Concubine reader who unknowingly gets emperor's Price attention
Coming from a minor noble family you know that being send to the palace is nothing short of a death sentence, your greedy father overestimating just how much you might be of use as a political pawn. The emperor is rumored to be a tyrant, losing his last piece of humanity with the death of his wife. That's why no matter how many noble girls are sent to the palace the empress position remains open to this day.
The day you leave is a gloomy one, a single attendant and a carriage are sent to pick you up. If the coachman is surprised by the lack of a personal maid or any family members seeing you off, he doesn't let it show.
Looking at the palace it's hard to imagine calling this place home. This is nothing more than a luxurious den for wolves eating each other. Most of the times poisons and daggers through the heart come from hands adorned in the finest silk. Intrigues that could ruin entire family legacies are whispered from behind coy smiles hidden by practiced manners. You doubt you're gonna last long enough for them to bother doing anything about it.
You're not surprised when the emperor's attendant welcomes you instead and simply accept it as a fact. Days pass by without anything of notice happening. Aware of your position the maids give little thought to taking care of you, but that just gives you more room to roam free.
Walking around the palace walls you let yourself admire the intricate designs on the columns, only on this hallway was enough gold and precious stones to feed an entire village for a year. The garden is even more beautiful, rose bushes and hydrangeas marking along a stone path. It's a peaceful place, strolling around you hum a little song that your nursemaid taught you before she fell ill many years ago.
"That's an unusual song, I don't think I've heard it before around this parts" the gruff voice belongs to a burly man standing under a willow tree. He wears a simple white tonic and a black pair of linen pants, a sword resting near his boots. He seems vaguely familiar, piercing blue eyes looking at you up and down, a hand going absentmindedly through his beard.
"Oh, I apologize, I didn't know there was someone already here. I will take my leave..."
"There's no need for that, miss..."
You hastily introduce yourself hearing the voice of your old tutor chastising in your mind. He tells you his name is John, not offering a family name or a title and you know enough about court politics not to ask more. Surprisingly the conversation continues talking about old ballads and songs of war. You start talking animatedly about your favourite poets but stop yourself when you feel like you're been rambling again.
"I think I bored you too much, my lord"
"Not at all. It's been a while since I've heard anything other than politics in these walls"
"You think too high of me, my lord" smiling self-deprecately while looking at one of the roses you miss the slight furrow in John's brows. "I'm afraid I should take my leave. Thank you for this pleasant discussion"
"The pleasure was mine, miss. I hope to see you again soon"
"So do I, my lord"
John's eyes follow after your figure, at the same time an attendant makes his way near him:
"It's time to go back, Your Majesty, there are important documents that need your attention"
"I see. Also, send her a dinner invitation, it's about time that I properly introduce myself to my new consort"
"As you wish, Your Majesty"
Taking in his hand the rose you've been admiring he adds:
"Perhaps I should send a bouquet to accompany the letter".
The whole “laying low for a while trope” except the whole team is in disbelief at Ghost living in a cozy, picturesque pastel blue cottage with a tended-to garden, a stone path lined with garden gnomes, cheerful flower boxes beneath the windows, fairy lights crisscrossing the porch- all of it finished off with you, a sweet thing adorned in a floral dress and pink cardigan.
And also apparently the one to have “home-trained” the Ghost himself;
“Simon, honey, grab the jam from the top shelf, please.”
Wordlessly, Simon crossed the kitchen, reached easily for the jam, and gave it to you to earn a sweet kiss on his cheek.
And it just continued like that, and all they could do was watch in awed silence.
“Can you grab the teacups from the cabinet? The floral ones, please.”
“Be a dear and fluff those pillows, honey? They look flat.”
“Help me carry these trays, Si. I can’t manage both of them.”
So on and so forth, and Simon just happily obeys.
“She’s got you wrapped right around her fingers, mate.” Soap snorts a while later, though he is happily munching on your cookies and looks all too cozy with one of your many throw blankets around his shoulders. Gaz is checking out your candle collection, and Price is talking with you in the kitchen.
“Wouldn’t have it any other way.” Simon muttered, huffing. “Happy wife, happy life, and all that.”
Big eater Simon “Ghost” Riley who absolutely devours anything you put in front of him. He’s a big man with a ravenous appetite that rears its head the second he’s home and not deployed, no longer forced to choke down the bland, tasteless slop they serve at the base. His hunger isn’t just physical; it’s driven by months of enduring lukewarm rations and craving real food-especially yours. A big, ravenous appetite particularly for your cooking.
It means even more because you come from a culture with a rich cuisine. When you first started dating, you had braced yourself for disappointment, afraid yet resigned that he might react like your exes, coworkers, and so-called friends, who turned up their noses at your cooking and called it: “too smelly,” “too spicy,” “stinky,” “too much.”
But not him. No, Simon pulls up a chair, digs in like the starved man he is, and leaves not a single scrap behind. He polishes the plate clean. And then, with a gleam in his eyes, he goes for seconds. Sometimes even thirds. Always takes care of the cleaning afterwards because you already feed him so good and take care of the apartment when he’s not there, least he can do is wash up the dishes while you sit all nice and pretty and tell him of your days.
“Y’spoil me rotten, c’mere,” he murmurs, guiding you to the worn couch where you both sink into each other’s embrace. He stretches out, pulling you so you’re resting on his broad chest, your ear against the steady thrum of his heartbeat. His hand moves in slow, lazy circles on your back, and you can feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing, the contentment in every relaxed muscle under your body.
“Do I? But you deserve it, Si.” you grin, comfy and cozy,“My lovely man. So I was wondering… about the new oven…”
He chuckles, the sound a low rumble. “Already bought. Should be here in a couple o’ days,” he says, eyes closing but already imagining the happy expression on your face. “Don’t you think that pretty little head o’ yours anymore.” His lips brush your forehead, the faintest touch of a promise. “It’s time t’nap.”
And nap you do, curled in his arms and pure contentment radiating off both of you just like <33
(He’s also a big pussy muncher. Gotta show you how good he can clean more than just his plate.)
(a very low-effort post abt 141 x their new hacker- you. For better immersion, click on the song link during Soap’s workout! <3)
The first time you make contact, it’s through their personal phones.
Not the official military-issued devices- no, those would be too easy. You wanted to make an impression.
So when Price, Ghost, Gaz, and Soap each glance at their personal screens, expecting the usual notifications from Laswell, they’re instead greeted by:
(¬‿¬) Hello, boys.
Price sighs like a disappointed father, having been forwarned of your antics, and still immediately calls Laswell.
“Care to explain why my phone just got hijacked?”
Laswell doesn’t sound surprised. If anything, she sounds like she’s been expecting and waiting for this- for his phone call specifically about getting hacked. “That’s your new hacker.”
Price pinches the bridge of his nose, while the others exchange Looks of Consideration™️. “That’s how she introduces herself?”
“She’s efficient.”
“She’s cheeky.”
“She’s listening,” you interject, making them all jolt as your voice plays from the phone speakers, honey-sweet and undeniably smug.
There’s a long silence. Then Gaz whispers: “What the fuck?”
You giggle. (≧◡≦) flashes onto all their screens right after that, just as cheeky as your tone.
“So she’s just gonna creep around in our phones now?” Gaz asks after that, wary, an eyebrow raised and his arms crossed.
In response, just his screen flickers, and a new message appears.
(╯°□°）╯︵ ┻━┻ Rude.
Laswell sighs again, much like an exasperated mother, and gestures at their phones. “Give her a chance. She is, despite everything, good at what she does.”
And so from that that moment on, you’re everywhere; they don’t see you, but they feel your presence. You’re in their systems, their devices, and their comms.
Ghost boots up his laptop one day, only to find that his standard background has been replaced with a pixelated skull and crossbones- like those they did on pirate ships in movies. Below it, in small text:
For the spookiest boy.
He says nothing, just tilts his head slightly before closing the laptop.
And when Price logs into the briefing room terminal, instead of the standard military insignia, the screen briefly flashes with the words:
WELCOME BACK, CAPTAIN DILF.
Soap loses it. Price glares at him, then at the screen, then sighs, muttering, “Christ.”
Soap isn’t free from your shenanigans, though.
One day, while doing his usual workout, he pulls up his playlist. The moment he presses play, his music app forcefully closes and reopens with “The Drunk Scotsman” blasting at full volume.
“NO, NO, NO-“ Soap scrambles to shut it off as the entire base turns to look at him.
On his screen, once the app is blessedly closed, a message pops up:
(ʘ‿ʘ) Dance, pretty boy.
And then Gaz’s torture is quieter, but no less effective.
Every so often, while he’s texting, his camera light flickers on. Not long enough to take a photo- just a brief, eerie blink before an emoji appears on his screen:
( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
He groans. “She’s messing with me.”
“You mean flirting?” Soap smirks, leaning closer to the phone and chuckling as the camera light flickers back on for just another few seconds.
Gaz scowls. “…I hope so.”
Still, despite all your antics, you’re brilliant at what you do. And they learn this firsthand during their first mission with you.
“All teams, check-in.” Price orders as they move through a darkened compound.
Instead of Laswell’s voice responding, it’s yours. Soft, smooth, and playful.
“Five by five, Captain.”
There’s a pause- brief but notable. Then, Price exhales. “You hacking my comms now, too?”
“Wouldn’t be a very good hacker if I couldn’t, would I?”
Soap snorts, snickering with Gaz. “She’s got a point.”
Ghost, listening quietly, murmurs: “Thought you didn’t speak.”
“Only when necessary. Or when I feel like annoying you.”
Your voice is warm, teasing. If Ghost were anyone else, he might have smiled. And then, just like that, you’re all business.
“Sniper on the rooftop, two o’clock.”
Ghost adjusts, and then fires. A body drops.
“Price, your six.”
The captain pivots, taking down the enemy creeping behind him.
“Soap, slow down.”
“I got this,” Soap insists- only for a grenade to go off near him. “…I don’t got this.”
“Clearly.”
“…Shut up.”
With you in their ears, everything runs smoother. Their feeds don’t lag. Their encryptions are tighter. They feel- secure. With you and Laswell? Almost untouchable, but they don’t let it get to their heads.
When they return to base, exhausted but alive, their phones light up with a single message:
(￣︶￣) Good job, boys.
They stare at their screens, and then Price huffs a laugh. Soap grins. Gaz shakes his head. Ghost, unseen beneath his mask, smirks.
They don’t know your face. Haven’t met you in person.
But they decide you’re theirs, and they are yours. Even if you’re just unknown- for now, anyways.
❝ i just wanna feel again, i just wanna be the man❞
꒰ vi x fem!reader꒱
𓆩♡𓆪Synopsis: One-night stands are something Vi does very well. Remembering every girl’s name, however? Not so much. When she stumbles into a coffee shop the morning after a forgettable hookup, she realizes she knows the barista—a girl from her past who was (and still seems to be) un-flirt-with-able. This only makes Vi want to try harder. But what starts out as a challenge to woo her quickly transforms into a genuine connection, a genuine crush that Vi never would’ve seen coming.
𓆩♡𓆪warnings: modern au; slow burn w/eventual smut, player!vi but also loser!vi (reader makes her fold something fierce), brief nudity, flirting, drinking, ‼️ROMANTIC TENSION ‼️, perhaps a touch of yearning, petnames (gorgeous, sweets, princess), grinding/thigh riding, breast play, soft praise, oral (r & vi receiving), fingering (vi & r receiving), early morning cuddles
𓆩♡𓆪wordcount: 6.2k
𓆩♡𓆪a/n: 'the bend' by king princess is so incredibly vi-coded to me, so i had to name this fic after it. also i’m alive! i disappeared for a bit because July quite literally SUCKED in the last few weeks. but seeing as august is my birth month, i think i have a good feeling about it (: i finally caved and started watching Arcane. [i actually just finished season one the other day and WOW] and as you can imagine, Vi had me SALIVATING the whole way through and still has me salivating, which is where this idea came from. i was giggling and kicking my feet the whole time i was writing this, which might explain the length. so i hope you enjoy this oneshot as an apology for my absence <3
Vi opens her eyes and immediately has to close them against the harsh sunlight.
Her head is pounding as if one of those little toy monkeys is in there, clashing its symbols over and over against her poor skull. Too much whiskey the night before. Way too much whiskey.
Vi groans as she peels her eyes open again and the next thing she notices, aside from the sunlight’s assault is the hideous color of the walls in the bedroom she’s in. She hadn’t noticed it last night for…obvious reasons, but what the fuck was that color? Greenish-yellow? Chartreuse, maybe? Whatever it was, it was offending Vi’s eyes and exacerbating her hangover.
She manages to turn her head enough to see the girl still sleeping soundly beside her. The girl whose name Vi wouldn’t have been able to recall if there was a gun to her head. Which was awful seeing as she was sure the girl had told Vi her name numerous times. It didn’t stick though. The fact that she was listed in Vi’s contacts as Platinum Blonde gave that away. Vi had managed to get around having to call her by her name anyway, with petnames like ‘sunshine’ and ‘darling’ doing the heavy lifting for her.
Rule number one about one night stands, Vi thinks to herself. You’re not really supposed to stay the full night. And if you do stay the full night, leave before the partner wakes up. Leave before the morning light makes it real.
Vi starts to lift the duvet (that’s the same puke-yellow color as the walls) freezing when her joints crack in betrayal. Jeez, I thought I had quieter bones. She’s almost home-free, shimmying out from under the covers as seamlessly as possible. But then, her ankle gets tangled in the sheets. And then those same traitor sheets send her falling to the ground with a plethora of tiny little ‘fuck-shit-fuck’ swears that could’ve awoken god.
Vi catches herself on her elbows when she hits the floor. She also catches a glimpse of her reflection in the standing mirror that’s leaned against the wall, taking in her own morning glory. Completely bare. Not even a sock in sight.
Vi glances up toward the bed again. Platinum Blonde hadn’t stirred in all that commotion. Thank god. Vi spots her clothes from the night before, lying in a heap on the floor, tossed off with reckless abandon the previous night, discarded in a haste. She army-crawls over to her pile of clothes now as quietly and as gracefully as she can, given the fact that she’s in her birthday suit.
Vi grabs her pants with surgical precision, hops to get them on, freezes when Platinum Blonde stirs. When she doesn’t wake, Vi exhales in relief and continues to dress. She looks around for the rest of her clothes. Her shirt is decidedly missing. Great. She scans the room and spots in draped over a fake plant. Damn. She really had thrown all of her clothes off. And Platinum Blonde’s too considering the pair of lace panties on the dresser.
Vi slips on her shirt. It’s inside out, but she’ll deal with that later. She can do this. She can leave without a trace. But then, she hits her bit stupid boots on the bench at the end of Platinum Blonde’s bed and this is what makes the other girl finally rouse from her slumber.
“Mmmh, hey,” she says, words slurred from her sleep.
“Hey, hey, uh…go back to sleep. I gotta get going, sorry. Big day,” Vi hopes that the fact that the girl was still half-asleep, it would prevent her from noticing that Vi was bullshitting.
“You don’t…wanna stay for any coffee or anything?” The girl asks.
Vi smiles. Not unkindly, just honest. “Rain check?” She says. Which is a nice way of saying ‘I actually wasn’t supposed to stay until daylight’.
Vi was used to having one-night stands, yes. But she was also used to being kicked out of the bed before the morning. Or to be the one doing the kicking out. It was always a mutual agreement, of course. The girls that Vi slept with rarely ever wanted strings attached, and she didn’t either. Her friends liked to say that she was allergic to commitment, and yeah, maybe that was true. But that never worked out for her. It was so much easier to just have casual sex with beautiful people with no strings, or feelings for that matter, attached.
“Okay, well…I’ll call you?” The girl asks as Vi makes a break for the door.
“Sure, I’ll…answer,” Vi calls over her shoulder. Lie. She probably wouldn’t.
Outside, Vi slides her black shades over her eyes to block out the sun as she climbs onto her motorbike. She needed caffeine. And fast. But she quickly realizes that she doesn’t know her way around this side of town. She hadn’t thought to memorize the directions last night. She’d been too horny to think about anything that didn’t involve immediate skin on skin contact.
After a quick search, Vi is able to find the nearest coffee shop—Hug In A Mug—four minutes away. She cringes at the name, it’s far too cutesy for her taste, but if she didn’t get caffeine in her system soon, she might just cry, so she was willing to overlook it.
Hug In A Mug is in a nice plaza sandwiched between an antique gift shop and a Japanese restaurant. As Vi steps inside, she immediately feels out of place, a far-too-rugged contrast to the warm colors and cozy decor. A soft indie pop tune plays from the speakers and a few early risers sit at tables, sipping coffee clicking away on iMacs. And then, Vi’s eyes dart toward the register and—immediately she recognizes the barista. Effortlessly hot, same award-winning smile, same easy confidence that rivaled Vi’s own, same lightning bolt tattoo on her inner wrist.
Y/n and Vi have never dated. But they definitely had a history. They’d know each other since adolescence, grew up together, and during one party a few years back when they both had way too much liquor in their system, they made out on a rooftop. But the second Vi’s hands began to wander, Y/n giggled, pushed her hands away, told Vi that it wasn’t going any further. Which Vi respected. But it would be a lie to say that a part of her hadn’t thought about every other way that night could’ve ended. And she may or may not have found herself wanting to text y/n every day afterward.
