation. He felt almost immediately at ease. 

You two daydream together now, talking about little things always related to writing or reading. It is also a way to relax after close calls and the danger of being killed. 

He is the KING at worldbuilding. König has always several ideas coursing through his brain. His mind is sometimes chaotic, full of details. He gave you the impression once that telling the history of one of this world would create a great saga on it own. Moreover, König is so passionate about these little bouts of thoughts put together. 

He is also very aware about tropes and dynamics. His favorite of the latter is the small protector x the big shy character because he can relate. And he also has a soft post for a good ol’ mutual pining or a hypothetical love at first sight - as unlikely as it seems in real life - 

He doesn’t try to write with you though. He knows he is not too good at this, which is weird considering the tremendous amount of time he can spend while reading. Although, König knows he may have a chance if he writes in German. It depends on you being able to understand him or not.

König is also a dissatisfactory beta reader, different from Rudy though. He doesn’t dare utter what he judges as flaws because he thinks he’d lose you. He is so happy to be the first reading whatever you are working on because it makes him feel so special. 

He always supports you and tries to relax you when pangs of frustration creeps inside your mind because your writing doesn’t go the way you plan it to be. 

Just like with Soap, what you two have is not understandable by the people around you. What’s more is that König’s anxious nature tends to keep you both distant from the people outside of your little bubble. 

Just a Little Lie: Prologue

Think about it: Imagine a reader that meets the boys of 141 as a “civilian”. They don’t want to run off yet another man that finds them intimidating because of their military background. So they act dumb, assuming they can keep their career secret at least long enough to make a go of this new situationship. Until it gets them into trouble once they’re assigned to a new taskforce.

A/N: I know Ghost and Soap only show up from MW2 onwards - just let me have this!

Keeping this deliberately vague until character specific chapters start. Think of it like a dating sim where you choose your route after the prologue I guess 😛

Also I can almost guarantee setting up the context for this here in the prologue is going to be so much longer than chapters going forward - I apologise in advance darlings!

*All* Y/Ns in my fics are GN! unless requested otherwise - pet names inbound but nothing specifically gendered. Slow burn - eventual smut. Canon Typical Violence starting from Chapter 1.

Word Count: 3925

MINORS: DNI (I swear to god)

—-

It had been going on for maybe three or four months now. And almost a month at least of back and forth banter over text, of coffee dates and dinners when his schedule allowed. A month of thinly veiled flirting and touches that could almost be taken as friendly as you got to know each other. Or, as you got to know him anyway. He’d been upfront that his work was in some way attached to the military (most likely an active service member), and while you knew he couldn’t really discuss more - he didn’t know you knew that. So with a look of awe and confusion you’d been innocently fishing. Purely innocent of course.

When you initially met at the cafe round the corner from your flat you didn’t know he was a fellow soldier. Which is precisely how you had gotten to this point. Perhaps if you had known you could have avoided the pretence and half truths you’d fed him with a head tilt and a smile. You couldn’t find a man within your own unit, that was beyond unacceptable for multiple reasons. And far too often you found yourself opening up to someone new when on your brief stints of leave only for him to go quiet and disappear once he knew you could handle a knife. Or a gun, or even a grenade if need be. Completely understandable in hindsight - though no less disheartening in the moment once you realised messages were either being left unread or in some cases blocked from delivering. So you found yourself wanting to get to know this new guy first, at least a little while before dropping the proverbial bombshell on him.

He was well built, that’s for sure, and held himself in a rigid posture that you should have noticed right away from your own days standing to attention in front of your captain. But his eyes caught yours instantly when you met - a startling intensity that held you rooted to the spot as you both reached for the same cup sitting on the counter that afternoon. You hadn’t been paying much attention in fairness. Far too caught up in a conversation that was clearly going nowhere fast, and somehow too in your phone to even realise that you weren’t the only patron waiting for your drink in the quiet shop. Hands collided and you found your eyes darting from the cup up to his face, apologies rushing out of your lungs as you lost your breath suddenly, barely managing a pathetic “Oh”.

“Sorry Y/N, machine is acting up - still waiting on your shots.” you vaguely heard from the older woman behind the bar, sounds a little muffled against the sound of your own heartbeat.

“No, not at all! Was away with the fairies I think.” a quick glance back to the mystery man in front of you “Apologies sir”.

“No problem, Y/N was it?” The last part came with a chuckle that sent an embarrassing tingle down your spine, barely contained by the tension you were still holding in your shoulders.

You couldn’t remember quite how the conversation had gotten started from there. But you did learn that he was also a regular to this little spot as you took up a seat near the draughty doorway. It was frankly surprising how you’d both missed each other up till this point really. It was a totally friendly chat about the quality of the cafe for the low price, and some of the other places to eat and drink around the local arena, but it was nice. Comfortable even. If you hadn’t received a call from your captain to check in on you while you were on leave you’d have stayed longer. You honestly didn’t expect to see him again as you stepped out to take the call, and it seemed he had places to be given the way he looked down at his own phone. Yet there he was when you walked in only a few days later. You aren’t even sure now who joked that you should swap numbers if you were going to keep bumping into each other like this, but you’re glad it happened.

—-

And that was how it started. A quick message from one of you to say you were out and about that day, and a reply from the other to suggest either your cafe or somewhere else to catch up. A text to say you’d gotten home safe after seeing him for an hour or so (at his insistence), followed by at least a dozen texts talking about the fun you had seeing each other and how you needed to do this again. Questions asking when you’d each be free next - and total understanding that work got in the way and you might be away for a few days from you both. You were purely on a first name basis, and you were comfortable with that. Work began picking up again and you hadn’t assumed he would be anything but a casual friend. No need to get too attached in your line of work. Especially if your prior romantic endeavours were any indication.