Y/n doesn’t seem all that surprised or confused to see Vi, if the smirk she levels her with is any indication. “Hey you,” she greets her.
Vi isn’t really sure what to say, so she opts for simply nodding her head up at the other girl.
Y/n’s face splits into a full grin, and, yup, there are those prominent dimples Vi definitely remembers. As for her looks well…Y/n had always been a cute girl but she’d completely blossomed in the past couple years. She was taller, her hair was longer, and she was just a little bit curvy now, not that Vi was making it a point to notice that. She also wasn’t complaining either.
“You kinda look like hell,” y/n teases. “Rough night?”
“Uh…what makes you say that?” Vi asks, going for casual as she shoves her hands into the pockets of her jacket.
“You’re wearing shades inside, for one,” y/n laughs.
Vi swears internally, taking her shades off and folding them against her lapel. “Actually, I call this look ‘artful disaster’. Very exclusive,” she says.
“Really? I think most people just call that ‘hungover on a Tuesday,’ y/n counters.
Vi gives y/n a lazy smile, leaning over the counter. She’s hoping her signature move will take the onus off of her. Distract. Lean in. Smirk. Let the voice drop.“What? So, you’re saying I don’t look like the girl of your dreams?” She throws in a wink for good measure.
“Wow,” y/n scoffs amused, shaking her head. “Does that line usually work, Vi?”
“It…usually does, actually,” Vi says, straightening up. Thrown off her game.
“Well, you wouldn’t be the first girl to try and flirt with me over reasonably priced coffee. Might wanna add yourself to the list,”
“There’s a list?” Vi asks.
“There’s a Google Doc,” y/n jokes.
Vi snorts despite herself. Y/n isn’t falling for this. Vi likes that.
“Anyway, what can I get started for you?” Y/n pushes on like she hadn’t just ripped out Vi’s ego, held it in her hand like a still-beating heart.
Vi clears her throat. “Uh…black coffee, please. The stronger the better,” she says.
“Coming right up,” Y/n says.
And as she moves away to make Vi’s drink, Vi watches her. Her eyes lingered for a little too long in certain places, but for the most part, Vi just watched y/n’s face. Took note of her candor, her charm. Like any and everyone was too cool for her, like no one could match her level. Vi hated that. She fucking loved it, though.
Once Vi’s drink is made, y/n slides it toward her. Their fingers brush for the briefest of moments. “You know, I still remember that rooftop party like it was yesterday,” y/n says. “I remember you trying to quote an old poet, but by that point, you were slurring so much, that I couldn’t make out a damn thing you were saying,”
“God. Mortifying,” Vi sighs as she blows on her coffee.
Y/n smirks. “I also remember you saying I had ‘revolutionary cheekbones’”
Vi points her styrofoam cup at y/n. “Now that sounds more like me,”
Both girls laugh, though Vi’s this time, edges closer to nervous while y/n’s stays unaffected. Their eyes meet for a moment and Vi opens her mouth like she wants to say something, but then a new customer steps up to the counter. “Well anyway, enjoy the coffee,” y/n says as she starts to walk away. “Good luck with the hangover. And the future flirting attempts,”
“I uh…usually don’t need luck with the latter,” Vi calls after her.
“Clearly,” y/n replies, sending a wink over her shoulder before stepping up to the register and greeting the new customer.
Vi turns toward the door, mock-wounded but quietly fascinated. She takes one step toward the door, then another. Then, she finds herself swiveling around to watch y/n again, just in time to watch her rattle off a joke that makes the customer laugh. Vi sips her drink. She smiles.
Vi doesn’t know what it is about y/n. Maybe the fact that her flirting didn’t work on her, and her flirting always worked. Maybe it was the fact that y/n had easily beat Vi at her own game. That she’d been the one to make her flustered and stuttery, when for Vi, it was usually the other way around. Maybe it was the simple fact that Vi seems to have met her match. Whatever it was for sure, she was intrigued.
For the next week, Vi keeps coming back to Hug In A Mug every day. Every day she orders the same thing—a black coffee. And every day, she chats with y/n, fragmented conversations when y/n has downtime between customers. With every conversation, Vi finds herself more and more intrigued. And every inclination tells her that she has a chance. Everything about y/n’s body language tells Vi that she’s interested. But it also says ‘try harder’ and that’s exactly what Vi does.
It’s on a rainy afternoon when Vi finally works up the courage to ask y/n out. “Okay, look,” she says, speaking loud enough to be heard over the sound of the espresso machine. “I’m not good at the whole…vulnerable, honest human being thing, but I was wanting to know if you’d…wanna go out sometime or something?”
Y/n’s cute head pops up over the top of the machine. “Go out?” She asks as she shuts it off.
“Yeah, go out. Me and you. Together,” Who the fuck was this nervous bitch all of a sudden? Vi needed to lock in. “Like…do something that doesn’t involve me coming here daily to watch you froth milk and you pretending you don’t know I’m into you,”
Y/n shrugs, smiles. “I mean, I was starting to really enjoy the frothing dynamic, but I see your point,”
Vi exhales. “Cool. So…what about dinner? We can go for whatever you’re into,”
Y/n leans against the counter, totally stealing Vi’s move, a teasing glint in her eyes. “Hmm…I dunno. A fancy dinner feels too…clean for you, no?”
Vi looks back at her, slightly affronted. “Dinner is too clean for me?”
“A fancy one, yeah. As rugged as you are? You’re definitely the kind of gal that would rather shotgun beer, throw darts, and hustle patrons in billiards,” y/n says.
Vi shifts her weight, ignoring the fact that y/n has her completely pegged. She also ignores how hot it is that y/n can see straight through her, and the coil of want that tightens in her abdomen as a result.
“So…are you saying you’d rather shoot pool?” Vi asks.
“I’m saying I will shoot pool with you, and I will win. And i will enjoy some deliciously greasy onion rings while I do,” y/n replies.
“Okay. I’m into that,” Vi says.
“I thought you would be,” y/n straightens up. “Tomorrow night? There’s this cool dive bar I like on Plymouth. I’m sure it’s just your speed,”
“I’ll be there,” Vi says. Then starts a backward walk toward the door. “Try not to miss me too much,” she says.
“Right back at you,” y/n chuckles.
Vi salutes her, ignoring the foreign flutter in her chest that she gets when y/n flashes her that beaming smile again. Then, she turns around and she’s out the door.
—
The dive bar on Plymouth is so much more Vi’s speed than Hug In A Mug. With its dim lighting, scuffed wood floors, bluesy music playing from a jukebox, and all the whiskey Vi can drink, the place looks like it hasn’t seen a renovation since the late 80s.
Vi leans against the pool table, cue stick in one hand and a drink in the other. She’s dressed like she tried, but not too hard—in a black cut-off denim jacket, vintage band tee, and silver chain around her neck. She realized when arriving that she was actually nervous, but the alcohol has done a lot for her in that department. Now, she’s pleasantly buzzed and doesn’t have to think too hard about the fact that y/n’s perfume smells divine. Unless she really wants too.
Y/n, now decidedly not in her apron is dressed in a plain white long sleeve and jeans that show off her curves. Her hair has been straightened within an inch of its life and she’s wearing a little more makeup than Vi is used to seeing. But god, does it work for her. It’s definitely working on Vi.
Vi hands her a cue, trying not to stare too hard. Y/n takes it from her with a smile. “So, what’s your game?” She asks.
“Uh…I’m something of a ‘talk shit, make every shot’ kind of showman,” Vi says.
“Cute. I’m more of a ‘put up or shut up’ so I think you’ve met your match,” Y/n says.
“Show me what you got, gorgeous,” Vi says.
And so y/n does. They flip for break and y/n wins. Naturally. “So,” y/n says as she leans over the pool table, lining up her first shot. “Tell me something real,”
Vi raises a brow. “Define real”
“Mm…like something you’d never say on a first date?”
“Well, that could be anything because you’ll find I don’t go on dates,” Vi says.
“Fine, then tell me anything,” y/n says.
Vi sips her drink to buy herself some time, watching as y/n sinks a solid-colored ball. “Okay, uh…I hate silence. Truly. I’m definitely one of those people that doesn’t like to be left alone with their own thoughts. Because…my own thoughts are rarely on my side,”
Y/n sinks another ball calmly. “Okay. I guess that counts as real,”
“Your turn,” Vi says.
“Alright,” Y/n shrugs as she stands up straight. She chews on her bottom lip as she thinks and Vi tries hard not to think about how she’d like to bite it instead. “I’m…apprehensive when it comes to dating. I’ve been with a lot of bad apples. A lot of people who saw me as a curvy body with no autonomy. Or…girls who just wanted to experiment. I realized that if I could make it alone, why even try with someone else?”
“Wow,” Vi says. “Do you…still feel that way?”
Y/n’s gaze flits to Vi and Vi holds her breath. Then, a smile teases one corner of y/n’s mouth. “I’m starting to come around to the idea,” she says simply. And that sentence alone has no business making heat bloom in Vi’s chest.
The game continues, and for most of it, Vi is in the lead. But then, y/n pulls off the upset, sinking a winning shot, and Vi groans as her loss settles over her, but then laughs in good nature.
Y/n spreads her arms out in a victory gesture, smirking smugly up at Vi. “Alright, alright. You win. I’ll eat my words,” Vi says. “What do you want?”
“I think we said loser buys the next round, didn’t we?” y/n says.
“No, we never settled that,” Vi says.
“Hm. Well, that’s what I want,” y/n steps closer, batting her eyes at Vi. “You’re gonna look me in the eyes and say I’m not pretty enough for you to buy me a drink?”
“You’re gorgeous, but that’s extortion, sweets,” Vi says, but she’s smiling like she absolutely doesn’t mind. And she doesn’t.
Y/n shrugs. “Semantics,” she says. She nudges her shoulder softly against Vi’s as she walks past her. And Vi watches her go, good and smitten.
—
Vi and y/n had their last drinks just shy of fifteen minutes ago, and it was so obvious—the glossy eyes, the flushed cheeks, the snickering even when nothing is funny. But more than that, Vi is having a good time. She’s relaxed for what feels like the first time in a long time.
The jukebox clicks onto an old soul song, soft horns playing through the speakers.
“Did you put this on? I love this song,” y/n says.
“Not guilty,” Vi says. “But…I don’t mind taking the credit,”
Clara beams at Vi, gets to her feet. “Dance with me,”
“Sorry?” Vi says.
“You heard me, hot stuff,” y/n holds out her hand.
Vi definitely doesn’t have it in her to argue. And she wouldn’t even think about it when y/n is looking at her like that, so she takes her hand and lets herself be pulled to her feet. Her breath catches a little when y/n slides her smaller, softer hand into hers, the other landing on Vi’s shoulder. Vi lets her hand rest on y/n’s waist.
Vi is used to moving fast, not slow. But y/n leads with a calm confidence that doesn’t need flash to be felt. They sway together. The room melts away. Nothing can be heard but the soulful lyrics. As they move together, the dynamic changes. Both of y/n’s hands are on Vi’s shoulders now, Vi’s arms wrapped around y/n’s waist. Smooth, tender. At some point, y/n’s head rests on Vi’s chest. Her perfume invades Vi’s senses and she breathes it in deeply.
“You know…I don’t usually go slow like this,” Vi says.
“If I am, you’re passing with flying colors,” y/n replies.
“So, in other words…you’re impressed?” Vi asks.
“With you? Absolutely,” y/n says.
By now, Vi is smiling so wide that her cheeks have begun to ache. It’s weird. It’s new. And she doesn’t want to rush it. So instead, she says nothing. Just rests her chin on the crown of y/n’s head. The soul song has ended. Something faster has begun to play. Vi and y/n keep holding each other, not in any rush to let go. Not in any rush to burst the bubble.
—
Vi lies on her bed on her back, one arm folded behind her head, the other splayed across her stomach. She stares up at the ceiling fan, something oddly hypnotic in the way the wings spin lazily.
She was bored. It wasn't like her to have nothing to do on a Saturday night. Usually by this point, she'd be at the bar, chatting up the first attractive girl she sees, and thinking about how she'd be rocking that same girl's world later that same night. Vi glances at the time. 7:30. Hitting up the bar was still a very real possibility. And the more she thought about it, she wasn't really all that interested in being alone tonight. If she were left to her own thoughts, her mind might just stray to one girl in particular. A girl with a killer smile and even more killer confidence. A girl who'd been playing Vi like a fiddle for the better part of two weeks.
And fuck, it's happening. She's thinking about y/n. Thinking about the way it had felt to dance with her at the pool bar. Thinking about the way her floral perfume had invaded her senses, how the heat of her body in close proximity had made Vi's head spin.
“So in other words, you’re impressed?”
“With you? Absolutely,”
Vi wasn't used to this. She wasn't used to having to chase, yes, and she definitely wasn't used to the girls she flirted with not being immediately fall-all-over-themselves attracted to her, also yes. But she also wasn't used to this...fluttery sensation that hit dead center in her chest whenever she thought of y/n.
She wasn't used to the butterflies that invaded her stomach when she thought of her eyes or her smile, or the way she looked so beautiful when she was just doing simple things. Vi was used to lust. She was familiar with it, comfortable with it. She wasn't used to like, though. She wasn't used to crushing.
Vi's thoughts are interrupted as her phone pings with a text. And she curses her heart for tripping over itself the second she registers y/n's name. Opening the text thread, Vi sees that y/n has sent a photo: a pile of wooden planks, screws, and an untouched instruction manual lying on a maroon rug like a crime scene. A follow-up text reads: I fucking hate IKEA.
Vi snickers to herself as she texts back: Need some help there?
She's embarrassed by just how hard her heart is pounding as she awaits y/n's reply. Yes, please god. I’ll give you wine for your trouble 😩
Vi smiles at her screen, slides on her boots and sets off.
An hour later, Vi kneels in the middle of y/n’s living room, the promised wine in a chalice on the coffee table beside her. She’s just assembled the last shelf when y/n strolls in from the kitchen, barefoot and holding the wine bottle in case of a refill request. “I would’ve thought you’d be swearing by this point,” she jokes. “I certainly was,”
“Please. Am I not the best there ever was?” Vi says, tone oozing confidence.
“Careful. That kind of pompous attitude is what cost you the pool game,” y/n says.
“Listen, I was off my game for…undisclosed reasons and—“
“Oh, are they undisclosed?” y/n chuckles, raising a brow.
“I said what I said. Anyway—there’s a fifty-percent chance that this bookshelf will become some tragic modern art piece, but you’ll love it anyway, okay?” Vi says.
“Oh, I’m sure I will,” y/n laughs. She comes closer, leaning over to refill Vi’s wine glass and Vi watches her with an easy smile. There’s something new in Vi—a kind of quiet that didn’t exist before the past few weeks spent with y/n. The usual itch, the restless energy that made her chase distraction after distraction just isn’t there anymore.
Y/n sits beside Vi on the rug, their knees brushing. She sips her wine, watching Vi organize the leftover screws into piles. “You’re focused,” y/n says. “It’s kind of hot,”
“Shh. Don’t disrupt the furniture whisperer,” Vi says.
“Furniture whisperer?” Y/n chuckles. “So, are you one of those people who gets like, weirdly intense when you build things?”
“Only if you breathe near the wrong bolt,” Vi jokes.
Clara laughs—that full, unguarded one that Vi likes best. She then nudges Vi’s shoulder—softly, the same way she had in the pool bar—and stands to her feet. Vi follows her up, a fist on each hip as she surveys her hard work.
"What do you think? Looks good?" Vi asks.
Y/n smiles, nods. "Yeah, it's great," then, she turns her smile on Vi. "I knew those pretty muscles were good for something,"
Vi raises a brow, and without missing a beat, she says, "And I knew that you thought my muscles were pretty," she angles her body toward y/n as she speaks, and she thanks whatever god that's listening when y/n does the same. For the first time in weeks, Vi sees a hint of shyness in y/n, in the form of a gorgeous pink blush that blooms over her cheeks. It should feel like a 'gotcha' moment for Vi, but all it does is put butterflies in her stomach.
Vi waits for the playful denial, the abrupt subject change. But all y/n does is shrug, her smile expanding. "Who wouldn't?" she says.
"Are you saying you're not immune to my charm after all? Because the past few weeks say otherwise," Vi replies.
Y/n takes a step closer, bringing her intoxicating fragrance with her. She meets Vi's gaze, unflinching. "Maybe I wanted to make you work for it," she says. "I know you're not used to that."
"No, I'm not," Vi says as her hand lands on y/n's waist, pulling her closer. And in the process, deriving an adorable squeak from her pretty mouth. "You definitely took me by surprise, gorgeous," she squeezes y/n's hip, reveling when she gasps. Then, she leans in to brush her lips against her ear. "But maybe I needed to be brought down to size,"
"Maybe you did," y/n agrees. "But you're persistent. I'll give you that,"
Vi pulls back enough to meet y/n's eyes, still close enough where if a gust of wind came through, they'd be mouth to mouth. "Only with the things I want," she says. Then, she closes the gap, finally attaching her mouth to y/n's. Y/n kisses her back, pushing up on her toes for a better vantage point, her wrists draping over Vi's shoulders. Vi's hands squeeze y/n's waist, tugging her closer, making y/n gasp again into her mouth.
Vi backs y/n against the wall, pressing her body to hers. And in response, y/n groans. Pulling back from the kiss, Vi attaches her lips to y/n's neck, and y/n moans, tipping her head back to give Vi better access. Vi growls, wedging her knee between y/n's thighs, and y/n makes a beautiful noise of approval as she grinds down.
"That's it," Vi whispers against y/n's neck. Her hands remain on y/n's hips, guiding her movements. "You like that, don't you?"
"Yeah," y/n sighs. "Fuck, how are you even real?" Instead of waiting for an answer, y/n lets her hands slide beneath the fabric of Vi's shirt, cursing as she feels the cut lines of her abdomen.
Vi chuckles at y/n's amusement. "I put in work, gorgeous," she whispers in y/n's ear before nipping at the lobe and pulling another beautiful moan from y/n.
"Having fun there?" Vi can't help remarking, watching the way y/n writhes against her. Her hands still on y/n's hips for guidance, but she’s letting y/n do most of the work.
"You're a prick," y/n breathes.
"I've been told that once or twice," Vi laughs. "But god, are you hot like this,"
Y/n lets out another pitiful moan, rocking harder against Vi's thigh, and Vi can't resist. Her teeth sink into her bottom lip as she joins in, her hips moving in tandem with y/n's. She swears, dropping her head onto y/n's shoulder, mumbling something about how good it feels.
Vi can feel when y/n starts to lose control, the inflection in her moans changing, and she picks that moment to pull her leg from between y/n's thighs, ruining her grinding. And just as she thought, y/n whines at the loss of contact. "Hey," she says, an adorable confusion imbedded in her eyes. "Why'd you stop? I...I was almost--"
"Shh, I know," Vi brushes a kiss against the corner of y/n's mouth. "But I don't wanna finish you off against this wall, sweet thing. You got a bedroom?”
Y/n practically drags Vi down the hall toward her bedroom and Vi chuckles, not even minding the fact that she's having to stumble along to keep up the pace. Once they're inside y/n's bedroom, Vi takes a moment to look around. The decor is very y/n in the best sense of the word—warm, soft, chaotic, subtly feminist. Art journals, a writing desk, lavender walls and a deep-green duvet on the bed. Fairy lights galore. It’s cozy, lived-in. It’s y/n.
“Everything okay?” Y/n asks.
“Perfect,” Vi replies. “Just taking everything in,” With that, she kicks the door shut and takes y/n into her arms, kissing her once, twice, then backing her toward the bed until y/n's legs catch the edge. Y/n gasps as she's made to stumble back, and Vi follows her down.
In the next moment, Vi is grabbing y/n's wrists and stretching them above her head, hovering above her and using the strength in her arms to keep herself there. For a moment, she just stares down at the gorgeous girl beneath her. At her blown-wide pupils, her flushed cheeks, kiss-swollen lips.
"You're a vision," Vi says.
"You're one to talk," y/n's response is cheeky. "Come down here already,"
"Ah, I think I have a better idea, gorgeous," Vi says. Then, before y/n can ask what she means by that, Vi leans down to kiss her lips, then her jaw, then her neck. She works her way down, sucking a hickey in the skin above y/n's collarbone, holding back a soft swear when this makes y/n's back arch. She lifts y/n's shirt above her head, snaps off her bra with one skillful finger, chuckles when y/n whines.
When y/n's chest is bared to her, Vi attaches her mouth to the peak of one very perky nipple. Another arch in y/n's back, and this time, Vi doesn't hold back the groan she lets out against her. Y/n's hands drop and she tries to reach for Vi, but Vi tsks against y/n's chest and catches her hands, stretching them above her head again, and this time, threading her fingers through hers. "Keep them here, princess," Vi says, her words a soft command that y/n can't even think about pushing back against.
Vi smirks and resumes her ministration, sucking on the peak of y/n's nipple before swirling her tongue around it.
"Vi, oh god!" y/n moans, her hips canting up in a desperate attempt to gain some friction. Vi, of course, doesn't give in so easily. She leaves the left breast and moves onto the right, lavishing it with the same attention. She frees her left hand from y/n's grip so she can massage her neglected breast. Y/n keeps her hands right where they are, despite the fact that one of them is free now.
"Good girl," Vi says. "You take directions well, don't you?" Y/n simply mewls in reply.
Vi releases y/n's right breast with a soft pop before making her way further down the other girl's body, leaving lovebites down the sides of her tummy, around the skin of her belly button.
Her hands make quick work of y/n's jeans, unfastening and sliding them down her hips. Vi licks her lips when y/n is left in nothing but her underwear. She looks up, catching her eyes. Y/n sees the nonverbal question of consent and nods, a soft breath escaping her lips in place of her words. The second she's given the okay, Vi slots her index finger between y/n's hip and the waistband of her underwear, slides it down. Her right hand leaves y/n's now, pushing at her soft, plush thigh as a silent plea for her to open them. Y/n does.
"Fuck, y/n," Vi says as she positions herself on her stomach, guiding y/n's legs over her shoulders. No other words seem adequate for the sight in front of her, so she says nothing else. Instead, she lets her tongue flatten against y/n's entrance, her eyes on y/n all the while, watching her reaction, watching the way she writhes and tips her head back.
Y/n is delicious on her tongue, and Vi can't get enough. Her movements alternate between teasing licks and adamant sucks. She pays close attention to y/n's sounds, doubling her efforts when she finds the spots that make y/n moan the loudest. What was once a low-burning heat in her abdomen builds higher and higher with every noise Vi is able to utter from y/n, but she's not worried about her own desire right now. All she cares about is making this gorgeous girl fall apart, and that's exactly what she does.
When she's about to break, y/n's hand falls onto Vi's head, fingers carding through her hair, and when she snaps with a gasp, those fingers start to pull, yanking at the pinkish-red strands. Vi seems to groan in the very same moment y/n loses control, caught off guard by the hair pull, but not at all opposed to it.
She keeps up her sensual attention, working y/n through her orgasm and once the shudders seem to have subsided, she lowers y/n's legs from off her shoulders, kissing her way up y/n's thighs until she can lie beside her.
When she turns her head to look at y/n, she finds the girl's reverent gaze already focused on her, looking at Vi like she hung the moon. "You okay, princess?" Vi laughs softly, reaching out to tuck an errant strand of hair behind y/n's ear.
"More than," y/n pants, her gaze still on Vi. "You're incredible. You're so incredible," she surges forward to kiss Vi deeply, hungrily, the taste of herself on Vi's lips only fueling her. Vi chuckles when y/n moves to climb on top, going politely when y/n lifts Vi's arms and discards her clothes the same way she'd done to her. And she watches with rapt attention as y/n starts a trail of kisses down her body.
Y/n disappears between Vi's legs and the first touch of her mouth on her core makes Vi gasp. She couldn't remember the last time she'd even let a girl go down on her like this. She always aligned herself as something of a stone top, but this. This magnificent girl and the way she flicked her tongue just right and worked her thumb against Vi's clit was making her see stars. She never wanted this moment to end. And when she finally falls over the edge, every cohesive thought she's ever had flies right out of her head. For a moment, she can't even remember her own name. But she damn sure knows y/n's, because it's the only word that trickles out of Vi's mouth for the next thirty seconds. That and the F word.
—
Vi wakes up the next morning, deliciously sore and with the weight of y/n's body against hers. Y/n's head is tucked beneath Vi's chin, her arms wrapped around Vi's bare shoulders. Vi's right hand traces miscellaneous shapes on y/n's back, occasionally brushing her knuckles softly against the skin while her left hand cards through the sleeping girl's hair. No offending sunlight this morning. In fact, the rain sluices down y/n's bedroom windows, adding a sense of calm to the overall environment.
"You awake?" Y/n's sleepy voice rumbles against Vi's neck and makes her snicker from the light tickle.
"Yeah, I'm awake, gorgeous," she replies.
Y/n picks up her head and smiles at Vi. "Last night was..."
"Incredible? Mindblowing? Toecurling? The best sex you ever had?" Vi supplies.
"Yes, all of the above," y/n agrees, rolling her eyes. "But it was also really fun. You had fun, didn't you?"
Vi hesitates, her soft caresses on y/n's back stopping for a moment. This makes y/n start to backpedal. "Well...you don't have to answer that. I know you don't like to-"
"No," Vi cuts y/n off, shaking herself out of her daze in favor of smiling down at y/n. "Last night was so much fun," she says, smoothing y/n's hair down. "And for the record, I really like you.”
Y/n smiles up at Vi, breathing an audible sigh of relief. "I really like you too, Vi," she says. With that, she tips her head up, capturing Vi's lips in a sweet kiss, and for the first time ever, Vi doesn't feel the need to flee. She’s content to stay right where she is. As long as y/n will have her.
Thinkin’ about Price, who’s on med leave and under strict orders not to engage in any strenuous activity, begging his controversially young wife to take pity on an old man and fuck him.
Your daughter is born nine months later. You like to joke she exists bc your husband was actually home long enough to put a baby in you.
NOW YOU GOT ME THINKIN ANON—
MEDICAL LEAVE
𝜗𝜚 the one where john's finally home long enough to get you pregnant
𝜗𝜚 pairing: john price x younger wife!reader (reader is afab)
𝜗𝜚 cw: smut (minors—DNI), age gap (price is in his late 30s, reader is late 20s), mentions of surgery/recovery, john having a pain kink (need i say more?), unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it/get tapped), unedited as usual, bad ending
"john, the doctor had strict orders for you to—"
you're cut off mid-rant by john slotting his lips over yours, the mitts of his hands covering your cheeks and tugging your face closer to his. his tongue juts out to lick needily at the seam of your lips, the faint taste of the painkillers he had just taken still fresh on his tastebuds only to be replaced by the sweet mint of your toothpaste.
john would've kept kissing you, too, if he hadn't tried to twist his hips over to face you, making him pull away sharply and hiss out at the way the fresh sutures etched in his ribs twinged in pain.
"john—"
"m'fine," john grunts out hoarsely as he lays back down flat on his back, eyebrows pinched low in the middle of his forehead and tongue licking at the remnants of your spit on his lips. "just wanna—christ—wanna be inside ya."
and that’s how you got to your current position, sitting directly behind john’s thick and leaking cock as you lean back to rest your hands on his hairy muscled thighs—anywhere that wasn’t sutured closed or bruised from the surgery he’d undergone. from beneath furrowed brows, your soft eyes focused on the molten heat buoying in his pupils.
“i don’t wanna accidentally hurt you, john,” the end of your sentence comes out pinched in a whine as the calloused pad of his thumb begins circling your sopping clit, your hips jumping at the stimulation and instinctively rolling forward against his sensitive cock.
john uses the thumb petting at your clit to distract you from the way he manhandles you up, notching the head of his cock between your folds and holding you there for a moment. “i don’t fuckin’ care if it hurts, ‘lright? don’t wan’ you stoppin’ until i feel you cummin’ ‘round my cock four times, and i fill up this pretty fuckin’ pussy—understand me?”
and even though john’s cemented into your shared bed on his back, he keeps you all nice and obedient under his thumb, using the hand he keeps groping at your hip as a way to guide the way your movements. every so often, his sutures would twinge in just a way to send a jolt of pain up his spine—but then he would feel your gummy walls gripping his cock just a little tighter, and the pain would warp into delicious pleasure.
you, ever the good little wife you were, did exactly as john told you—only pulling off of him when your fluids were a messy mixture between my thighs and you could barely walk to the bathroom on wobbly legs.
it didn’t even cross your mind when a month and a half later, you’re a mess of hormones and continuous morning sickness that threatens to knock you out from work for a couple days. john tells you it’s fine, that he’ll work some more late nights to cover your income for a couple days, but you’re determined to keep working.
only after nearly fainting at your home one morning (after john fucked you through at least 2 orgasms) did you find yourself on the doctor’s examination table, fingers nearly snapping john’s hand bones in half when he read off the positive pregnancy result.
and when your daughter is born nine months later (december 14th, by the way—a sagittarius baby), you’re curled up in the hospital bed with john holding you closely, the baby sandwiched comfortably between you two and grappling at one of his thick fingers.
“y’know how long i’ve been waiting for this?” you giggle out softly as you nose against john’s beared jaw, eyes fluttering closed and system overflowing with painkillers and endorphins. “guess you were finally home long enough to actually put a baby in me this time.”
Author’s Note: This one is for the soft hearts who love the idea of tough military men melting over the idea of fatherhood. John Price is absolutely that man.
Summary: John Price spends his mornings whispering to your bump, decorating the nursery with you, and spoiling both you and your unborn child with love. It’s domestic bliss, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.
Masterlist
MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+
The sound of the kettle whistling was the only thing breaking the stillness of the early morning. Outside, the sky was a soft gray, the clouds heavy with the promise of rain, and the house was warm with the scent of tea and something faintly sweet—maybe the last batch of muffins you’d baked late last night when your pregnancy cravings hit full force.
John stood by the stove, hair still slightly tousled, wearing just a pair of joggers and one of his threadbare t-shirts that clung to the muscles of his back. He was moving slowly, quietly, like the world didn’t need to rush anymore.
You were slow to wake these days—pregnancy had a way of draining your energy even before your day began—but when you noticed the absence beside you in bed, you’d followed the whistle of the kettle straight to the kitchen.
He heard your footsteps and turned with a soft smile, eyes dropping instantly to the sight of his hoodie stretched over your body, resting above the gentle curve of your belly.
“Mornin’, love,” he said, voice thick and low with sleep. He crossed the room to you in three long strides and cupped your face, pressing a kiss to your temple before letting his hand drift down to your belly. “How’s my girl?” he added—whether he meant you or the baby, you weren’t quite sure, but it made your chest warm either way.
“You didn’t wake me,” you mumbled, leaning into his touch.
“You looked peaceful,” he said. “Didn’t want to disturb you. And… I like seeing you like this. In my clothes. Barefoot in the kitchen. It’s… bloody perfect.”
You rolled your eyes with a smile, but your heart fluttered at his words. He pulled out a chair for you like the gentleman he always was and guided you into it with a steady hand on your back. Once you were settled, he placed a steaming mug of tea in front of you—your favorite blend, made just the way you liked it.
John crouched in front of you then, his big hand gently resting on your belly, thumb stroking circles over the fabric. The baby shifted, a small kick tapping against his palm, and he let out a quiet chuckle.
“Oi, none of that,” he murmured to your bump, lips brushing against your stomach. “Be nice to Mum this morning, yeah? She needs her tea and at least one hour without you trying to stretch out like a starfish.”
You carded your fingers through his hair, soft and messy, and your throat caught as you whispered, “You’re going to be such a good dad.”
He looked up at you, blue eyes warm and tired and full of something you couldn’t name—something deeper than love. Reverence, maybe.
“Only because I’ve got the best mum sitting right here,” he said.
There was a moment—just a moment—where everything paused. The weight of it all settled in your chest: the quiet mornings like this, the way he spoke to your belly like it was already a person he loved, the safety in his presence.
John leaned forward, resting his forehead gently against your bump, and you saw the way his eyes slipped closed, like he was praying, or maybe just soaking in the peace of it all. “I still can’t believe we’re doing this,” he said quietly.
“Me neither,” you whispered. “But… I wouldn’t want to do it with anyone else.”
He stayed like that for a long while, his hand resting on your belly, the other tangled with yours on the table. And when the first raindrops tapped against the windowpane, you both simply stayed there—two people waiting on a new life, already in love with it before it even arrived.
——
The Next Day
The morning began the way most of them did lately: quiet, slow, warm. The rain outside was a whisper against the windows, and John’s hands were steady where they rested on your belly. The soft hum of the kettle sounded in the background, and you leaned into the comfort of his touch.
He was crouched in front of you, lips brushing your bump, whispering things only the baby could hear.
“I don’t know if you’ll have my eyes or your mum’s,” he murmured, thumb rubbing in slow circles over the fabric of his hoodie you were wearing. “But you’re gonna be beautiful. And clever. Maybe a bit bossy, if your mum’s anything to go by.”
You swatted him lightly, laughing, and his eyes flicked up to you—those warm, sea-blue eyes overflowing with love. He reached up to cradle your face before pressing a kiss to your lips, slow and lingering.
“You didn’t wake me,” you mumbled, still sleepy.
“You looked peaceful,” he said. “Didn’t want to disturb you. Besides, I like seeing you like this. In my hoodie, in our kitchen… belly full of our future.”
You felt your eyes prick with emotion. How did he always know the exact right thing to say?
---
A Week Later – The Baby Store
You weren’t planning on buying anything that day. You just wanted to browse. But the moment you stepped into the baby store, all bets were off.
“I feel like we’re being hunted by pastel colors,” you whispered.
John laughed, pushing a cart now half-filled with onesies, tiny socks, and a baby monitor you “absolutely needed” because he insisted on the best.
He picked up a navy onesie that read “Captain’s First Mate.”
You raised an eyebrow.
“Too on the nose?” he asked, grinning.
“No. It's perfect.”
You stood there in the middle of the store, cradling the onesie between your palms, imagining your baby in it. John slipped an arm around your shoulders and pressed a kiss to your temple.
“We’re really doing this,” you whispered.
“We are,” he said. “And I’ve never been more ready.”
——
Later – The Nursery
The crib was half-built. John sat cross-legged on the nursery floor, frowning at a piece of the frame like it had personally insulted him. You were sitting on the glider, sipping juice, watching him like you always did—full of admiration, pride, and a little bit of amusement.
“You sure you don’t want the manual?” you teased.