A data analyst, that’s what you’d decided to tell him when he asked about your work almost a fortnight after meeting him. You were called into different places as part of a rolling contract so you were never sure exactly where you were heading next. And it wasn’t too far off from the truth in all honesty. You’d always been skilled with computers and your ability to notice patterns in seemingly nonsensical data sets had been noticed not long after you enlisted. While you were trained for the front lines, you quickly found yourself pulled back by your superior officers at the academy. A sergeant for sure, but you often found yourself behind a screen coordinating units and monitoring traffic from the other side. Not too much of a stretch to some sort of number jockey in an office somewhere you felt. And you were certainly starting to enjoy this new man’s company. No need to scare him off. Though as time went by you were quickly coming to the realisation that very little seemed to faze him.

You thought about telling him, truthfully. You had been sitting on an admittedly damp bench outside a kebab shop late one evening, both of you back in late from work and neither of you in the mood for anything other than quick and greasy food. He beat you to the punch though. And oh how it sent you spinning as you realised what you were getting yourself into.

“So, Y/N, I’ve been meaning to tell you,” he paused as he shovelled in another mouthful of donner meat with one of those crappy little wooden sporks, “about what I do for work I mean”. You were caught a little off guard, having been waiting for a moment to come clean yourself, your own spork full of curry covered chips halted precariously half way between the styrofoam container and your mouth.

“Yeah? You’ve been a little vague on that one” you murmured after a short pause, quickly blowing on your food and taking a bite as it threatened to fall off the disposable utensil. You got a small “hmph” and a nudge from his thigh for that one, a cheeky smirk falling into place for both of you. He had mentioned travelling for work himself, and combined with some oddly familiar tendencies he was showing, you had a gnawing feeling that you knew where this was going.

“Well yeah, I can only apologise for that. Didn’t really know how to bring it up.”

“You make it sound like you do something scary when you say it like that. What are you, some sort of assassin for hire?” The joke earned you a half-hearted glare and a full but playful shove from his shoulder, sending you too far to the edge of the bench as you slid across the wet surface. The size difference was most notable in moments like these - this wasn’t the first time he almost sent you flying in playful moments when he pushed you around.

“Oh shit, sorry” he linked a quick finger into the belt loop of your jeans and hauled you back next to his side with ease before you even had the chance to begin to topple over in what would have been a hilarious fall into a cold puddle.

“Really though, I didn’t want to scare you off when we were getting on so well, but I’ll be off for work again and gone for a while soon enough. Didn’t want you to think I was ghosting you or something.” The quirk of his lips as he mentioned that last part gave you the feeling that there was meant to be an inside joke there, but nothing you could place. “I’m involved in some military shit, and I’m shipping out in a few days. Only getting a few days break then back at it again.”

“Military?” You asked, hoping beyond hope that the surprise in your voice could be played off as you recovering from your near tumble, “Should’ve guessed I suppose. Normal guys aren’t built like you unless they’re in the gym 24/7, and I take up far too much of your free time for that” poking your spork into his upper arm as if to indicate what a brick wall it was. The joke seemed to disarm him somewhat as he broke into a wide open-mouthed grin, his tongue pressing against his upper canine in the way you had come to realise meant he was trying not to laugh.

“That you do Y/N. Between that and all the food we eat it’s lucky I fit in my uniform.”

“You suggested the kebab shop, I could have been convinced to cook tonight.”

“Oh? I could have had you cooking dinner for me tonight? I’m devastated.”

You turned your face away quickly at that, the way you always did when the flirting became a little too obvious. Internally though, your mind was reeling. Fuck. While he may have been a little vague on his profession he hadn’t outright lied, you had. The idea of admitting that to him felt like a terrible idea right now. The moment was nice, and you were hardly about to ruin it by telling him you were a soldier.

But the pieces were clicking into place. The way he stood ramrod straight next to you as you placed your order, shoulders back and chest out with his hands clasped at the small of his back. The way he kept his eyes moving around as he surveyed the drunken uni students stumbling into the kebab shop behind you. They way he almost jumped out his own skin when a car had backfired in the next street over as you found a place to sit, moving in front of you as he searched for the source of the noise, head practically on a swivel. This man had seen combat.

Not a part of your squad though. There was no way you would have missed him if you had spotted him out in the field or in the barracks. No way in hell. This was fine, wasn’t it? If you weren’t on the same team then nothing had to change, not really. Your work was classified, sure, but if you explained that then really nothing had to stop here. Couldn’t be counted as fraternising if you didn’t actually work together.

You realised you were being too quiet though, too caught up in your thoughts, and you could feel his hot stare on you as if expecting you to find a reason to bolt. Quickly turning back to look up at him and tilting your head in just the right way that your hair fell in front of your face you said, “I’m not sure dragging back an attractive military man to my flat for dinner is the best idea,” the way he froze in that moment had you quickly continuing “especially only a few days from shipping out. I can’t imagine giving you something to be distracted about while you’re meant to be working is the best idea.” That one was certainly a home truth. Far too often he had been in your mind at the most inopportune moments behind your screen lately. The pause felt like it was stretching on into eternity, and you really worried you pushed too far over whatever invisible line you had both drawn between the two of you.

“You say that like you haven’t been enough of a distraction already Y/N.” the softness in his voice had you breathless. His food sat on his lap, held so loosely in his grip that you were sure it was going to spill onto the cobbles at your feet. Fuck indeed. You could feel the words rising up in your throat the way a sob would, desperate to get out that you understood far too well what he meant. That your captain had been ready to pull you aside after one too many daydream towards the end of a meeting. But the words caught and you couldn’t say a thing, not when he went back to stabbing mindlessly at his rapidly cooling food. Not when he was already being far more open and raw than anyone else had been in such a long time.