“Love, I’ve led black ops missions across enemy lines. I think I can handle a crib.”
You tossed him a plush bear. “You also spent ten minutes trying to screw the leg into the wrong side.”
He smirked but said nothing, returning to the crib with newfound determination. When he finally finished it, he stepped back, arms crossed, chest rising with satisfaction.
The room was slowly coming together. Muted tones, soft blankets, the faint scent of baby-safe detergent. On the wall above the crib was a handmade sign John had surprised you with:
“Welcome Home, Little One.”
You walked over and leaned against him, arms circling his waist. His chin dropped to your shoulder.
“You’ve made this a home,” he whispered. “Before you, it was just four walls and a bed.”
You turned in his arms, sliding your hands over his chest. “Now it’s where our life begins.”
---
That Night – In Bed
You were curled into John’s side, one of his hands splayed across your belly like he was guarding both you and the baby in his sleep.
Then the baby kicked.
His eyes snapped open, breath catching.
“There it is again,” he said softly, palm warm against your skin. “She’s getting stronger.”
“She likes your voice,” you whispered. “Always responds to you.”
“She, huh?” he teased. “You picking favorites already?”
“She’s got your whole heart and she’s not even here yet. Of course she’s my favorite.”
He kissed your forehead. “You’ve both got mine.”
You laid in silence after that, your bodies tangled under the blankets, your hearts so full it felt like you could float away. You could feel it in the air, in every kiss and whispered promise between you:
You were loved. Fully. Fiercely. Completely.
And in a few short weeks, your little one would be, too.
Hope you enjoyed! Please consider liking and reposting! -Midnight💜
It probably has been already requested, but if not, then HR!Reader is perfect for Finally Friday theme. After she let boys get a bit close to her, they kidnapp her to little vacation for the weekend lol
You checked your schedule and then checked again, only to see the latter half of Friday completely blocked out. After lunch, specifically, your day was annexed from the rest of HR. It made you wonder if maybe you’d booked all day meetings. Or if your HR boss was finally tired of you being difficult for the base’s most elite unit.
In your defence, they made your life difficult and you were only doing your job by restricting them from danger.
Of course maybe you had gone too far by putting John Soap MacTavish on a temporary blackout from the demolition’s storage. But again, in your defence, the sergeant could be a menaces when it came to explosives.
After the first five minutes of staring at your blacked out schedule for Friday and Monday, you were ready to configure with your boss. As your hand reached for the telephone on your desk, the door opened and the sergeant himself stepped inside.
“Are ya partial to blindfolds, lass?” He asked without provocation and you were given very little notice or opportunity to respond before you felt movement behind you.
“Don’t fight us on this, yeah?” Simon’s voice echoed in your head before a fine piece of silk was wrapped around your head and across your eyes, obscuring your vision.
“What the hell are you doing?” Your hands almost immediately moved to take off the blindfold, and just as quickly as you were blindfolded, you’d been taken from your desk and thrown over a shoulder. “Johnny! Simon!”
“You’re going away for a weekend.” Johnny retorted against your protests, and though you couldn’t see you knew he was smirking. “Takin’ you somewhere nice-”
“I’m being kidnapped!” You kicked against Simon’s font half, your hands trying to grapple with his back half though any attempt to squirm away was futile.
“Kidnapped is a harsh word, love.” Simon jerks you once while you’re thrown over his shoulder, jostling you to send a message.
You’re still blindfolded when you heard the steady rumbling of a helicopter on a landing pad. The gust of wind that felt like it could rip your skin off if you weren’t careful.
“You got the package,” John’s voice had to be loud to be heard, and again you were jostled but this time you were tossed into the helicopter, “Gaz and Nikolai are ready-”
“Kidnapping is illegal in nearly every country!” You finally yanked the blindfold off, coming face to face with Gaz himself, his pretty brown eyes alight with amusement.
“Sergeant Garrick.” You hissed his name as he was strapping you into your seat, not batting at eye at your anger. “Why is it always you four dickheads?”
“Dickheads, sir.” Kyle’s lips were tugged into a smirk while your comment drew a few husky chuckles from Simon and Johnny.
“Like we ‘aven’t ‘eard that before.” Simon takes the seat beside you, strapping himself in like Kyle had done with you. “Relax, darlin’. We’re going on a little trip.”
“To the gulag no doubt.” You mumbled under your breath and shot Simon a dirty look, eyes narrowed and fixed into a glare. “Kidnapping-”
“You would’ve said no.” John was the only one who stood near the cockpit, giving Nikolai the go ahead to start taking off. Though he was holding onto a strap attached to the roof, he made no attempt at sitting down yet.
Not until you were truly clear from the landing pad, as if he half-expected you to free yourself and jump out.
“Where are we going then?” You looked from Simon to Gaz, to John and then Johnny—expecting some outlandish answer.
“Thought you’d need a little time off from work. We decided-“
“-without consent-” you bit back at Johnny’s statement, attempting to kick him from your position across from him.
“-to take you somewhere nice. Somewhere relaxing.” Johnny grinned and adjusted his position just enough that you could see exactly what your fighty attitude was doing to him.
“Goin’ to Montenegro.” Simon rest a hand on your leg, fingers digging lightly into the meat of your thigh. “Laswell took her wife there.”
You opened your mouth to speak into to shut it tightly when the helicopter took a hard left, and you were jerked closer to Simon. That felt like the end of the conversation right there, and you quickly fell into silence instead of trying to argue. It wouldn’t do you any good anyway.
Seeing the light still on in his office had made you pause. You had debated simply walking by Captain Price’s office to make your way home but something held you up. You were on base late in the admin building anyway due to some HR meetings, and had finally been released. Everyone else had left, all offices were shut and closed, except his.
“Can’t have an office with my men? Have to be shoved into the admin building with the rest of ‘em?” Captain Price had complained about the move, and initially disregarded the decision. The base commanders wanted all the offices for their high ranking soldiers to be in one place, contained to one area.
“Captain Price?” You knocked on the door and entered when he told you to, pausing to close the door behind you. “You’re working late.”
“So are you.” There was the subtle glow from his cigar that was perched between his lips, and a glass of bourbon on the desk—you’d come to learn that Captain Price liked bourbon, scotch and whiskey but hated tequila.
“HR meetings, they wanted to go over some new policies.” You shrug off the statement like it’s just another day, and try not to let him know how tired you are. “I was about to head home when I saw your light on.”
“Long drive for you, isn’t it? Should talk to base command, get yourself a room here.” John let his cigar rest on the ashtray, and then lifted his glass. “Less driving, yeah?”
“Be on base with all these soldiers all the time?” You scoffed and approached the couch he had resting against the wall, sitting on the comfortable cushion. “I think I’d lose my mind.”
“You’re stronger than that, love.” He finishes his drink and sets the glass down before he stands, he rises to his feet and groans under his breath. “Put up with us lot, Simon and Johnny make ya want to pull your hair out.”
“You’re bad,” you admit to his claim that they all cause you trouble, “but not the worst.”
“A compliment,” Captain Price’s lips twitch in a partial smirk, and then he comes to sit next to you, “I’ll take it.”
You feel the couch dip as he sits next to you, and you feel his hands trailing along the back of your soft cardigan. He studies you, those pretty blue eyes sweeping over your face while you become transfixed by the scent of his cologne. He’s handsome, all of the 141 is, but there’s something about Captain Price that just…seems different.
“Could stay here, got a nice bed for ya.” It’s not a lewd offer, it’s genuine, and clearly he’s making the offer because you look like you’re going to fall over. “Even got clothes for ya.”
“Clothes for me?” You turn your head, looking over him in the same manner that he’s looked at you. “Really?”
“What, are you really that surprised? We’ve all been dating what, few weeks?” John leans in, dropping the hand from your sweater to your arm, as he gently pulls you in. “Haven’t even kissed ya yet.”
“And yet you have clothes for me.” You mumble, crashing into his chest as your heart begins to race, your palms begin sweating. “Getting ahead of yourself?”
“Stay tonight,” he uses his other hand to cup your chin, thumb stroking your flesh, “it’s late. Stay.”
You almost resist the urge; almost. You’re weaker than you think when it comes to them, to all of them, and you draw yourself closer. You slate your lips against his, the first rendering of lips against lips. John’s gentle, he’s softly slipping a hand around to the back of your neck, holding you in place.
Though there’s room for growth, for the intensifying nature of the kiss to bloom, it remains tender. He remains where he is, with you pinned to his chest and a hand on the back of your neck. Only when you feel the need to breathe does he pull away, and even then there’s minimal space between you two.
“Stay tonight.” He says it again but this time you don’t will yourself to argue. Rather you simply nod and allow him to help you to your feet, his hand reaching for your own.
Simon Riley, who discovers (and accepts) that he has a raging Mommy kink on a random Saturday, when he meets you in the supermarket around the corner of his flat, where you click your tongue at him in reprimand, ogling him shamelessly as he checks out the new flavours of Ramen noodle cups.
And his spine goes rigid, when you address him directly.
"Big lad like you needs a proper meal," you remark, pushing your grocery cart full of fresh meats, produce, and other healthy goodies past him. "In my humble opinion." You add, nearly cooing at him as he dares a side glance from behind his balaclava.
Within seconds, his eyes flicker to your left hand on the cart, checking for a wedding band, checking for anything that could help him figure out who you are, really.
His fingers dig into the plastic cup that looks comically tiny in his hands, fingers nearly denting the fabric as he tries to come up with a witty, dry remark to keep you from leaving, to start a bloody conversation for once, but then you hit him with a "Have a good day, love." and his breath catches in his throat like someone punched his solar plexus.
By the time you round the corner to the next aisle over, his cock is so painfully chubbed up in his jeans, Simon fears he might faint from the sudden rush of blood down south.
And he doesn't quite know what he's feeling in this moment, but he puts the Ramen back into the shelf, boots squeaking on the linoleum floor as he turns on his heels to give chase like an abandoned pup who might have just imprinted on his new mommy.
Oh, Simon's going to get that proper meal, one way or another—hoping you'll let him have your sweet cunt for dessert.
being ambessas maid (essentially fucktoy) who gets to like sit on her lap through meetings and drip all over her thighs I dunno
or like you were her maid but then she thought you were too pretty to do any work so you just get to lie on couches/her bed all day
𝐀𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐀 𝐌𝐄𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐃𝐀 𝐱 𝐌𝐀𝐈𝐃 𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐍𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐏𝐇𝐘 𝐖𝐈𝐅𝐄!𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑
WORD COUNT: 1.8k words . . .
SMUT TAGS: thigh humping, fingering
When the Noxian warlord conquered the lands of your hometown, you thought it was over. You had no other choice but to apply to do housework in the Medarda Estate. The economy was terrible. There was no other option available right now for you other than breaking your back wiping floors and walls all day long. Every corner was laced with gold in the Estate when you entered and all you could do was gawk at the wealth that you'd never have.
The head cleaner of the Estate took one look at you and asked, “Are you sure you want to apply for the position?”
You were decently pretty for a girl your age and status. You nodded dryly. “Gotta do what you gotta do to keep food on the table.”
“Ah, I see, I understand. There's an apron in the back, you should wear it, you wouldn't wanna stain your, uhh,—” she gestured at the clothes that you had on.
No matter where you went you always dressed up and dolled up well, you knew how pretty privilege could benefit girls like you and you took full advantage of it. I mean, why wouldn't you? You had nothing to lose.
You smiled brightly, “I take it that means I have the job?”
“Yeah, we're kinda short staffed here so of course, the more the merrier.” The girl laughed somewhat nervously before she walked away. You could see why she was nervous now. The General seemed to be in a really bad mood.
You didn't look at her quite, and just kept your head down as you dusted about the Estate. The artefacts that you dusted were almost all pure gold and it made you feel a twinge of jealousy but you stuffed it down and ignored it.
You reached the bed chambers a while later, knocking, “Cleaning.” You announced.
A deep voice answered “Come inside.” And you felt your panties dampen instantly. You opened the ceiling high doors and stepped inside gingerly. Ambessa Medarda. None other than the General herself. She was seated at the corner where there was a desk stacked with a pile of papers.
“Clean up, and be quick.” Ambessa said, not bothering to look up from the clipboard which was reading from.
“Yes, ma'am,” you mumbled under your breath and quickly moved about the room, dusting and cleaning.
You tried to be as fast as you could while also being efficient, as you bent down however the neck of your dress practically gave away and flashed your cleavage. You quickly grabbed at it and straightened. Ambessa raised a brow, turning to face you once she saw you move at her peripheral vision.
“You look a bit too well-dressed to be just a maid.” Ambessa said, extending an arm and featuring you to come closer.
You obliged, stepping closer. You nervously twirled a hair between your fingers— a habit you developed a while ago. Ambessa held the side of your waist, her big hand almost engulfing your waist in it as she guided you closer and closer to her until you were easily perched on one of her thick, meaty thighs.
“Oh,” you flushed bright red.
“There we go, pretty little thing,” Ambessa used her other hand to tuck back a strand of your hair as she made sure you were comfortably seated on her lap.
Your heart pounded against your ribs so hard it was almost difficult to breathe. You were so close to the Noxian warlord you could see every fine line of her face, her breath smelled faintly of wine and something a little more musky but very subtle. You loved it. You loved being on this woman's lap.
“You're too precious to be part of the cleaning staff.” Ambessa's hand squeezed your hip and your thighs pressed together instantly.
“Is that so?” You tried to respond but your brain was lagging so badly.
“Yes, dollface, I expect you to come straight to my bedchambers everyday that you're reporting for work, understood?” Ambessa held you so easily in her hands, as if you were just a doll to play with.
“Understood, General.” You breathed.
“Please, call me Ambessa,” she said before smirking, “Although, I enjoy hearing that title on your lips too.”
You giggled, a little more free this time as your shoulders relaxed. You felt Ambessa's hand slip down from your waist to your ass, giving it a firm squeeze as if testing out how you'd react if she did so.
“Do you treat all the pretty maids this way?” You asked.
“If I said yes, would you be jealous?” Ambessa leaned back, pulling you closer.
“Maybe.”
Ambessa didn't just give you luxury. She gave you power, the kind that didn’t need gold or a name, but came with every glance she threw your way and every inch of skin she claimed. She gave you silk sheets and crimson wine. She gave you a room of your own, closer to hers than any of the other servants would ever dare step. She gave you a place at her side during quiet dinners, where war generals would glance at you in confusion, some even in resentment, wondering who you were to be granted such proximity to a woman who crushed nations with her bare hands.
But above all else, Ambessa gave you attention.
Not just fleeting or indulgent, but sharp, possessive attention. She watched your every move like you were something rare, like you were hers. And you liked it. You were hers. Each morning, you’d still dress up, paint your lips, slipping into the apron that had long become a mockery. Because no one in that Estate saw you as a maid anymore. You were something else— Ambessa’s something.
While Ambessa worked, she had you on her lap, wearing her ring— the Medarda emblem— grinding down against her thighs as she kept you dressed in the finest silk of Noxus. You were a whimpering mess as you humped her thigh and leg out the filthiest little sounds right there against her ear as she worked. Her pen didn't even stutter as it glided about the page and she noted down her war strategies. She wasn't paying attention to you.
“You're so desperate.” Ambessa finally uttered after a while but she still didn't spare you even just a glance, her eyes were hyper fixated on her work and it didn't seem like your sexual frustration would distract her anytime soon.
“Please, ‘Bessa, baby,” you pouted your glossy lips out, hair slowly dishevelled and face flushed from effort as your clit grinded down, bare, against the rough material of Ambessa's pants. You needed her so badly.
Ambessa ignored you for a while and didn't bother looking up or acknowledging your pathetic attempts at getting off. She was far too drowned in her work. She didn't care. Your ass squished against her knee as you continued your rubbing, your pussy was starting to leave a damp, wet patch on her thigh and she seemed to not give a shit about it. Ambessa only moved once she’d finished signing a particularly long sheet of military logistics. Her pen clicked, echoing in the silent room, and you froze because that sound always meant one thing.
Her fingers tapped the desk once, a signal.
“Get off and bend over the desk,” she said coolly, still not looking at you.
You scrambled to obey, legs a little shaky as you stepped off her lap and stood. Your cunt throbbed with each heartbeat, lips slick and swollen. You knew what she liked, how she liked you to present yourself and so you leaned over the smooth, dark wood of her desk, pushing your hips back slightly, back arched, dress bunched up to your waist, ass bare.
A slow silence passed.
Then her chair creaked. And a moment later, Ambessa’s fingers trailed up the back of your thigh, slow and teasing, rough pads of her fingertips dragging over your skin. She dipped in between your legs and you sucked in a breath, your body jerking with anticipation.
“Soaking the desk already,” she murmured. “Haven’t even touched you properly yet.”
You whimpered. “Please…”
Ambessa finally stood fully behind you, one hand gripping your hip, the other sliding through your folds. She was cruel in the way she made it last, long strokes that never quite circled your clit, fingers that dipped just inside and then pulled back out again.
“Worked yourself up just grinding on me,” she mocked gently. “What a spoiled little wife I’ve made.”
You clenched around nothing at that, toes curling in your boots.
Her fingers finally sank in, two of them, thick and unyielding. She pushed in slowly, then crooked them hard, hitting that spot inside you that made your knees buckle slightly.
“Ambessa—”
“Quiet.”
You shut up instantly, forehead resting on the cool desk. Her hand twisted and pumped, wrist moving with fluid confidence. Her thumb pressed just above your clit but didn’t rub. It was like she was teasing you just by existing in that spot. You wanted more friction. You needed more friction.
But Ambessa wasn’t going to make it that easy.
“You want to come?” she asked, voice low, calm, condescending.
You nodded desperately. “Yes, yes please—”
“Then you’ll have to earn it.”
The fingers stopped moving entirely. You groaned in frustration, hips shifting.
She leaned down close to your ear. “Sit on the edge of the desk.”
You followed, hopping up clumsily, legs trembling as you sat on the thick edge of the wood. Ambessa stepped between your thighs, her large frame towering over you. Her hands slid under your knees and pushed them apart until you were completely exposed to her. Her fingers returned, but this time she didn’t waste time teasing. She shoved them in deep, curling them ruthlessly. The heel of her palm hit your clit again and again with each pump of her hand. Your body jolted, breaths coming in hard, whiny pants as your slick dripped over her knuckles.
“You going to come all over my hand like a good little trophy?” she growled against your mouth, not kissing you yet, just letting her words vibrate through your lips.
“Yes, yes— Ambessa, I’m— !”
Your climax hit hard. Your legs shook, mouth falling open in a silent cry as your walls pulsed around her fingers, juices coating her palm and dripping onto the desk beneath you. She didn’t slow down until you were practically twitching in her grasp, sobbing from the overstimulation. Ambessa finally pulled her fingers free and wiped them on your inner thigh, smearing your cum across your skin like paint. Her other hand lifted your chin and forced you to look at her.
“Clean yourself up and be presentable,” she said, stepping back. “You’ll be dining with me tonight.”
✧.* summary: he definitely didn't need help, he doesn't need someone to care for him. no one has ever helped him before, and no one ever cared so why would they start now. he doesn't care, he definitely doesn't need help. so why does he keep ending up in the infirmary with the beautiful nurse? and why does he keep coming back to you?
✧.* contents: fluff, a bit of angst, and a sprinkle of suggestive dialogue
here's the whole story! it took me a while but I hope you all enjoy it, sorry I'm a perfectionist. I had a lot of fun writing this but let me know what you all think. i might write a pt 2 to this idk. Also pls excuse the medical and military inaccuracies
enjoy
Help. He hates help. He can’t stand it. When others look at him, when he looks at himself, he doesn’t see himself as someone dependent on others. Why else would he enlist, he didn’t need help, he learned that the hard way. No one ever helped him and he adjusted, so why would he need help now? People are dependent on him; they rely on him. When someone is injured, scared, or dead it’s up to him to fix the situation, to solve the problems of others, to carry the fallen.
When Price told him to go to the nurse he was upset, actually, he was pissed. He was not a child who scraped his knee playing football at school. He was a soldier; he was more than a mere man. He knew how to endure, he knew how to carry his weight, and he knew that he didn’t need to see the nurse. He knew what was wrong with him, he just bruised his ribs. He didn’t need some old woman with a bad attitude to tell him what he already knew.
He endured and he resisted the pain for exactly two weeks, but the pain was only getting worse. He was confused and didn’t know what to do, he hoped that no one had noticed and he didn’t want people to start. He didn’t want questions or concerns, he wanted relief and nothing more.
He thought no one would notice and he was so wrong.
Training.
Simon hated training the new recruits, they were cocky and they didn’t know their place. They thought after joining and passing the initial physical exams, they were done.
They were most definitely not done. They needed to adjust, physically and mentally, to fit in. Many people think the initial physical and mental exams are where new recruits break, no they break here, during training…with him. He hated it but knew why Price asked him to do it.
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Price usually did rounds during training, he watched the recruits and the techniques of the other task forces. The smell of sweat, dirt, and blood filled his system and that smell drew his attention to Ghost. Today he felt the need to check on Ghost and see how he was doing. Ghost was a good teacher even though he didn’t realize this, Price did though.
Ghost was mean, harsh, and disciplined, and the people he taught tended not to last long, however, the ones who did turn out to be great because the one thing that Ghost teaches best is endurance.
When Price was watching him train, he started to get upset and confused. This was most definitely different from the big and bad Ghost he was used to. He thought at first that "maybe Ghost was pulling his punches?" When he paired Ghost up to train some of the rookies, he thought maybe Simon was finally going soft.
Usually after training, the rookies would be sore, and in pain, sometimes they might even need to be excused to nurse. However, these past few weeks the rookies have been surprisingly...fine. Maybe even better than fine and it's been making them cocky, it's boosted some of their egos.
It would probably boost his ego too, Price chuckled. If he were to beat the big, brutal, scary Ghost while still a rookie. However, they are starting to get obnoxious because they are taunting and boasting, which is certainly something that Price could not have. It was starting to piss him off. Price was going to tell Ghost that if he didn’t put these pricks in line, there were going to be consequences.
That was the plan, but then he took a closer look and that’s when he saw it.
He saw the way that Ghost taking more hits than normal, he was slow to react and he was even slower to respond. His stance was off as well, usually his form made him feel like a giant among men but now he looked like he was shrinking himself, like it was his first day of training. Ghost wasn’t pulling his punches, he wasn't holding back, he was weak.
Now he was pissed.
Price knew.
Price knew exactly why Ghost wasn’t as strong as he usually is, why his punches aren’t as powerful as they normally are. Ghost was a disobedient bastard and Price was pissed.
“STOP! That’s enough training for today, soldiers.”
“Ghost, come now!”
“Yes, Captain” Ghost replied in his thick Manchester accent.
“The hell is wrong with you Lieutenant!”
“Nothin' Capt’n, I'm just-”
“You’re just hurt, did you go to the nurse?” Price knew the answer.
“I didn’t feel the need to go to the medical facility Capt’n”
“You didn’t feel the need to go?” Price asked Simon and looked at him like he was crazy. Since when did his soldiers feel the need for an opinion?
“If you don’t get your ass to the medical facility right now, you’re going to be training these pricks for three months straight. You understand?”
“Yessir!”
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Unbelievable!
He doesn’t need to be here. As he walks to the nurse’s offices, he feels everyone's eyes on him. He’s rarely ever here and because of that it draws the eye, lots of them. He thanked his balaclava every day because without it, based on the face he was making, some might think he was actually nervous.
He doesn’t want some old hag telling him what to do and degrading him for not coming sooner. Some old nurse or doctor telling him everything he already knows just to insult him and show off their vast vocabulary just to try and make him feel small. that’s what they all do, that’s what his father did.
He approaches the front desk and the older woman tells him to go to office number 222. He makes his way over, navigating the hallways, and he finds the office. The sign is decorated with small pink flowers and a white cat with a red bow. He resists the urge to roll his eyes.
Before he goes and knocks on the door, he dries his palms on his pants, desperately hoping to get over this.
Knock-knock.
Some time passed but then he heard a soft voice say…
“Come on in”
He opened the door and he was surprised that the soft voice matched a beautifully soft face. A face with beautifully unique features that worked together in harmony to make the beautiful woman that sat before him.
God damn.
Those were the only words on his mind.
It wasn’t an old woman who looked like she had a chip on her shoulder and carried a deep grudge, nor someone who looked like they were going to insult him… no. definitely not.
It was a young woman.
A beautiful young woman.
A beautiful young woman with the most inviting features. Absolutely gorgeous, he’s never seen a woman this beautiful ever on this base. He feels like she doesn’t belong here, her face is an exact contrast to the environment he surrounds himself every day. He has a million questions he wants to ask her, and he feels the strong urge to get closer to her. He’s such a creep. He doesn’t even know her name.
He feels his mouth goes dry and his hands sweat. Gross. He hasn’t felt this way since Secondary School, he feels like a dork and he doesn’t know what is wrong with him.
“Good afternoon, how can I help you!” Her voice was cheery and if he was a little bit more nervous, he wouldn’t notice the shock on her face and the tremble in her voice. He was used to that reaction; it was probably due to his appearance. her voice matched her face and he felt his heart beat faster, he finally was going to die.
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He was just staring at you, he was just looking. You’ve heard rumors of him, of his personality. The big bad Ghost, the professional killer who lacks mercy for anyone. He was just staring at you and it was freaking you out. What’s wrong with him, why is he here in the nurse's office? Did he hurt someone? Or worse…
He’s still staring.
“… excuse me, is everything alright?”
“Erm…yeah, sorry” he responded and if your mind weren’t running a mile a minute you would have heard the way he sounded nervous.
He clears his throat and then replies “Captain Price has recommended I take a visit down here.” God his voice was so deep. He was so smooth, he had a thick accent that wasn’t like any of the others you heard on base. His voice was not at all soft but the way he spoke made something bubble inside you.
Wait. ‘take a visit down here’
Oh. He needed help.
“Oh… okay sir, what seems to be the problem?” You try your best to put on your customer service voice and hide the fact that you're wondering what this man might need help with.
“Erm… last deployment I bruised my ribs real bad, don't know how…”
You try to listen, you have to pretend to do so. You're writing as he describes his symptoms. He has stomach pain, difficulty breathing, tenderness in his abdomen, and bruising. He describes his symptoms and you feel so bad for him and at the same time, you feel disgusted in yourself.
Disgusted because instead of being focused on how he describes his pain, you focused on his attractive ass voice. You can't help it, you're just a girl.
No, You need to remain a professional.
“Okay Lieutenant Riley, if it's all right with you, I’d like to examine your abdomen.”
“Yeah… that's fine” he sounds hesitant you feel bad… you feel like you need to reassure him.
“Don't worry lieutenant, I'm sure everything is going to be just fine.” you try to reassure him and when you do, you unconsciously give him a soft smile.
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Well, you have to ask him to take off his shirt. That was something that didn't occur to you. He doesn't have to comply, you could do the whole checkup with his shirt on. You hope he doesn't so you save yourself from embarrassment.
“Sir, if you do not mind, may I ask you to remove your um… t-shirt?” you ask, trying your hardest to remain professional. It's completely reasonable for a medical professional to ask a patient to remove their shirt when they had an abdomen injury.
“You don't necessarily have to I'm sure I can find a way to…”
“I don't mind” Lieutenant Riley cuts you off as he agrees.
He sits on the examination table and removes his shirt.
You think you just died. You are short of breath and you think you died because there's an angel right in front of you. If you were anywhere else you would admire his powerfully built body, but you were more concerned with the bruising on his stomach.
You feel and you touch his body, extremely concerned about his well-being. His stomach was black and blue, his stomach was sore, and he could barely bend over.
You were worried but also shocked because this man worked and trained in such a condition for about a week. You knew of Simon Riley and you knew of his reputation and this just supported the fact that he's an absolute abled-bodied unit… it was almost scary.
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“I believe you have a few broken ribs…sir.” You say almost scared of his reaction. He needed x-rays, actually he needed time off.
“I'll recommend you an off-base X-ray Tech to take pictures of your abdomen, I also recommended to your captain that you take time off to heal. After we get your x-rays, I recommend you visit me every two weeks so we can look over your progress ” You tell him, distracted as you look over all your notes.
“Oh ok, every two weeks, and how long will it take to heal…” Luitenent Riley asked, he sounded nervous and you started to feel bad for talking to him so nonchalantly about his condition.
“Um should take about two months to heal. Ribs tend to heal rather quickly, however, since they weren't treated earlier it might take a while longer. Don't worry I’m sure you'll feel better rather quickly.” You try to give him a little bit of comfort. You give Luitenent Riley instructions, stating how to take care of himself and treat his injuries.
He collects his stuff and is getting ready to leave before he turns around looks you up and meets your eye.
“Thank you so much luv, ‘preciate it.” He tells you, in a soft accented voice.
“It's not a problem Luitenent.” You tell him and you feel your heart pick up its pace.
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Week 2
He was supposed to visit today, you were expecting him today. You had all of his notes laid out and you were just waiting.
Waiting.
Waiting.
Other patients came and went but you were still looking forward to one specific client. The first time he visited you had no time to admire his large and confident stance when he walked into the room. He walked into the room with utter confidence as if he knew it would have an effect on you.
AND GAHHH LEEE
When he removed his shirt, you don't know how you controlled yourself. You knew he was a big man with a hefty build but you were not expecting what you saw. Your eyes were blessed with a solid, broad-shouldered, athletic man.
The literal definition of manly, if he wasn't in the military you were sure he would be off somewhere chopping wood or something. If you weren't at work you're sure you would be lying in bed kicking your feet.
When he spoke to you he had such a deep and low baritone voice that was heavily accented. You never had a thing for accents but he was something else completely. Low and intimidating, his language was professional but you could tell that he was trying not to curse and use slang. It's embarrassing to think about the things you'd do to hear him, swear or even say your name. In your head you know you’d sound like a rabid dog if he’d said it in that attractive ass voice-
Then you hear your name and think you might die. Actually, it was your last name and your medical title. But still—
It’s him.
He’s here.
Remain professional! you scream and shout at yourself.
You greet him and try to make small talk, asking him how he’s doing, how he’s feeling, and what he’s been doing with his time off. It's hard, he's such a beefy and attractive man. You can't even see his face but based on just the way he walks, you know he's fine.
Admittedly, working on this base that’s far away from your home made you forget how to act around an attractive man…
“Been reading too, I'm trying to distract myself. If ya have any recommendations just let me know.” he interrupts your thoughts and you relate to him. It gets boring between deployment he tells.
“What do you usually do between deployments?” you ask, sincerely.
“Train, train myself then train with others.” He replies.
You don’t ask anything else, you know that he must miss training every day. The way he says it makes you feel bad. You know many of the soldiers find solitude when they work on themselves and train. It calms them and helps them recover, it's almost a form of therapy. Simon can't do that, not with his injury. You feel a pang in your chest.
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You go over his notes and x-rays. You give him a checkup and note that he’s healing rather quickly, based on the other scars you know that this isn’t his worst injury.
You catch his eyes when you are going over everything with him and explaining your notes to him. He’s looking at you with his golden green eyes, staring you up and down. You feel sort of embarrassed because you don't feel cute at this moment. You didn’t put makeup on in the morning, just gloss on your plumped lip and curled your eyelashes. Your wash day is coming up too so you wrapped your hair in a colorful scar today.
The way he looked at you was the way men would look when you would walk into a club. When you had a full face and your hair was freshly done. When you had a tight and short dress that would accentuate your beautiful curves. When you knew that you looked stunning that's the way he was looking at you, right now.
His visit was finished and you put the date for the next visit in your calendar. Before he leaves he thanks you.
“I don't like doctors but I appreciate all you've done for me, miss.”
“Thank you Luitenenent, if you ever need a book recommendation you can always come see me.”
“Thank you.” He tells you and even though you can't see his face, you feel a smile radiate off him.
You feel like he’s such a kind man.
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Week 4
Today, on his next visit, he’s not as kind.
You know why. You can tell that he's antsy, that he wants to get back to work. He’s rushing the process and wants to do everything you told him not to do. He wants to disregard all the instructions you gave him. You’re used to that, soldiers want to get back to their daily routine and they’re itching to do something strenuous during the healing process.
You would be fine with that if it were not for his shortness with you. He was annoyed and that was completely acceptable but there was no need to be curt and downright rude to you.
His answers were short. After each question, while trying to make small talk he replied with a ‘Mmhmm’. He didn't make eye contact with you and when you would suggest activities for him to try and distract him, he would roll his eyes and brush it off.
He didn't want to chat and you feel like this is not the same man, who came to visit last time.
Today’s visit was short, there was clearly no need for small talk on his end and no time for the flirting you wanted to do.
You did yourself up today too and now that you think back at it, it feels like a waste of time. You enjoyed the visit you had with him last time you were looking forward to today's visit. However, that feeling quickly dissipated, when Luitenenent Riley came in with a bad attitude and short tone. You had no time for this today, you think you even returned that same energy. So the visit was short and he left with a slammed door following behind him.
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Lunchtime came around and you were most definitely looking forward to it. After a long day, that wasn't even over, all you wanted to do was eat. You grab your book and sit in your designated corner to eat in the loud cafeteria.
You feel relaxed when you start eating and open up your book. The loud cafeteria with the chatter of men and women surrounds you. It's kind of calming when you think about it. The laughs, small talk, and clattering cutlery fade in the background around you. This is just what you need after such a long and tiresome day.
You try to focus on your book but then you are interrupted by someone clearing their throat.
“Is this seat taken?” You glance up from your book, you find him standing there, his presence commanding attention even in the busy room. Lieutenant Riley is looking down at you with a food tray in his hands. He refers to the seat across from you and you shake your head no. You try to avoid eye contact when he sits down, still feeling annoyed from earlier.
He lifts his balaclava over his mouth and you both eat in silence. There’s a growing tension around you both.
You eat your food and busy yourself with your book, however you can feel him looking at you. He ate in silence, his eyes occasionally meeting yours before darting away.
It was irritating.
Earlier he was being rude and barely talking to you and now he was acting timid, the audacity. You started to pick up the pace and eat your lunch faster.
Then he interrupted his silence with his deep sultry voice.
“I wanted to apologize for my behavior earlier. I was disrespectful to you when you were only trying to help. I'm sorry. I've honestly been sick and tired of sitting around and doing nothing that I took out my anger on you and for that, I apologize.” It sounded like he practiced this. It makes you smile thinking about the Ghost practicing an apology in the mirror. You can just imagine him practicing and it warms your heart that he put this much energy into an apology.