There wasn’t much more said between you as you ate, stolen glances between you conveying more than words could in that moment. Something was brewing between you both tonight that was clouding the air, thick tension that seemed all too easily snapped if you so much as breathed too loudly. Something had changed in just a few words that was sending you down a new path in whatever this was. Casual friends didn’t find themselves staring at each other from the corner of their eyes, that much you knew. All too quickly you found yourselves finished with your food and walking down the road to your flat, and you had barely spoken more than a few words to each other in that time. Any chance you had of telling him tonight flew out the proverbial window and was replaced with a sinking thought that you should have done so earlier.

“Well then,” you hated the way that your voice practically croaked its way out of your throat as you stood outside the door to your building, “I guess unless either of us get called in early we’ll need to meet up again before you ship out.”

“Of course. It’s uh, it’s getting late though I suppose. Going to leave you here and get back to mine.”

“Yeah, absolutely. I had fun again tonight, by the way.” Practically a whisper against the wind. His hands twitched at his sides, the way they would as if wanting to reach out and grab something, stopped only by great effort if the way his jaw clenched was any indication.

“You did?” A deep breath and a near shuddering exhale.

“I always do when I’m with you.” Your hand came up to rest on his arm, squeezing gently against his bicep as if daring the tension to break.

“Good.” Was all you got before he practically dove in, lips to yours with a searing heat that almost knocked you back against the door. His hands were on your jaw, pulling you into him, desperation practically rolling off him in that moment. Like you would slip through his fingers at any moment if he didn’t hold you right here. You broke contact for just a split second to take a must needed breath before kissing back with equal intensity, you weren’t entirely sure who made the “mmph” sound as your lips collided again. I have to tell him, you thought - pushing further into the kiss.

And as if the universe had planned to ruin the moment, you heard your phones ring. Both of them, with the insistent ringtones you both knew to be from your respective employers. The same employers apparently. He pulled back as if stunned, slapped back into reality by the shrill mash-up of your phones against the quiet of the late night street. Phones were pulled from pockets as you both stared down at incoming calls. A near hysterical laugh ripped itself from you as you slumped against the door behind you. Four months to get a kiss from the gorgeous man in front of you and you get a call right now?

“I have to take this-”

“Gotta take this call-”

A chuckle from him, and he steps back, the cold swirling up your front as his heat leaves you.

“Later?” He holds up the phone to you, you know he can’t just not take this. Neither can you to be fair.

“Definitely later.” He smiles then turns to head down the road to his own flat as you turn to quickly let yourself into your building, your phone between your shoulder and your ear as you fumble with the keys. You manage to get inside and answer your call before it goes to voicemail.

“Sergeant Smith? Is this a good time?” You get the main door closed behind you.

“Yes Captain Harrison, what’s happened?” Taking your stairs two at a time to put distance between yourself and the world outside.

“I know you were meant to be on leave for at least a week but something’s come up. We’ve had a request for a temporary transfer from the higher ups. They need a fresh pair of eyes on information coming out of the Middle East and your file was pulled. Just warning you now,” You were at your flat door now, key in the lock as you waited - your Captain took an uncharacteristic pause, “you’ll be receiving a call within the next 10 minutes from a Kate Laswell from the CIA to discuss briefing and your flight out.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been loaned out to another unit Sir, even if they were American. I’m not sure why you sound so apprehensive this time around.” You were inside your small flat at this point, jacket shrugged off and thrown over your duffel bags, still unpacked from your flight earlier today. Looks like they would be staying that way.

“I don’t know much about this unit, Sergeant, in all honesty. More of a task force from what I understand. By the sounds of it, it will all be heavily classified.” Well, if your interest wasn’t piqued before - it was now.

“What task force Sir?”

“141, under Captain John Price, SAS.”

—-

The next few days were a whirlwind. Briefings were had and official transfers were sought and approved. You barely had time to hit the ground running as you found yourself on a rather nondescript hangar base. Which, to be fair, was entirely understandable given the classified nature of task force 141 as you came to realise. You barely had time in all the madness to text your apologies to your man (your man?) that “later” would have to be once you both got back from whatever work you both had. He had been slow to respond, but knowing now that he was likely getting ready to go back out into the field you could understand. You really hoped he was as equally patient with yourself. Your access to your phone was going to be severely restricted once on base. Highly classified information and all.

You found yourself walking alongside Laswell following a quick but firm handshake, duffel over one shoulder and military assigned tablet under the other as you marched away from the helicopter that still had its engines running as it powered down on the tarmac. Soldiers were running across the field and between outbuildings. Whatever was going on had everyone in a rush, and that was never a good sign.

“You’ll receive a full briefing from Captain Price inside Sergeant, but just to get you up to speed,” her blue eyes squinting against the sun as she turned her head to you, “we lost custody of chemical gases in Verdansk less than a week ago. We have reason to believe they will surface again in the Middle East but there’s too much chatter in our communication channels to be sure where. You’ll be both here and in the field getting those chemicals secure before they hit friendly soil.”

“Understood - just tell me where to go to get set up.” She pointed her arm to a tent to the right of you, pace never slowing as she led you through the flaps. Inside were a group of three standard issue white folding tables in a “U” formation in front of a large screen, and you set your bag and tablet down on the one closest. You straightened as Laswell made her way to the front where a group of four uniformed soldiers stood huddled around said screen, shoulders back, feet apart and chin high. You could barely make out the hushed voices of the men ahead of you but held position, ever the good soldier. Ahead of you, you could see a tall imposing man in some sort of mask, though with his back to you it wasn’t obvious if it covered his full face. Next to him stood a man with a mohawk, his short sleeve shirt a major contrast to the full tactical gear of the man next to him. Off to the right stood a black man with short cropped hair, his baseball cap pulled low. Finally there was the man you assumed to be Captain Price, if the way the men kept turning to him was any indication, boonie hat covering the top half of his face and an unlit cigar hanging from his mouth.