“Thank you for your apology.” You reply in a soft voice.
There was silence for a while but it was interrupted by your voice.
“Um…I know it's hard, not being able to do the things you used to be able to do. I'm sure soon you will be able to get back to your routine and do everything that you want to do… and more. If You need to talk to someone, you can always come and see me. ” You tell him, a bit timidly. All you want to bring comfort to him and reassure him.
“Thank you,” he replies.
“No problem Luitenent” you respond.
“Call me, Simon.”
That was the end of the conversation. There was a soft smile on your face, and you both sat in a comfortable silence, taking quick glances at each other.
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Week 6
This next visit was much more casual than the previous two. Throughout the whole week before this upcoming visit, he’s been stopping by your office.
In the beginning, he would just stop and say hello and indulge you with some small talk. Nothing more than checking in on you and asking how your day was. However lately, he’s been getting comfortable here. He’s claimed the large decorative leather chair in the corner of your office, closest to your desk.
He would just sit there and talk to you about anything and everything. Conversations went from favorite foods to his most recent reads to how long you’ve been an RN.
The other nurses in the building have gotten used to his presence in your office. When they come to visit or drop something off, his presence doesn’t throw them off anymore. They’re used to the large man sitting comfortably in your office.
Today was no different, he stopped by in the morning and you both got to chatting. An hour went by when it felt like mere minutes. Time flew by so fast that you almost forgot about his checkup.
“Oh!” You exclaim. “I'm such an idiot, I almost forgot why you were here Simon.” you shoot up from your desk and walk over to the examination table, slapping it twice with a big grin on your face
“Alright Simon, let’s get this over with!” You sell him with a large smile on your face.
Simon slaps his knees and pushes himself off of the deep and comfortable chair. He makes his way across your office looking at all of the flowers around your office and the Sanrio Characters you have scattered around.
When he gets to the examination table, just as you're about to move out of the way, he grabs your waist and moves you to the side. He lets his hands linger and he makes eye contact with you as he sits on the chair.
You're certain he’s smiling under that stupid balaclava.
Cocky bastard.
You clear your throat and attempt to focus on your work. The checkup only lasts a few minutes, he’s getting so much better. You would be so excited to tell him that he can start getting back to his normal routine, but you're distracted.
Distracted because he’s so touchy. First, he touches your waist, he must know that it has some sort of effect on you because then he touches your clothes.
During the checkup when you need to do something basic and mindless, he grabs the corner of your coat and rubs yours between his fingers. When you speak to him he’s doing the same with your black scrubs.
“You can start getting back to your regular routine, like training and stuff. Don’t rush it or anything, just …baby steps'' you say, you move yourself to stand in between his legs.
“That right?” He asks but he’s not focused on what you say. He’s focused on your plump lips and you think it’s turning you on. His eyes slowly make their way back to your eyes.
“Mmmhhh! But nothing too rough.” You reply looking back at him. You feel his hands make their way up your waist.
“Not even a little rough?” He asks. You both start to lean closer and he takes one hand off of your waist and takes it toward his mask.
Oh god! What is he doing? Is he going to show his face? Kiss you! Or maybe—
Knock Knock
The loud knock draws your attention away from Simon and you pull yourself away from between his legs.
You clear your throat and attempt to fix yourself even though you two have done nothing.
“Come in!” You shout, voice cracking a bit.
One of the more intimidating on-field military nurses enters your office. Unlike you, this nurse is trained for the field and it shows. She is tall with broad muscular shoulders, and she confidently walks into the room with a skeptical look on her face.
She takes a look at both you and Simon before addressing you. Telling you that your presence is wanted somewhere else.
“Oh okay… I’ll be there in five ma’am.” You reply and she makes her way out of your office with a raised eyebrow at Simon.
“Okay, Simon! your next check is in two weeks and that’s your last one, congratulations.” You address Simon trying to make it seem like you don’t remember the moment you two had before you were interrupted. Simon stands and makes his way over to you, stops right in front of you, and towers over you. If he was anyone else you’d give them hell for popping your personal space bubble.
“Alright…Can I see you tomorrow?” he asks, looking down at you.
“Are you injured?” You ask sarcastically.
“Got a paper cut. That’s what I get for reading” He shows you his thumb and starts to chuckle. You laugh right along with him. You look up at him and nod, you smile while biting your lip.
“See you tomorrow Si”
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Week 8
Two months.
He’s known you for two months and he still doesn’t know how to act around you. This past month he’s seen you almost every day constantly visiting you. He feels like every day he’s getting to know you better and better. You’re a genius, graduating high school and college early which explains why you're so young. You love this little Japanese cat thing that’s called Hello Kitty. Your favorite flowers are tulips, and that’s something that stuck out to him.
Tulips stuck out so much that he used his last day of time off to go out off base and buy you some. Today is his last official visit with you but he most definitely doesn’t want to make it his last time seeing you. He wants to see you more, a lot more. He wants to see you outside of work, he wants to see you outside your work clothes. He wants to see you in jeans, a dress, in his bed—
He shakes his head, trying to stop himself from thinking like that. It’s disrespectful to you, he hasn’t known you for longer than a couple of months, and he can’t think about you that way.
It’s hard not thinking like that. He thinks about his third visit with you, when you both were rudely interrupted. He thinks about what your waist feels like, what your face looks like. He thinks about it often, especially at night–
He cringes at himself, he feels like a teenage boy who’s never touched a woman.
He tries to distract himself by looking at the tulips he bought for you. They’re closed and pink with long green stems. They’re beautiful just like you. He doesn’t understand, how someone can be so effortlessly beautiful.
When you wear makeup or no makeup: beautiful. When you have your hair down and natural, sleek and bone straight, or up in braids, buns, or a scarf: beautiful. He can’t begin to comprehend it.
Not only are you beautiful on the outside you have the personality of a goddess. You’re kind and compassionate but not afraid to snap back when someone gets out of line. That’s what makes him nervous, the doubts start flooding his mind.
He’s still staring at the tulips when Soap enters his room. Unannounced.
Soap comes into his quarters and scatters around the room. He looks in draws and under furniture, he's scattering stuff around as if he lives here. He is tossing his stuff around and looking in places he shouldn't be. Ghost hasn't even looked up, hasn't even acknowledged his presence. Ghost rolls his eyes so far back into his head when he hears Johnny whining to himself.
“What’re ya lookin’ for Johnny?” He inquires in an irritated tone.
“Lookin’ for my char–” He cuts himself off as finally looks up at Simon. He sees Simon slouched over his bed looking at the pot with pretty pink tulips and a wide, knowing, mischievous grin appears on his face. He looks like the Cheshire cat.
“Look at you Simon, those for that bird you've become so fond of…”
“Watch it Johnny” Ghost finally looks up, he's not pleased. Johnny continues like a mindless, careless, idiot.
“I've heard the rumors, some field nurse says she saw you two in her office…alone. Good on you Riley. Yer getting old now, ya deserve something like that. Herd shes a beauty too. ” He laughs obnoxiously at his own jokes. He slaps Ghost on the hard on his back and continues searching around his room
Ghost sits in silence for a while, thinking about Johnny’s words, he knows that he is joking, he’s not serious.
‘“Whatdya mean by I deserve something like that?” He finally inquires, the question was practically running around his mind. Johnny continued searching around the room as he answered his question.
“Well you know, ya have had a hard life. Yer always helping people, always trying to be the best, and ya never really had that soft life. I know ya don't think it but yer a good man and you deserve a good woman. We don't live forever so think ya should take the risk and do what you have to do… Are you sure you don't have my charger? He asked after giving some of the most meaningful advice that he'd ever heard.
“Get out,” he replied annoyed by his short attention span.
“Maybe Gaz has it,” he says and leaves the room as if nothing happened.
Those words resonate with Simon and he thinks about them for a long time. The time of the appointment was getting closer and closer. He couldn't stop thinking about it, about what he was going to say to you. He wanted to make it meaningful, he wanted to ask you out on a date.
He wanted your friendship to continue and he wanted your relationship to grow and become more and more personal. He hasn't done this in a long time and he wanted it to mean something.
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15 minutes.
He had 15 minutes to figure out what the hell he was going to do.
As he made his way down the familiar hallway toward your office, every step seemed to quicken the pace of his heartbeat. The clock was counting down, each second would go by, getting closer to the moment. In his hands, he held a bouquet of vibrant tulips. He knows that he is catching the eyes of the people around him but each person he passed seemed to fade into the background.
It felt like when he visited you the first time, his hands were sweating and he was nervous. He says ‘hello’ to the woman at the front desk. Even though her attitude has always been rude and uptight however he thanks her every day for sending him to office number 222. The number that completely changed his life.
Now, standing just a few steps away from your door, his mind blanked, and his carefully rehearsed words were completely forgotten. Doubt starting to flood his veins. His hands are sweating again, and his heart is beating a mile a minute. He doesn't know if he can do this, he feels like it is a mistake but his feet won't stop.
They won't stop because even though his brain is telling him to stop, his heart won't let him.
It's been years since he's ever felt this nervous, he felt like he was going to have a heart attack. He finally arrives in front of your door and holds the flowers behind his back. He gets ready to knock and says a silent prayer to whoever or whatever higher being is listening.
He knocks.
He waits a beat and then he hears your beautiful voice say “Come on in.”
Right as you say that without thinking Simon impulsively rips off his balaclava off his face and opens the door. He watches as you slowly look up and he swears he sees a natural glow around you.
“Hi, how can I help you?”
He doesn't respond, instead, he slowly brings the tulips to his front and presents them to you with a soft smile. You look at the man and he watches as you raise an eyebrow, it's like he can see the clogs turning in your head. Then he sees the pieces being put together in your head and your face lights up.
Summary: “Said you might be barking up the wrong tree, love,” he tells you kindly, but firmly, before adding; “Much too old to be running around with a young thing like you.”
Your eyebrows shoot up and you seem to be gauging his sincerity. And then you’re laughing again. “How young do you think I am?!” you ask, sounding a little bewildered, maybe even a little flattered, and that should have been his first tip off.
Notes: just john meeting his dream girl who is in fact the same age as him, he swears it. also john
Warnings: none, fluff mostly
Words: 8.2k
The first time he meets you, Price writes you off. Too young, too out of his league, too different from him. The second time you meet, at least one of those assumptions is proven wrong.
“What?!” you laugh at him, sounding genuinely confused. You’re at a mutual friend’s birthday party, their 40th. You’re a friend of the birthday boy’s wife, and John used to serve with the now retired Daniel, more than glad to see his mate making it to the big four-oh. Too many he’d served with didn’t.
John looks at you over the top of his glass, taking a sip before he rests it on the bar of the rented out pub, and turns slightly more to face you.
“Said you might be barking up the wrong tree, love,” he tells you kindly, but firmly, before adding; “Much too old to be running around with a young thing like you.”
Your eyebrows shoot up and you seem to be gauging his sincerity. And then you’re laughing again.
“How young do you think I am?!” you ask, sounding a little bewildered, maybe even a little flattered, and that should have been his first tip off. John looks you over, doing his best to keep his gaze neutral, but it’s a little hard when he’s looking at one of the prettiest birds he’s ever seen.
“Twenty-five… maybe twenty-eight,” he says matter of factly, waiting for you to give up the ghost and admit he’s guessed right, or at least close.
You only laugh again, throwing your head back and downing the last of the cocktail you’d ordered when you’d initially slunk up beside him.
“I’m thirty-seven,” you tell him, and it’s his turn to be surprised.
“Bullshit,” he says without really thinking, too taken aback to filter his disbelief. You eye him wryly and nod, before pulling out your driver’s liscence and handing it to him.
He eyes it carefully in the dim lighting of the bar as you order another cocktail.
“I believe an apology is in order, ma’am,” he says, genuinely caught off guard. You smile again, and this time it’s like he sees you in a brand new light. You aren’t some pretty young thing looking for… whatever pretty young things looked for when on occasion they approached him.
You shrug.
“Accepted, but you have to buy my drinks,” you tell him cheekily. Price is not normally a man who makes concessions or compromises, but this one he feels he can live with.
“Alright,” he says, handing you back your ID and signalling the bartender, who he promptly informs whose tab your drinks go on.
“I’m John,” he says to you then, holding out a hand, and you take it gently, a gleam in your eye.
“I know,” you tell him. “We have met before.”
John lowers his head some.
“And you remember,” he says it like it's a failure on his part, and to him, it is. Your smile widens just a little, but you lean in and nudge his arm.
“And you don’t?” your eyebrows bounce up again. Price has never spoken so quickly in his life.
“No, I do, I definitely do,” he says hurriedly, watching as your brows go even higher, and your grin turns a little wicked. His head lowers a little further.
“It’s okay, John, you thought I was a sugar baby,” you tease. Price doesn’t quite splutter, but he does open his mouth and close it again, cheeks growing warm.
“I did not,” he tells you, placing his drink back down and pointing at you. You chortle and take a sip of your brightly coloured cocktail. You tell him your name, and he repeats it back to you, tasting it in his mouth like a good whiskey.
“You served with Daniel, right?” you ask after a comfortable, but slightly charged beat of silence. Price nods, humming, but over the music, he’s not sure if you hear him.
“Danny’s smarter than me, though. Got out when he could,” he says with a chortle, picking up his glass again and taking a sip. You cock your head.
“Married to the job, then?” you ask, but despite your rather forward advances so far, you don’t sound searching, simply curious.
John frowns slightly.
“I– I try not to be,” he says, and it’s the truth. When his divorce had been finalised almost eight years ago now, he’d made a promise to himself, more than anyone else, to try and be more present in his life outside or work. He’d bought a house, a lovely little cottage style terrace a little ways outside of London, and he’d fixed it up nicely, given himself work and projects to do outside of the field. In fact, in the past few years he’d had to come to terms with the fact there was nothing more he could really do to his home short of knocking down the walls, and he’d considered buying another fixer upper, selling it on the cheap to a family or something when it was done. “But it comes with the territory,” he eventually goes on.
Your lip quirks just slightly, and you nod, looking away from him and out at the tables and throngs of guests.
“Yeah, I mean, it’s probably not even remotely the same, but my jobs fairly full on,” you say with the tone of someone who loved their job, but understood all too well the sacrifices it took to keep doing it. John leans back against the bar, and follows your lead, gazing out into the party.
“What do you do?” he asks.
“An events planner. Weddings most often, but all sorts really,” you tell him. When he glances over at you, you have a small smile fighting its way back to your cheeks.
“I love it, I really do, and I’m good at it, but sometimes…” you sigh. “Being pulled away from your personal life at all hours because of something gone wrong, or last minute planning meetings, scoping out venues…” you trail off, waving your hand in a circular motion. “Sometimes it feels like it never ends.”
John hums to himself. In any other context he could be mistaken for thinking he was speaking to a seasoned military officer like himself. You look back over at him, a wistful smile on your face.
“Doesn’t do wonders for the love life, I’ll say now,” your voice is wry, and he can’t help but return your smile at that, lifting his whiskey to you.
“I’ll drink to that.”
You clink his glass with a chuckle, and take a big mouthful of your drink.
“I imagine things are far more hectic for you than just a bride who’s bespoke dress doesn’t fit two days before the wedding.”
“We’ve all got our battlefields love,” he says sincerely, leaning over to you again, this time as if he’s sharing a secret with you. “But I tell you what, I’d take an enemy with a gun over an angry bride any day.”
You laugh at that, really laugh, and he shares a chuckle, but can’t quite drag his eyes away from you. Somehow, he gets the impression it’s been a while since you’ve laughed like that. He’s caught out staring, but you don’t say anything as you turn your body back to him, now closer than he remembers you being and you lean forward, your head resting in your hand propped up on the bar top.
“I haven’t done this in a while,” you say almost shyly. “But do you want to get out of here?”
John hears himself answering before he’s even fully processed your proposal.
–
Price forcibly stops himself from bouncing his leg under his desk, pulling his mind back to the mission reports in front of him. Despite this, his eyes flicker to the small clock on his desk and he lets out a huff, refocusing his eyes on the pages in front of him. It was 4:30pm, and the task force had only arrived back in London last night. Surely he could be forgiven for packing up early, leaving what's left of these reports for tomorrow.
But no. He’d send all his men home early before he left, and he knows for a fact Soap, Gaz and Ghost were still sat at their desks, so until they left, he stayed.
He makes it through the next two hours by placating himself with a cigar, focuses on that instead, and he knows he’ll thank himself in the morning, when he can officially start his leave, and not use up the day finishing off his paperwork.
Soap leaves around 5pm, and Ghost takes off shortly after. Gaz stops in on his way out around the same time, knocking lightly on his door and saying goodbye before he disappears for the next few weeks.
At 6:38pm a series of messages light up his phone.
Text: I’m not sure what you thought I meant when I said I needed the finalised table arrangements for tomorrow to transport to the venue, but that wasn’t a request, Jonathan.
Text: It is completely unacceptable, if you needed help or knew you couldn’t get it done, you should have called me.
Price stares at his phone in confusion. At first, seeing your name on his screen had brought a smile to his face, but as he reads the texts, he can only blink bewildered down at them. It’s strange, despite him being certain these messages are not meant for him, he feels a small twinge of guilt.
He calls you.
“John?! Hi!” you sound breathless on the other end.
“I think you texted the wrong John in your phone, love,” he says, slightly amused, but more intrigued about what the situation you’re in is. There’s some muffled sound on the other end of the line, and you’re quiet for a moment.
“Oh my god, I am so sorry, you’re not at work are you?!”
Price chuckles, and sits back in his desk chair.
“Just got back, finished up my paperwork and am all set for leave. You couldn’t have mistakenly told me off through text at a better time.”
He hears your laugh on the other end, but it’s pinched and slightly distracted.
“I’m so sorry,” you say again, now sounding like you were struggling with something.
“Sounds like you’re in a bad spot.”
“Ah, this assistant I hired thinks when I tell him to do something it’s optional,” you huff, sounding like you’re really doing your best not to get worked up. “I have a wedding tomorrow, and the table arrangements needed to be taken up to the venue tonight, but they aren’t done at all, and he won't answer his phone,” you trail off slightly into a mutter, but he swears he hears something along the lines of ‘I’m going to fucking kill him’.
“You need backup, love?” he asks, already figuring out a plan in his head of how he’d help you through this crisis.
“John, you literally just got home,” you say almost pleadingly. He smiles. He didn’t know how to accept help either.
“Where are you, sounds busy?” He asks. You let out a groan, and rattle off the name of a wholesale crafts store. In no more than five minutes, Price is in his car and on his way to you.
The location he arrives at seems closed when he pulls up, but the light were still on, like maybe the staff were cashing up for the night. He approaches the doors cautiously, not surprised when they don’t open, but after a moment he rapps his knuckles on the glass, and a harried looking man pops out of nowhere and hurries over, unlocking a side entrance and poking his head out.
“I’m so sorry sir, but we’re actually closed,” the man tells him. Price gives him a friendly smile.
“I’m here to help my friend, a wedding planner? She–” he cuts himself off when he sees you practically sprinting up from somewhere deep in the aisles.
“Fred! He’s here to help!” you say puffily when you arrive, and the man, Fred, looks back at him with an apologetic expression.
“Sorry about that,” he opens the door wider, and stands aside, letting Price slip in, before he locks the door once more, and turns to you.
“Just give a shout when you’re finished up,” he says warmly, before returning to what Price assumes must be some kind of stocktake.
Your chest is heaving when he looks back at you, and no matter how put-together and professional you appear, you have a frantic look about you.
“John, I can’t thank you enough,” you say sincerely, and for a moment, he swears your eyes get a little shinier, before you’re blinking back any wetness that might be threatening to form. You close your eyes for a moment, and take a deep breath. “Cry later,” you say like it’s a joke, but he can tell from your demeanour that it’s likely true.
“Where do you need me?”
John is used to taking orders, he didn’t always obey them, but that was a different story. However, he finds it shockingly easy to fall into line with you, despite not fully understanding every third word or idea you threw out, but he realises quickly he doesn’t have to. You point to things you need, referring back to your phone frequently, and giving him numbers in exact, describing things he needs to fetch.
Regardless of your clear and apparent stress, you don’t get impatient or stroppy when he returns with the wrong width ribbon, in fact you seem to take a certain amount of relief in explaining to him the difference between a 2.5 inch and a 3 inch, besides the measurements, and what purposes each could serve in any given situation. It’s not information or knowledge he thinks he’ll ever really need, but he enjoys learning it from you, enjoys watching you grow a little more calm by the minute each time he asks you to clarify or re-issue an order.
You leave with about three trolleys worth of items, vases and faux-flowers and other decorative things he didn’t really know the name for. This world, the one you lived in, was so vastly different from his own, yet as you check out, griping with Fred about your current situation, and thanking him profusely, he thinks you’d look at his mission planning and recon and find it a walk in the park.
He helps you carry your things to his car, almost laughing outright when you announce you’re about to order a MAXI cab, but quietly enamoured with the way you don’t argue or try to insist when he tells you he’d driven and will take you wherever you need to go. Like a soldier faced with a sudden unexpected change in plans, you simply readjust your mission parameters, and help him load up the boot.
Once you’re settled inside, you seem to take a moment, pulling your jacket off, smoothing down your hair, and then you look over at him and it’s as though you’re only just noticing his presence for the first time.
“Hi,” you say almost giddily. John can’t help the grin that spreads across his face. “I’m sorry if I was bossy,” you say, like you’ve just returned to base and can now process the previous hours worth of events. John shakes his head.
“I’m a military man, love, you give orders, I’ll follow ‘em.”
Your face softens even more then, and you lean across the console, John eagerly meeting you, and you press a soft, sweet kiss to his lips.
“I missed you,” you say quietly as you pull back. John smiles wider.
Your one night had turned into breakfast the next morning, had turned into lunch the next day, and dinner the next evening. He’d spent approximately half of his remaining leave with you, and for those short few weeks had fallen into a comfortable kind of routine that felt dangerously easy. John hadn’t shied away from it though. Danger was his life, and while you had spent a lot of time with one another, nothing had felt too fast, nothing felt too out of line. You seemed to fit into each other's lives perfectly, John never complaining when you had to take a call or leave a date early, and you didn’t seem anything more than concerned for him when he was called away four days prior to his leave ending.
Any time he’d gotten to spend with you had felt good enough by way of simply being with you.
“Missed you too,” he says, settling back in his seat and holding his hand out over the glove box, squeezing when you tuck your fingers in with his, and he pulls out of the car park.
He takes you home, to your flat, remembers the way without you having to prompt him, and once you and your cargo are inside, bags and boxes littering every surface of your rather plush kitchen and dining room, you turn to him with a grateful smile.
“Thank you, John, you probably hear this all the time, but you really saved me tonight,” you say with a small chuckle, but your tone implying you think he’s about to leave. Price cocks his head at you, raising an eyebrow.
“You can thank me when we’re done, love,” he tells you, stepping closer, as if to confirm he isn’t going anywhere just yet. “What’s first?”
You look up at him almost exasperatedly.
“John,” you say, firmly now. “You just got back. I’m going to be up all night doing this, and driving them up to the venue at god knows what hour,” you sound like you’re trying to scare him off. Price doesn’t budge.
“Then we should get started, hmm?”
You scrunch your nose at him, and he smiles, dropping a kiss to your lips as he sweeps past you, taking the closest box and beginning to unpack.
–
It’s five hours later when all forty arrangements are finished. You’d changed at some point, disappearing into your bedroom to remove your makeup and replace your work clothes with some sweatpants and an old tshirt. John had felt honoured you’d trusted him enough to carry on unattended, and when you’d returned, you’d wrapped your arms around him from behind and pressed a kiss to his cheek. You’d told him the arrangement he’d just about finished in that time looked ‘perfect’.
“What time is the wedding?” he asks, standing back as you finish fluffing up and counting each piece for the second or third time.
“10am,” you reply, almost on autopilot. “But I need to be there at eight to oversee everything,” you inform him, a yawn interrupting you mid sentence. John hums.
“The families are all staying in town, just outside the venue, I’ve got a room there too. Had to come back when I realised…” you trail off, straighten, then shake your head.
John nods.
“Let's get these loaded up then?”
You nod, tiredly, but you don’t falter nor drag your feet as you help him carry each arrangement out to his car. He watches you intrigued and impressed when you return after the last arrangement is packed with a stack of the flattened boxes from the store, and you pull them apart strategically to brace and support the rows of vases, slotting the cardboard in between and around each one to keep them upright.
When you’re done at last, he closes the boot and looks down at you.
“You’ve done this before,” he states playfully, expecting the gentle elbow you knock him with but taking it anyway as you return to your flat briefly to collect your shoes, your purse and lock your door.
“What's the drive?” he asks when you’re both back in his car, his hand reaching out behind your headrest. You look dog-tired, and you yawn again, but pull out your phone and rattle off the address, some fancy estate in York. It’s almost a five hour drive, but John pats your knee, and sets off as soon as you’re ready.
“You mind if we stop off somewhere quick?” He asks, glancing over at you in the passenger's seat. The roads were clear for the most part, but he was still driving cautiously, taking each turn slowly. “It’s on the way, I promise,” he adds after a moment, and you blink at him owlishly, like you’re surprised he’s even asked.
“John, after everything you’ve done for me tonight, you could stop off at Disneyland if you promised we’d still make it back in time,” you tell him. Price huffs out a laugh, but takes your hand and kisses the back of it.
“Won’t be long at all,” he assures you again.
His home luckily doesn’t take you far off trajectory, but he watches you perk up with interest as he comes to a stop on the street outside, throwing the car into park before he turns to you.
“Won’t be but a moment,” he tells you, then disappears.
You look up at the beautiful home, in a quiet, peaceful little neighbourhood, and you can’t help but smile. It’s not really at all what you’d expected, but you like it. You think if your life wasn’t so full on in the city, you’d like to live somewhere like it.
You watch as a few lights are turned on in various rooms, but he seems to be making his way upstairs, and faster than you really thought he might take, the lights are turning off once more in the same order they were switched on. Then he’s back at the car, carrying a dry cleaning bag that he takes and hangs from the hand hold above the back seat, before returning to the driver’s side and climbing back in.
You’re looking back at the bag curiously, turning to him when you can’t seem to divine through the black zipped fabric what it could be, though you suppose, there’s only so many options.
“Your outfit better not be the same as mine,” you joke, as he buckles himself back in, placing his hand once more on the back of your headrest as he checks behind him, before pulling out.
“Not unless you’re also wearing a needlessly complicated dress uniform,” he chortles, pulling out into the quiet road again and getting you both back on target.
“Needlessly complicated? Maybe. Uniform? Absolutely not,” you tell him with a tone that he thinks suggests he will quite like what you’re wearing tomorrow. You seem to think about something for a moment before you laugh to yourself. “My jewellery might outshine yours, though I certainly didn’t work as hard as you did for it,” you tell him, still chortling to yourself. John scoffs.
“After tonight, sweetheart, I’m tempted to pin one of those medals on you,” he has a laugh of his own when you roll your eyes and harmlessly shove his shoulder.
The drive turns quiet as the roads get darker, and the town passes you by. When he looks over at you only minutes later, you’re fast asleep, and John hums contentedly to himself.
—
Regrettably he has to wake you when you arrive at the venue. He doesn’t have any of the necessary authority to grant him access, but you jump out the car, with him standing closely behind and speaking in quiet words with the security guard at the gate, who greets you kindly and lets you in without so much as checking your ID. John figures you’d been down here over the last few days setting up the venue, that the guy knows who you are.
You climb back in the car, and make your way up the long driveway, where at the top, you direct him to pull off to the side. It was early now, around 4:30am, but still as dark as ever. Another security guard meets you around the side entrance, leading you into a massive ballroom already mostly filled with tables and chairs and place settings and decorations.
It looks lavish, utterly magical, and John can’t help but turn to you as you each carry a vase inside, the security guard trailing behind you also helping you unload.
“You did all this?” He asks. You roll your eyes, but smile at him, and give a small shrug.
“Well, the bride certainly didnt’t,” you tell him, sounding proud. He follows your directions, places each vase at the very centre of each table, back and forth, back and forth, until all forty are set and ready. You stand back, hands on your hips, but a slight slump to your shoulder. You check your phone.
“It’s five,” you say, the tiniest of whines in your voice. John smiles sympathetically at you, and draws you in by the shoulders, kissing your temple as you wind your arms around his middle and seem to fall into him.
“I’m so tired,” you actually do whine this time, almost like you’re on the verge of tears. John adjusts his arms tighter around you and hums, rocking you a little.
“Two of you still have a couple hours before the wedding,” the guard says from somewhere behind him, and John turns his head to send him a small smile and a nod.
“Come on,” he says to you, keeping you close even as he pulls back some, to get you walking again. “Let's get you to bed.”
The hotel is quiet. It’s a local place, with quite a nice pub down the bottom, and once he’s gotten you upstairs and to your room, you all but collapse on the bed.
“What time do you need to be up, love?” John asks quietly, pulling your sneakers off as you lie sideways on the bed, legs still hanging off, an arm thrown over your eyes. You groan a little at the jostling, but otherwise lay completely still like a rag doll, even when he briefly sits you upright again, removing your large oversized sweater, your face pressed into the crook of his neck as he holds you upright.
He knows you're not asleep, your eyes are still blearily open, but he might have been fooled for how quiet you are, how even your breathing is. Once the sweater is set aside, to be folded neatly once you’ve got your head on your pillow, John keeps you in place slumped against his front, gently trailing his hands up your neck to find the clasps on your necklaces. You shift a bit, ticklish maybe, and he can’t help but smile as he locks that information away, and keeps going, removing your simple gold chain, steadying you with one hand while he leans across with the other to place the jewellery on the bedside.
His fingers trace up to your ears, and you shiver again, making him chuckle lightly as you grumble tiredly at him.
“Earrings off?” He asks, receiving a small nod. He goes about that task too, struggling for a moment with the tiny pin and clasp, before finally managing to pull them apart, putting them aside too. His hands drop to your shoulders then, before trailing down to your arms, then finding your hands. He pulls apart from you just enough to bring the backs of your fingers to his lips, kissing each hand gently.
“What time do you need to be up?” He asks again.
You finally move on your own, crawling back away from him, though trying to keep one hand holding his, until you’re forced to let go. John helps you pull the sheets back, settling you beneath.
“Seven-thirty,” you croak, voice a little rough from lack of sleep and stress. John leans forward and presses his lips to your forehead, a little surprised you have the wherewithal to reach out before he can pull back, cupping his cheeks with both hands, and drawing him back to you.
You kiss him a little more deeply than he’s expecting, slowly, soft, like you have all the time in the world, and not mere hours before you need to be up again.
“What was that for?” He asks with a short chuckle after pulling away, his forehead rested against yours.
“For doing all this even though you didn’t have to.”
John swallows for a moment. He could easily tell you otherwise, but you’d both know it wouldn’t quite be true. He was bone tired, had barely slept since his return, and if you’d asked him hypothetically, this would have been the last thing on earth he’d have felt like doing immediately post mission. And yet it wasn’t just his training and drive that kept him going. You were right, he didn’t have to, but there was also no way he wasn't going to.
John smiles, and turns his head to press a kiss into one of your palms.
“I’ll wake you, seven-thirty,” he tells you. You hum.
He leaves you there, retires to the bathroom to shower the day off. When he returns to your dimmed room, he folds both of your discarded clothes and places them on a chair in the corner, grabbing his phone and setting the alarm, before turning out the lamp. The moment you sense him in the bed beside you, you roll toward him, settling in the crook of his arm, and it takes very little effort to mold himself around you, wrap you up, and press a kiss to your hairline.
–
You walk swiftly, even in your high heels, through the ceremony room, checking and double checking every detail, even as guests begin to filter in. It had taken everything in you not to drag John back to your room this morning after you’d both readied, and you’d seen him in that damn dress unifrom.
He may have found it overly complicated, and perhaps not fully comfortable, but you, you found it absolutely delectable. You glance back to him standing toward the back of the room, looking like he was standing guard over it. At last satisfied that everything is in its place and as it should be, you head back toward him, feeling a slight trill when his gaze snaps toward you, then back toward something else.
You falter for a moment, resisting the urge to look back over your shoulder to find whatever he’s looking at.
“John?” you ask as you approach. His attention falls back on you quickly, and this time it stays there, though you can’t shake the feeling that he seems… uncomfortable. “Are you alright?” you lift your hand to reach for him, but hesitate, and in your brief moment of pause, you watch him quickly take in your uncertainty, and even more quickly alleviate it by offering his own hand to you, drawing you closer.
John clears his throat a little and gives you a tight, rueful smile.
“My ex-wife is here,” he tells you quietly, but with a mirthless little chuckle. You blink back at him, not managing to mask your surprise. You have no judgement for him though, the fact that he’d been married previously is simply news to you. You squeeze his hand and lean in closer.
“You don’t have to be here,” you say. John lowers his chin at you, and he gives you an almost sardonic look.
“Messed things up the first time not bein’ here, I’m not making that mistake again,” he tells you, setting off a million butterflies in your stomach. You return his sardonic look though, and roll your eyes.
“You’ve already proven your point well enough by now, if you’re uncomfortable with…” you trail off, and look over your shoulder as subtly as you can.
“Green dress, left side,” he says, and you narrow in on a pretty blonde woman chatting amiably with some other guests. “And I’m not uncomfortable,” he assures you, making you turn back around. “Jus’ surprised to see her,” he adds.
You move around to his side, still holding his hand, and he brings it up again like he had last night, kissing the backs of your fingers, his moustache gently scratching against them. You lean against the wall much more casually than he is, and squeeze his hand.
“Good terms, then?” you ask curiously, now you know he’s not sweating to run out of here. John hums lowly.
“Yeah, by the end,” he speaks in a manner that sounds factfual, but he doesn’t hide the slight melancholy in his voice. You bump his shoulder with your own and nod at the pews subtly.
“She’s noticed you,” you tell him, making him smile down at you.
“I know.”
“You could talk to her, if you wanted,” you suggest. John shakes his head.
“I’ll let her approach me, if she wants. Days not about me. Or her,” he says and you have to suppress a dreamy little sigh.
“You’re a good man,” you tell him, and for a moment, his smile widens into a funny little grin.
“Sometimes,” he tells you, a little cryptically, but you brush him off.
–
The day carries on just as planned.