Out of the four men standing ahead of you, you recognised one of them far too well for comfort, having had a good look at his back as he walked away from the door to your building only a few days ago. After he kissed you like he was scared to lose you, after he told you he was a soldier outside a crappy little kebab shop and you just sat there and let him keep believing you were just a data analyst. Shit. The rising panic in your chest threatened to bubble over into fear, and you found your knees beginning to shake. Not that you were given much time to think about the impending consequences.

“Captain Price,” the man with a boonie hat tilted his head in acknowledgment of Laswell as she reached him, “Sergeant Smith has arrived and is waiting for briefing.”

Four sets of eyes turned to you, but you only focused on one. Pleasant professionalism turned to surprise, then shock, and finally grave understanding as you stood there, near shaking like a leaf in the wind in front of him. You felt far too small in your standard issue boots, and your hands that were clutched to the front of your tactical vest longed to wrap around you at that moment. If the ground could have opened up and swallowed you whole in that moment you would have been more than happy. You could tell the colour had drained from your face, that you looked like you had just been shot, again, a more pleasant idea than the current situation you found yourself in at the moment.

“Y/N?”

Shit.

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.

(This is another one of those random things that just insert into my brain for no reason at random times. A few sentences of smut at the end so MDNI) Imagine you just got married to him and basically you're still on your honeymoon/holiday thingamob. And you're making soup but you accidentally drop the hot bowl on the floor and you accidentally cut your hand. He rushes up to you, helps you clean and cleans up the little cut- it's not too serious (but he's still overreacting). Anyways, after doing that, he just sees you in your little pyjamas, and the next thing you know you're bent over the counter and he's inside you, kissing the cut on your palm as he thrusts into you, :)

(Should i make this into a fic or not?)

JJK: Yuuji (aged up), Gojo, and maybe Geto (not Kenjaku) CoD: Konig, Price, Gaz, Soap, (probably anyone from tf141 tbh)

He's the type that would go around using "missus" for everything

Holiday Season

pairing. obsessed!141 / polar bear-hybrid!reader *scenario/headcanons

note. gender neutral reader. reader is physically described to be 6ft or over. common hybrid features such as animal ears, tail, nose, claws, and paw pads.

cw. unhealthy relationships/yandere themes, meat and blood mentions, a lot of eating from hands mentions, a weird type of infantilization, big bad bear is called cute a stupid amount of times, dangerous but passive reader, vague made-up base because i watch too many movies.

Holed up in the middle of fucking nowhere, Alaska, the white wasteland. That's how the 141 were going to spend the merry month of December. Endless snow in sight and no family to be found. A complete and utter joke of a holiday season.

It scarcely matters, the food that's been stored, the dense furniture they've been given, even the solace they find in each other. It's miserable out here. The freeze is always licking at their skin, seeping through their layered clothes to cling to the exposed nape. It's their constant company.

Yet, something else bothers them. A hint that only their trained eyes could catch in their misery. An entity, perhaps, something that follows the men without rest. It's a shadow of winter, blanketing itself around the base and leaving its warmth with no trace to its next destination. Only something another human could pull off.

Dishes left strewn on the counter are returned to their cupboards, clean and scrubbed. Leftovers are consistently missing a bite more than what Soap remembers wolfing the night before. If a blanket or pillow goes missing, best bet it doesn't come back. It doesn't take much convincing for Price to round up his boys to find out the root of their question. Not when they've nothing else to do.

It's Soap who finds you first. Rummaging through the fridge with a plastic container in your hands, that adorable black nose covered in spaghetti sauce. He wonders how they didn't hear you sooner with the way you carelessly scarf down the contents. You remind him a little of himself...

Little round ears perk up at the sound of his gasp. Soap freezes in place as your head cranes back to inspect him. Eyes staring at him with indifference, a lone noodle stuck to your cheek and tomato red staining your considerably large teeth. Sharp and big, enough to poke out from your mouth and dig into your chapped bottom lip. A similarly large grayish-blue tongue swipes out to clean the damning evidence.

So. Fucking. Cute.

Johnny is thanking the names of every God he knows when you let him lead you by hand to his team. A new warmth flows through his body, lighting up his dormant nerves in the winter night, your thick black claws prodding into his rough skin. You must be a docile ol' thing, obediently following him to his buddies, though only after he bribes you with more meals to come. He'll cook up the whole damn kitchen if it means you trail him like this daily.

Ghost is sure that Johnny's the one hiding furry ears and a tail when he rushes over like a dog with a fresh new bone. That, and he's more crazy than he imagined dragging over what looks to be a six foot something polar bear hybrid right his way. Ghost doesn't forget things easily, and he's confident that said bears are known to be the most eager predators in the presence of flesh. Not just by circumstance, no, by nature.

A strange thought does pop up in head. That fluffy white tail you sport catches his eye for longer than he'd like to admit. He wonders. If he offered up a nice, raw chunk of seal to you, would it wag in anticipation? Would your ears twitch at the sounds of his boots crunching in the snow, bringing you yet another delicious catch? He could be the perfect provider for you, he thinks. Maybe even have you hunt alongside him, a bonding ritual of sorts. Blood all over your mouth, allowing only Simon to dab away at your chin with a towel. What a sight to behold. Two predators in the same room.

Gaz takes a step away before doing the exact opposite a minute later. You're not just some wild animal, and he's half worried he just disrespected you to your face (you didn't see it). Any bit of nervousness he had melts away when you gently push your nose into his warm hands. He was going for a handshake, but this is surprisingly preferred. Seems he missed wiping some the cocoa from a recent pot of hot chocolate. He hadn't expected you to be so... soft. If you want more, he's got a heap of cookies hidden away in his room. No issue with you visiting him for a late night snack. Christ, he'll even handfeed you if you're feeling lazy, no worries.