You rush around from place to place, John never far behind you, except when he somehow knows to stay out of your way, at which point you find him always nearby, but never lingering. You introduce your unknown guest to the bride and groom, both of whom seem happy, if not honoured, to have a ‘distinguished military man’ as their additional helper, and you even spy at one point, the groom roping him into a lively conversation with some of the other groomsmen.
He’s funny, and amiable, and perfect, and you’re forced to smile each time you see him.
Even later on in the night, when you spot the woman in the green dress approaching him on the sidelines.
He hugs her, but steps away quickly, and just like you had earlier, she comes to a lean against the wall next to him. You keep one eye on them as they appear to talk amicably, friendly even, a few smiles and laughs going shared between them.
Maybe for a singular moment you feel jealousy licking at your heels, but it fades quickly. There’s no longing or lingering looks between the two of them, no expressions of regret or sadness going shared. When another man approaches, almost cautiously, John’s ex-wife stands taller again, wrapping her arm around the new man's back and seemingly introducing him.
The two men shake hands, and then you watch on as a friendly, comfortable conversation ensues, only taken aback slightly when John’s gaze flickers past the couple he’s speaking to, and he gestures lightly over at you. Both of his companions turn to look at you, the woman in green smiles widely at you, and you straighten up, about to begin walking over, when somebody grabs your arm gently, and suddenly your attention is elsewhere, drawn to one more small fire you hurry away to put out.
John finds you some time later while you’re seeing off the catering staff. Most of the guests were gone now, the bride and groom certainly having disappeared a while ago, and when you turn to face him, you can see on his face just how tired he is.
“That’s a wrap?” he asks, putting his arm around your shoulder, rubbing his hand up and down over your skin when he feels how cold you are. You nod, and lean into his side.
“Yup, I’m all done. The service vendors will pack the place up. I’m off the hook,” you tell him. John looks down at you with a beaming smile.
“You did beautifully,” he tells you, before lowering his chin. “Sleep for three days?”
You laugh, and lift your own hand up to brush over his chest.
“Absolutely.”
—
It’s a few days later, and you’re lying in bed together, panting a little after your most recent exertions. Your head and half your body lay over John’s, your fingers running lightly over the hair on his chest.
“Would you ever think about doing this again?” you ask, still halfway lost in your thoughts. John looks down at you, eyebrows raised and a smirk on his lips.
“Darlin’ I think about doing this again all the time,” he says, making you scoff and smack him lightly. He laughs and leans down to kiss your temple.
“No, I meant– I was thinking about the wedding– would you ever get married again?” You hate how your voice has turned small, how he can probably divine all sorts of things from that alone. John hums, and shifts a little.
“I’m not someone who’s sworn off it, love, but…” he trails off, and when you look up at him, he’s frowning slightly. When he realises you’re looking at him, he smiles, a little ruefully, but you can tell he means it. His arms come around you a little tighter and he drops another kiss to your forehead.
“My jobs not so simple as just being in the army,” he tells you with a small sigh. You frown, intrigued now, and sit up slightly, resting on your forearms beside him.
“You don’t talk about work very much,” you say, prompting him. John nods and hums again, his hand still curved around your back traces up slightly over your bare skin.
“I’m in the SAS, love,” he tells you, making you pause for a moment. You look at him squinting, not that you think he’s lying but you cock your head. You realise he’d never told you, but you were friends with Daniel, you’d spoken about his former military career. You’d asked John when you first met if they’d worked together, he’d said yes.
“Fancy,” you say, recieving a laugh.
“Hardly,” John’s voice is a little tight, but he looks at you again, from where his eyes had wandered to the ceiling, before drawing his free hand over his face.
“I’m away a lot. It’s dangerous. There’s a very real chance one day I don’t come back at all.”
Your heart leaps into your throat and you frown even deeper, only stopping when his hand on your back moves from around you and comes up to smooth out the creases between your eyes.
“Anybody I…” he stops, pausing for a moment before he looks up at you and his hand moves to cup your cheek. ”You, you have to be okay with that,” he says at last, his voice solemn but firm. You place your hand around his own on your cheek, and move it, closing his fist so you can kiss the backs of his fingers like he often did to you.
“I think I’ve got enough to keep me busy, besides,” you kiss his hand again, a small smile blooming across your cheeks now. “I already knew you were SAS,” you tell him.
You watch John’s gaze turn curious and thoughtful. He’s trying to remember if he’d said anything previously that might have tipped you off.
“You worked with Danny, right? You told me when we first met.”
John’s features turn surprised, before accepting, and he wraps his arm around the back of your head and draws you in. You kiss him gently, soft, scrunching your nose a little at the feel of his slightly grown out facial hair.
“And you’ve put up with me anyway,” he says, like it’s been a massive sacrifice on your part. You roll your eyes and poke his cheek.
“John, no man I’ve ever been with has stepped up for me the way you did this past weekend,” you tell him sincerely. “If that’s what you’re like when you are around, that’s all I need.”
John kisses you again, sweeter this time, a peck, but you press back for more, and make him chuckle. You pull back, and gaze down at him.
“The answer is yes, sweetheart,” he says then, voice just barely above a whisper. “I have thought about doing this again.”
–
You move in together six months later.
Sort of.
You keep your townhouse in the city, and he keeps his house just outside of it. He stays with you during the weeks, brings some of his belongings, helps you rearrange your office and sets up a desk of his own. On the weekends and multiple days in a row you could work from home, you go up to his house and relax, he helps you move some things around, and you have more than one drawer worth of clothing in your shared bedroom.
John comes and goes, lucky enough to obtain some regular sort of schedule in that time, and more than a year after you first started cohabiting, you start getting the itch for more.
“Do you want to buy a house?” you ask over lunch. John pauses momentarily, halfway through chewing but he looks over at you curiously.
“We have two houses,” he says. You roll your eyes.
“I mean sell those, find somewhere in the middle ground?”
John frowns.
“Like where?” he asks, sounding slightly suspicious. You pull out your phone, and list off a few of the areas that you’ve been thinking about, somewhere quiet and homey the way he likes, but still close enough to the city it’s not such a hassle for you.
“Sweetheart,” he says in a slightly apologetic tone. “I dunno if we can afford that,” he says honestly. You like that about him. As much as John couldn’t talk about certain aspects of his life, the ones he could were never a closed book to you.
You hum at him. John wasn’t struggling for money, you know that much. His work paid well, it’d have to you think, but you had your suspicions for a while now that your work paid even better.
“Yes we can,” you tell him factually. You gesture at your kitchen. “This place has only gone up in value, and it’s already worth…” you trail off. You didn’t really discuss finances all that much, and now it comes to talking about it, you almost feel self conscious. You’d both agreed that instead of paying half each other’s bills, you’d both keep on paying your own ways, seeing as you spent more or less equal time at each other's homes. “I don’t rent this place,” you say then, realising, you’re not sure if he knows that. It had just never come up.
John’s eyebrows raise.
“You own this?” he asks, trying to sound curious but he fails to hide his bewilderment.
“John I–” you cut yourself off, not knowing how to explain this to him, but settle on facts. He liked knowing those, helped him get a clear picture of his situation and surroundings. “I think I make more money than you– substantially more,” you tell him, your voice almost sounding placating. “We can afford any of those areas twice over,” you say.
John stares at you, his eyes flickering over your face, before he sits back in his chair and, taking another bite of his pasta salad, begins scanning around your kitchen and living room like he’d never seen it before. You worry needlessly for a moment that you’ve insulted him, wonder if maybe he doesn’t like the fact you’re above him slightly on the pay scale. But then he looks back at you, a funny little smirk on his face and he lowers his chin.
“So this isn’t a question you’re asking me to make a decision on,” he says with a chortle in his voice. You roll your eyes and reach out for his hand which he gives happily.
“I am asking you. We sell our places and look for one together, put the money toward that. It doesn’t have to be an even split, I want to live with you properly,” you say. John squeezes your fingers.
“Well, don’t I feel like the kept man,” he chuckles. You roll your eyes again.
“Hardly, although, if you do want to quit your job and be my stay at home boyfriend, I wouldn’t complain.”
John shakes his head, giving you another little laugh.
“Any house we live in would be your house anyway, love. Yours and any little ones,” he says, making your stomach flutter furiously like it often did around him.
“Well, I’m definitely not carting any children back and forth across half of London,” you tell him faux-warningly. John shakes his head again.
“No, no, we’ll find a little place, good schools nearby, parks,” he perks up then, like he’s just remembered something. “We’ll get a minivan,” he tells you with an expression you know means he already knows your feelings on that.
You stare at him blankly.
“Like fuck we will,” you snap petulently, giving him the response he’s looking for and sending his head back with a hearty laugh. “You get one John, two if you behave,” you point warningly at him. John rubs his thumb over the backs of your fingers and leans forward again.
“Three?” He asks, seemingly testing you. You blink slowly at him.
“You can have three if and when you retire,” you tell him seriously.
John, for his part, doesn’t seem put off by this. He strokes his moustache thoughtfully.
“Two in the meantime, then?” he asks. You nod.
“House first. Then ring. Then two,” you tell him. John takes up your other hand too, your left, and raises it to his eyeline, searching like he’s looking for something that you both know isn’t there.
“First two can be in any order, I think,” he tells you, eyes flickering up to yours over your knuckles.
“First two are non negotiable, but can be completed in whatever order you choose,” you tell him, faux-haughtily. He brings your left hand to his lips then kisses over your ring finger softly before releasing it once more and returning to his lunch.
“I’ll sort it, love,” he tells you.
–
Price opens the door at seven in the morning, half expecting the movers to have arrived early. What he finds instead is Soap, Ghost and Gaz standing meekly on the doorstep. He raises an eyebrow.
“Told you he’d be up,” Simon says from the back of the group.
“And who told you where I lived?” Price wonders aloud, not quite glaring at his men.
Soap whistles loudly, looking up at the facade of the building.
“Swanky, Captain, real swanky,” he says, ignoring the question and wiggling his eyebrows.
“John? Is that the movers? They’re early,” your voice sounds from behind him and John steps aside, widening the door so you can see the three stooges on your stoop.
They must have heard the complaining he was doing last week about the first move, carting all his things from his house and into the new one, and heard a cry for help. Despite all evidence to the contrary, mainly the bored look on his face, Price thinks this is Simon’s idea.
“Cavalry’s here, love,” John says as you step into view, your face morphing from surprise into joy as you spot the men outside.
“Boys!” you say happily, bustling your way past John and outside to share hugs all around. Even Simon opens one arm to wrap you up briefly. “It’s good to see you lot again,” you say, stepping back to stand with John.
“Cap was complainin’ about the last move, figured we’d lend a hand with this one!” Gaz says. John doesn’t quite scowl.
“I wasn’t complaining,” he tells you.
You pat his arm, and look back at Gaz.
“Think he almost did his back out with the desk coming down the stairs,” you tell him, earning a snort from Simon.
“That’s the problem with mahogany desks, I hear,” Gaz says with a heavy lathering of faux sympathy.
“It’s not mahogany, it’s pine– it doesn’t matter,” John mutters, stepping back and ushering the three men inside.
Most of your belongings (and John’s) were already packed, each room with a stack of labelled boxes and a directory list. Each of your additional helper’s had come with their own cars, so the boxes get loaded up according to which rooms they belong, and the movers van when it arrives takes all the appliances and heavy goods.
“Fuckin’ hell, look’t this place,” Soap says shortly after you’ve arrived at the new house for the first trip of the day.
“It’s nice isn’t it?!” you say excitedly. Up until the first move last week, John had only seen the place in some extensive pictures you’d sent the last time he was away, although when he’d gotten home a couple weeks back, you’d taken a drive past the outside so you could show him.
“Weddin’ plannin’ really pays off, huh?” Gaz adds with a short impressed whistle. You laugh at that and nod.
“And here’s everyone thinkin’ you’re the one lookin’ for a bit of sugar, huh?” Simon says, sidling up, already with a box in his hands.
You scoff and smack the box.
“It was the only neighbourhood I could find that was close to work for both of us, and had good schools nearby,” you tell the boys as you meander up the front steps and unlock the door.
“Yer goin’ back to school?” Soap asks with no small amount of surprise in his voice. You turn around and look at him, baffled, when John siddles past, a box held in one arm, and he smacks Johnny over the back of his head lightly.
“For children, MacTavish.”
Soap doesn’t appear all that put out, even when Simon pushes past him next.
“You’re lucky you’re good looking, Johnny,” he says with a slight huff, checking the label on his box as he goes. Soap puffs his chest out, looking proud of himself.
“Ye hear tha’? LT thinks I’m good lookin’!”
Gaz eyes him evenly as he too passes.
“Don’t think that was a compliment, mate.”
You get all the boxes into their designated rooms by the late afternoon, order some food, get some beers, and by the time you’re seeing everyone off, you’re bone tired. John finds you in the bedroom, unpacking a few things. You’d made up a ‘go bag’ like he’d suggested, full of the things you use everyday, your phone charger, changes of clothes, your toiletries… and one other thing.
“Okay, I know we said we’d wait, but,” you realise your voice is echoed by his, and you turn around, blinking at each other. Then you realise he’s on one knee. Then he realises you’re holding a pregnancy test.
cw: fluff, afab reader x price, grumpy x sunshine, older man x younger woman
HEADCANON: The team meets Price’s missus. Not expecting it to be a sweet little thing like you
PAIRING: John Price x reader
Captain John Price was a lot of things.
Gruff. Sharp. Tactical. A man who could disarm a room -- or a bomb -- with the same deadpan focus.
So when he finally, finally, agreed to let the team meet his wife at a casual pub night, everyone had… expectations.
Soap pictured someone tough -- maybe military herself, someone who could handle the Captain’s brand of grumpy affection.
Gaz bet five quid she’d be ex-SAS too. Ghost said nothing, but even he imagined someone stern, serious, maybe with a scar or two.
They were not prepared for what actually walked through the door.
She was wearing a pink sundress.
A little cardigan.
And carrying a fucking tote bag with a bloody cartoon duck on it.
Bright smile, eyes sparkling, practically skipping over to Price -- who visibly softened the moment he saw her, like someone had pulled the batteries out of a bomb.
"Hi, darling," she chirped, throwing her arms around his neck.
Price -- their Captain Price, grizzled and grumbling and terrifying to entire warlords -- bent down and kissed her forehead like he was the bloody Prince of Wales.
The entire team stared.
Mouths slightly open.
Brains short-circuiting.
Soap recovered first, elbowing Gaz hard enough to almost knock his beer over.
"That's nae his wife, aye?," he whispered, scandalized.
"That’s his — his niece. His... his fairy goddaughter, maybe."
Price gave them a look over her head that very clearly said: say one more word and die.
Introductions were made. She was sweet, bright bloody decades younger than Price, asked about their hobbies, and listened earnestly even when Soap described "this absolutely sick drift he pulled in an APC."
But as the evening wore on, something strange began to happen.
She asked Ghost if he liked lemon drizzle cake -- and then pulled out a homemade one. Wrapped in that same floral-patterned foil that they've seen Price carry around in meetings despite Ghost's insistent shake of the head. Said it was “a little treat for the boys yeah? Just a taste love”
She scolded -- gentle parented -- Gaz gently for leaving his pint too close to the edge of the table. “You’ll knock that over, darling. Move it here, where your elbow won’t catch it.”
She pulled a crossword puzzle out of her bag, a newspaper crossword, and started muttering about how “they just don’t make them like they used to.”
Soap caught her humming along to a 70s soul track that only Price ever put on the pub jukebox. Ghost watched her separate her chips from her mushy peas with the same quiet care his gran used to.
And suddenly, despite the pink sundress and the tote bag and the glowy, Disney-princess energy -- they all realized:
She was old at heart.
She might’ve looked like she belonged on some cozy campus or fairy-tale book cover, but she moved through the night like someone who’d been here before. Patient. Observant. Steady. She had Price’s tea order memorized ("two sugars, no milk"), reminded him to take his vitamins -- "m'serious John you have to stop missing your medication dear" -- with the same tone one might use to scold a naughty golden retriever.
Price. Captain John fucking Price. Grumbly. Growling. Feared by half the globe, didn’t argue. Just muttered, “Yes, love,” and obediently took the tiny chewable multivitamin she pressed into his hand like it was ammunition.
Soap nearly choked on his beer.
She fussed over Ghost’s sleeves being damp. Asked if Gaz was getting enough fiber. Told Soap she’d found the cutest mug that looked like a little sheep and bought it for him -- “because you always remind me of a sheepdog, with all that energy!”
They were under siege.
By the end of the night, Ghost. Big bad, massive, hulking, and brooding Ghost -- who once broke a man's wrist for looking at him sideways. Cleared through a room with just a pistol. Battered through a man in half -- was sitting very still as she gently lint-rolled his hoodie. Tutting about the pub cat’s fur.
When they finally left, Price tucked her under his arm, pressed a kiss to her temple, and shot the team a look over her head that said, without words:
She’s my peace. Touch her and I’ll bury you under the bloody barracks.
And every single one of them -- elite, seasoned, hardened soldiers -- nodded in perfect silence.
Soap leaned in to Gaz, still stunned.
“Mate,” he whispered. “She’s got 'im on a leash, nae doubt about it”
Gaz nodded back, wide-eyed.
“Pink. Fluffy. And bulletproof”
Even Ghost, unflinching, unbothered and stoic Ghost, gave them the sharpest, most solemn nod of agreement in his life.
Because clearly, Captain Price didn’t command that squad.