Captain Price nearly drops the flimsy cup of coffee held in his gloved hands. Fucking giant thing you are. He nearly drops it again when your nose takes a sharp turn to the smell of his beverage. Not picky, are you... He'll keep note of that for later. From the looks of it, you're adapting well to the chaos of his batch, sniffing and patiently waiting for Soap to release you from his iron grip on your paw pad. He also takes note of what your wearing almost immediately, Arctic grade parka wrapped around your waist in favor of standard workwear, more akin to a jumpsuit than winter gear. Unbelievable. However, that does explain it now. You work here.

It makes sense, considering you're one of the more volatile hybrids. So many people, including your bosses, are uneasy about the predators. It must've been particularly bad for you. Hiding you away in a big and lonely base to eat dinner at an empty table. The world unable to appreciate you for what you are.

Price on the other hand, he knows his boys like the back of his hand. They understand your type. Would take you in without judgement or fear. Indulge you. Feed you fat red meat from calloused palms and let you lap at the warm blood still dripping on the snow. Gladly clean the droplets that stain your pure white parka. Make you warm.

This month's obsession : dragon! price

Oh, Honey! (Bumblebee! Reader x Monster! 141)

General Warnings: Mostly fluff. Reader is female and is described as rather small and chubby. Reader is clumsy. Reader has a very large family. Characters may act out of character. Poor grammar is likely. Cussing. Part 1??? Note: Monster! 141 belongs to @bluegiragi

~~~~

Price watches you through the window.

Truthfully, he isn't sure how he and his team ended up here. One day they were being chased by a bloody team of zombies/cannon fodder, the next- he's laying on this extremely cozy bed (although it is a bit small) with his wounds nicely patched. Soap has gone hunting with the other women. Ghost is satisfied that they're all safe in this... rather massive cottage and has been snoring away in the next room for the past hour. Gaz has told him that he's going to just fly around and keep an eye out- just in case if the enemies somehow find themselves through the dense woods and into this clearing.

They really were lucky, Price thinks. According to you, the woods were a force themselves. Navigating through it, especially at night, is practically impossible. Compasses don't work. There's no signal and, of course, any type of aircraft just fail here. The woods are miles long and unless you packed enough supplies- it's suicide to dive back in and try to find your way out. It's just that sometimes the woods can help you, and sometimes the woods just gives you Mother Nature's middle finger and kills you. So there's that.

Naturally, the team was suspicious.

1) The explanation made no sense. 2) They were just outnumbered by a ton of enemies and to stumble upon this welcoming lot is... well, it's too good to be true, yeah? 3) You and your family are just way too happy. 3.1) There are no guys in your family. Your mother stated that men generally just wandered in, the family would treat them, and then they go away by themselves after a few nights. 3.2) Honestly, all of you look the same. Maybe there's like, a difference in hairstyles, body types, and obvious age gaps between the women here and there, but Jesus… Gaz has already made the mistake of confusing you, your cousins, your many sisters, and other random girls multiple times last night. 3.3) Scratch out the 'massive cottage' you guys claimed it to be. It's a mansion. Your 'family' is very large. There are many aunts, other women, cousins, other girls that were adopt into the family- Just no men. All living under the same roof and might as well be an army itself with how efficient you all did your tasks.

That said, it's very rude to point guns at innocent, clueless civilians. You, an adorably chubby, little bumblebee-hybrid (identifiable by the two rather pathetic buzzing wings behind your back), opened the door to them last night and stared blankly at their guns before cheerily ushering them in without freaking your head out. Next thing they knew, they got some quality homecooked meals cooked and served before them, plenty of drink (the honey mead everyone shared is excellent), proper treatment with their wounds (with... herbs), and warm beds. Ghost had stayed up the whole night and snooped around (just in case) but reported nothing interesting except for a few old hunting rifles and some overdue library books. Yes, each girl did carry a tiny foraging knife, but he's pretty certain they could still punt them like footballs ten at a time.

Morning comes- the team properly introduce themselves without being too specific of their occupation. There was a great deal of oohing and aahing as Price unfolded his one wing. His smoke did cause one girl to faint and her mother quickly asked for Price to... stop. He did his best and has, for now, stopped smoking his cigar. Everyone just steered clear from Ghost. Many children were petting Soap's head and playing with his fluffy tail, and others were stroking Gaz's wings.

Despite all the attention, Price's gaze is always on you. Maybe it was because of the fact that he's seen you first. You were just the cutest out of all of them. He wanted to whisk you away just to squish every soft part of your body and have you cuddled up beside him in his nest back home.

He's sorely disappointed to be told that he needs to return to bed so that his wounds can heal faster. No matter. The window gives him a very nice view of the clearing outside. Some girls are tending to the farm. Others are beekeeping. Plenty have gone to the outskirts of the forest to forage or hunt. Soap has offered to go out with the girls and they gladly accepted his help. (Tomorrow, he'll get off of this bed and join everyone too.)

Right now, you're picking the berries in your garden. It's amusing to watch you. Sometimes you bend over to pluck a few pretty flowers too- he's gotten a very nice view of your plump arse here and there. He's watched you buzz your small wings to just barely get a foot in the air and pluck an apple off the tree. Oh, how he wished to simply go out to lift you up himself... Your weight would be nothing to him.

From his observations, he's smartly deduced: Your body is round. Your little wings aren't designed for distance.

He loves the way you'd burrow your nose into any flower. Sometimes you remind him of Johnny's eagerness by the way you'd get a bit too enthusiastic and faceplant into the bed of flowers to take in the scent.

Price watches you get up, bump into your cousin (or is it sister? Or is this another girl? He couldn't be arsed), and the two of you collectively squeaked and apologized at the same time. Adorable. Fascinating. Beautiful. He hasn't felt this way ever since the time he xaight the glimpse of the shiny Excalibur in that stupid rock.

The lunch horn has been blown. He's been told that today's meal would be freshly baked bread and creamy chicken with wild rice soup. There’ll be tea and coffee for the drinks.

Price wishes his lunch would just be you.

THAT'S AMAZING!!! CAN'T WAIT TO SEE HOW THE STORY DEVELOPS🤩😍😍😍

The mountain is you

Ch. 3: I hear your voice in my head

Dom Price x Fem Reader

MDNI/NSFW/18+

CW: Dom/Sub, Bondage, Sex Work, Pain Play, Spanking, Temperature Play (shower), Spit, Voice Kink, Size Kink.

(Chapter 1, Chapter 2)

AO3

You sat back on your heels with your hands folded in your lap as he walked in.  His bootsteps seemed to vibrate across the wooden floor beneath your pillow.  A steady gait, with all of the suspense of a drum roll.

As you faced the high-backed chair, you could only make out the top of him until he made his way closer into view.  He was tall enough when you were standing up.  But on the ground at his feet, he eclipsed everything else around him.  There were no windows, no ceiling.  Just his thighs giving way to his waist, his arms and shoulders. 

Your head tipped back as far as it could just to take him all in, and even then, you came up short of meeting his eyes.

“Already off to a good start, I see.  You look lovely, sweetheart.”  He appraised you in a way that was both agonizingly slow and methodically brief, as he took off his jacket and slowly rolled up his sleeves

“Thank you, sir,” you answered, to the spot on his chest where his flannel shirt opened in a V.  It earned you a quick bob of his head in approval. 

He was starting you off easy.  That much was clear.  Like a teacher on the first day of school.  Throwing you softball questions to gauge how much of the summer reading you’d done over break.  How you responded determined how far he’d push you, and which side of him you’d get.

Could he see the goosebumps spreading across your skin at the mere sound of his voice?      

“Next time, I want you to look at me when you say it.”  He bent down only slightly, aiding your efforts just enough that you could obey. 

His clear eyes glinted patiently between his dark lashes.  Dark brows, dark beard.  They were like signal fires along an unknown path.  No choice but to give yourself up and follow.

“Yes, sir.”  A slight smile pulled at the corner of your lips as the first flutter of heat worked its way from your cheeks down to the echoing emptiness in the cradle of your hips.

“Good.  I like to begin with an inspection.  To assess your readiness, and to make sure your healed from the previous session.”

“I’m ready,” you quickly admitted when his bare hand grazed against the side of your cheek.  You turned into it, starved for even the slightest touch of his roughened palm.

“And I like to take my time exploring what’s mine,” he rumbled, firmly snagging a hold of your chin.  A gesture that simultaneously chastised you for speaking out of turn, and possessively staked his claim. 

You let out a surprised breath, and he took the opening as an invitation to slip his fingers inside your parted mouth.  Two at first, and you instinctively flattened your tongue and closed around their impressive girth. 

“That’s it.”  A short hum of approval followed, as your eyes slipped closed while you sucked them deeper into your throat.  “Don’t overexert yourself just yet.  There’s plenty of time to show me how much you can take.”

He let you savor him a bit before he pulled out with a wet pop of skin and spit, and you nearly fell forward at the loss.  You licked at the salty trail his skin left behind on your lips.  

“Turn around and bend over the stool.”  He pushed a plushily upholstered ottoman closer behind you.  It was the perfect height to kneel and bend against as your arms fell over the other side. 

“Open your legs wider, don’t be shy.”  He folded up the hem of your skirt and brazenly pawed at the meat of your ass in wide circles.  You felt the stretch and pull at your exposed holes, and you wondered if the pads of his fingers were abrasive enough to leave scratches behind. 

In the way his voice had already left etchings on your mind.

“Christ, you’re soaked.  Have you been touching yourself?”  It was barely even a question, the inflection missing from his even tone.

“Yes.”  He pulled his hands away at your answer, leaving a chill in its absence, intentionally.  “Sir,” you quickly corrected.

“Good girl.”  A harsh clap to your backside was your reward.  It smarted with a sharpness that caught you off guard.  He wasn’t taking it easy anymore.  “What do think about when you play with my sweet little cunt?”  His hand returned between your legs, and with it, a probing forefinger glided along the sensitive split of your folds.

You jumped at the sensation, pulling away from the intimacy of it.  How long had it been since you were touched like this?  Ghost had only ever let you use toys on yourself.  Those were the rules, for your safety and his.  Where were the rules now?

This is what you wanted...

“This, sir,” you answered with more certainty than you felt.  Another slap, and your muscles melted into the ottoman and your legs parted wider to brace for the next impact. 

But it didn’t come.  Instead, he pulled back and cleaned off his slick smeared fingers along the side of your thigh.

“This, sweetheart, is just a warm-up,” his low, sardonic voice crooned, as his hands snagged in your hair and arched you back far enough to see him towering behind you.  The back of your head hit the front of his thighs.  “I’ll try to take it slow this time, but no promises.”

Oh fuck, he was good, you shuddered at the thought.  The unknown.  The waiting.  The surprise.  He ticked the boxes of your kink like he wrote the book himself.  Like he’d been paying attention.  You almost broke scene in your gratitude, but you kept your eyes trained up at him, wondering if he could see it written all over your face.

He must’ve, because for a moment, he broke too.  A subtle crinkle at the corners of his eyes, a brief softness that you would’ve missed if you blinked.  Just before he bent down lower, and spit on your face.

He released your hair as you sputtered in shock when it hit your closed lips with a warm splat.  Your tongue darted out to taste the small piece of himself he offered to you.  Not a kiss so much as a wad of spit on the palm to seal the deal.  A promise to take care of you.

As you moved to catch the drop that rolled down your chin, he took hold of your wrists and held them above your head.  With a quickness that left your mind spinning, he knotted a loop of smooth rope around each one, binding them together like a sturdy set of cuffs.  He slung another loop over the exposed wooden beam along the ceiling.

Handy, you thought as he tied it off with a slipknot that left you hanging up on your tip toes.  Once again, the ottoman slid underneath you, but this time you kneeled on it.  He eyed you up and down, making sure you were secure before letting go of the steadying arm at your waist.

You weren’t weightless.  You knew this about yourself.  No one picked you up and carried you around because you were so tiny and pocket-sized.  You were just a woman, and hadn’t met someone big enough to throw you around like you were made of air.

You had substance.  You were made of things.  Matter and atoms, and particles, or whatever.  Flesh and bones.

So, when you hung there suspended, it felt like a dream, and all you could do was focus on the parts of you that felt contact.  Your wrists.  Your knees.  The ropes that cut into your skin, the plushness that kept you from hitting the floor.  You established your center of gravity and braced for the worst with an anticipatory thrumming low in your belly.  Deep within the cradle of your hips.

Nothing would pitch you over.  You could take anything. 

True to his word of being honest about what he was going to do, he flashed the paddle in front of you.  As wide as his hand, it was made of wood and wrapped in leather.  It made Ghost’s crop look like a feather duster.

You let out a clarifying breath through your teeth, licking at your spit-soaked lips to find that tether.  To his promise that burned sweet like spearmint and menthol tobacco.

“Anything you want say before we start?”  His rough-edged voice posed both challenge and threat.

It was the first stop on the train, you reminded yourself.  And he was making sure you knew you could get off anytime.

“No, sir—”

The words barely left your lips before he delt the first blow.  The slap of leather to skin echoed through the house, bounced off the windows and the walls. 

You didn’t scream, not yet, but the sting welled in your eyes to match the blooming fire on your ass.  When the second one swiftly followed, and even harder than the first, you nearly swallowed your tongue to stifle a gasp, wondering if he wanted to hear you. 

But you weren’t an actress.  This wasn’t for show.  If he wanted to hear you scream, to see you cry, he had to earn it.  Right there alongside you.

The third and fourth came slower and with slightly less force, but the fifth nearly rattled your teeth. 

“Oh, fuck!”  You finally exclaimed, no longer able to blink back the tears.  

“You liked that one, did you?”  He had the nerve to laugh behind you.  Was he emboldened by your feedback?  Was he enjoying this as much as you?

It wasn’t long before you lost track of how many whacks you’d taken.  He didn’t bother counting them aloud like some clock ticking away the time.  There wasn’t a limit.  The only one who could stop it was you.

“Had enough, yet?”  He checked in, winded from his own exertion. 

“No, sir.”  The words came slower, as if you had to pluck them out of a messily discarded pile in some dark corner, the more your strength drained away.  You were so close.  Right there on the brink.  You could see it like a trail disappearing over the horizon.

A steadying hand found your shoulder, squeezed warm and firm, as he moved closer behind you.  Enough to whisper in your ear.

“I’m not going to stop until you break.”

With the last command, and a final searing crack, you felt the fresh gush of squirt as you finally let go.  The scream you’d been waiting for.  That maybe he had been, too.

The sweet release that stole your breath and your mind, and dragged you all the way under.  And he hadn’t even touched you.  There was no vibrator strapped to your thigh.  Just a gentle hand on your shoulder.  The polarity to the abuse on your ass.  Nerves flayed and blown wide, you still needed the one thing that would pull you back together.

“Touch me, please,” you whimpered, with a voice hoarse from crying.  “I need to come.”  Deep in the subspace, you sagged limply against your bonds. 

“I can’t deny you anything, sweetheart.  Not when you ask so nicely.”

He pulled the quick release on the rope and caught you against his chest.  Sitting back on his chair, he held you facing forward onto his lap.  You were boneless, propped up only where he held you tightly in his grip.  Careful not to hold your neck, he instead wrapped his forearm under your breasts, cupping one in his palm through the thin silk fabric of your slip and pinning your bound wrists to your chest.

His other hand started at your mound of curls and trailed lower, parting the folds to slowly reach the tender bud at its apex.  He brushed it once, twice, before reaching lower.  Swirling circles around your opening, tracing along the trembling rim before gliding back up again. 

You squirmed weakly against his hips, desperate to touch him back.  To guide his hand where you wanted him to go, but you were helpless to do anything but weather his patience.  To be led at the pace he set.

His beard grazed the top of your shoulder and along the side of your neck.  In your addled brain, you imagined that he kissed you there, that his lips and tongue and teeth met skin.  That the ragged breaths of his need matched your own.

As his thumb worked the pearl of your clit in faster, deliberate circles, those thick fingers you suckled earlier slid deep into your walls.  The achingly tight stretch, combined with the precious friction brought you to a roaring climax of moaned oaths and sounds you’d never heard before.

“You did so good.”  You felt his hot breath against your shoulder as you shattered around him, along with a quick, supportive peck of his soft lips.  Too soft and too brief to register over the riot in your blood.  “I’m feeling generous.  Let’s try something else.”

A pouty whine of doubt was all you could offer, still in the incomparable thrall of an orgasm in subspace.  You couldn’t say no.  So deep under his sway, you’d give him anything.  Let him do anything.  There was no room for resistance in that vast, cloudy place. 

But you didn’t know what else was left.  What laid ahead was too far beyond your reach.

No thoughts, only sensations.  You couldn’t even focus enough to see beyond the fog.  All that held you up was the sound of his voice.  The strength of his arms as he lifted and turned your dead weight, hooking your wrists around his neck.  His hand never leaving your throbbing cunt.

“None of that.  You’ll like it, I promise.  But you’ll have to trust me.”  He curled his fingers forward, hooking deeper in a way that had you muffling your wild shrieks into his chest.  “You do, don’t you?”

“Mmhmm,” you hummed, until he pulled his fingers away.  You clenched down harder and sank against them, but he slipped them free despite the protest.

“Words, remember?  Need to know you’re still with me.”  He swatted your cheek with the same sticky, wet palm.  Not enough to hurt, but it pulled you back out just enough to speak.

“Yes,” you answered, biting your lip to see if it was still there.  That you weren’t just a cloud of disembodied mist.  “I trust you,” as another slap opened your eyes to meet his. 

He really expected you to keep up the formalities after what just happened?  The world was a different place.  Surely the continents had shifted, and the oceans had dried up.

But there he was, you noted as he came into focus.  You hadn’t just imagined him.  Those signal fires lit up to guide you once more through the dark.  There was a freckle on his nose.  A dimple just above his beard.  He seemed to pause as well, and you realized how firmly he was pinched with restraint.  How tightly he held his own need for release. 

If it was a word he wanted, you’d give it to him.

“Sir,” you finally finished, with a small smile pulling at your tingling cheek.

“There’s a girl,” he said with a low chuckle, as he carried you to a different room.

One that smelled like sandalwood and citrus, with walls of such a bright white that you buried your face further into his shoulder to shield your eyes from it.  The fuzzy, light flannel was a soothing contrast to the sting at your backside.  It still pulsed and burned with each course of blood through the muscle and fat.

“You made quite a mess of yourself, I’m afraid.  Need to clean you up.”  The sound of creaking metal and the spray of water were harsh to your ears.

A strangled sound escaped your lips, half a cry, half a whimper.  This was going to hurt.  Your overexerted pussy perked up at the prospect of it.  It was a devious little thing, swollen and puffy with eagerness that your body could survive another round of punishment.

No, it wasn’t punishment, you corrected yourself.  It was what you needed.

He set you down slowly onto the closed toilet seat, untied your hands and pulled the silk shift up over your head like a doll being undressed and put to bed.  The sleek porcelain was so cool against your bare skin that you shivered at the loss of its paltry heat. 

“I’m right here.”

Keeping his eyes on you and his hands not far away, lest you fall over, he arranged a chair made of PVC pipe into the open shower area and stripped from his own clothes with a quickness that spoke to his own enthusiasm.  It was either that, or a natural efficiency with which he did all things. 

Pants, shirt, boots.  Until all that was left was the dark hair that covered him in varying degrees of masculine thickness from head to toe, and his briefs.  An erection tented the fabric to such a painful degree that you reached out for it, only to be distracted away.

“This one’s all about you.  Don’t tempt me to change my mind,” he slanted you a look that guaranteed you’d regret it as he mouthed at the back of your hand absently.

Two kisses?  You could get greedy for them if you weren’t careful.

But before you could muster any disappointment, he had you by the arms again and positioned you over the makeshift chair.  You sat astride it, with your ass facing just out of the stream of water and an opening below for easy access between your legs.  Your tits draped over the top.

He kneeled in front you, all the better to watch you to submit to him, when your rational brain was clamoring to find your safe word.  Abraded skin meeting hot water was a next level consequence that you weren’t prepared to face with him.

You usually did that part alone with a bottle of wine, your comfort candle, and your favorite movie waiting for you on the softness of your sofa.

But the endorphins that kept you down in the subspace also kept you pliant, giddy with desire.  Fearless.  Reckless, you would’ve argued, if you’d been in some other state of mind. 

Not when you still felt the aftershocks of bliss, and the rawness of your paddling.  Instead, you did your best not to flinch as he directed the steaming water along your skin.  Where you expected a searing torture, there was instead a satisfying burn.  Just shy of scalding.  Just shy of too much.  It heated you up like a cauterizing iron to a wound.  A healing type of hurt. 

Unlike a misplaced hand shying away from a hot stove, you leaned into it.  Arched against it like a bear to tree bark.  That itch you’d never been able to reach.  Dark and subterranean, it skittered around underneath, unable to be caught by the light.

And just when you thought you’d had enough—when the nerves began to die out under the overwhelming blaze—he turned it up hotter still.  A new wave of pleasure and pain, as the backs of his knuckles caressed the needy patch of your sex. 

Violence on one side, and serenity on the other.  Like two sides of a coin flipping end over end into an infinite universe.  It built a force within you that finally collapsed on itself, consuming you whole.  Slower, and somehow more shocking in its intensity than the first.

“Is this how stars are made?”  The last dizzying thought before you slipped beyond reach.

You awoke as if from a dream some time later, with your head in his lap and wrapped in a velvety soft gray robe.  Big enough to fit you like a blanket, it must’ve been his.  The clarity hit you fast, and you sat up with a start.  The waiting surge of adrenaline that always followed a scene found you well-rested. 

“I am so sorry.”

“Easy now.  Here, drink this.”  He adjusted himself to move with you, not letting you go as you tried to bolt, and tipped a bottle full of water towards your lips.

It even had a straw.  How thoughtful. 

“Thank you,” you added, not able to meet his assessing gaze.  Had you even said that yet?  Where were your manners?

“You’re welcome,” he answered breezily.  As if not really knowing what to say himself.

Probably because you squirted all over his expensive looking ottoman and said weird things about turning into a constellation when you came your brains out.

“I don’t want to keep you any longer.  I didn’t mean to take up your whole day.”  You looked at the clock and couldn’t believe it was already evening.

How long had he sat there just holding you?  Your empty stomach reminded you of the food you’d meant to stop for on the way home.

“Are you hungry?  I can order dinner if you want to stay a bit longer.”  He sounded more confident after you’d drained the water and handed it back to him.

You never wanted to leave the cocoon he’d wrapped you in, but it was best to take it slow as you stood to find your discarded clothes tucked behind the sofa. 

“I actually made plans, but next time, yeah?”  You assured him, when he looked at you so vulnerably that you reached for him.  It was only a brief touch to his forearm, but he seemed surprised by it.  “Will you send me your availability?”

A shitty way to say, “You just changed my life,” but you hoped there would be a next time.  That there was still more you could do for each other. You still had to hold up your end of the bargain.

“My calendar’s wide open, sweetheart.”