🥛 pervy "uncle" price at the cookout. ( or… having sex in price's truck! )
4.1k wc. ♡ — big gross age gap (reader in her 20s). fauxcest/not incest (price is a family friend). blowjob. semi-public sex acts (in a truck). calling price your 'old man' romantically. mention of paying for sexual favors.
“Um, I don't really know what that means, Mr Price…” A nervous sound peters past your popsicle-stained lips, throat bobbing with a hard swallow. You sit folded into a lawn chair, popsicle melting into syrup over your fingers, denim shorts and warm bare thighs sticking faintly to the vinyl in the afternoon heat.
Price's attention lingers on you, a bemused twinkle in his eye. From where he stands, he catches the nervous flutter of your lashes as you look down, the way you fuss with the wooden stick rather than meet his eyes and your painted toes scrunch into your sandals.
“Oh, don't mind Uncle Price and his dirty jokes, honey.” An older woman beside you gives your shoulder an affectionate shove, rolling her eyes without much interest in the exchange. It makes you feel a bit silly. “He's been telling those since before you were born.”
Her remark earns a scatter of laughter from the others gathered around the cookout, all disarmingly unbothered by the fact Price is undressing you with his eyes for all to see. Someone calls something from the grill, another answering from across the yard, and the conversation rolls on like you're just a ripple in the water.
Price waits until the laughter has thinned before bending slightly toward you.
“Come on,” he says, dropping his voice to a private register. A light smile tugs at his lips beneath his bushy mustache, accentuating his handsome face. “Take a ride with me tonight. I'll explain it properly.”
You finally look up at him.
“In your truck?”
“Mm.” His gaze holds yours for a beat. “You'll understand then.”
He straightens, as though the matter is already settled. “And if you're a good girl, I'll give you a little spending money afterward. Consider it a treat from Uncle Price.”
And that's how you end up sneaking past the others onto the front porch come evening, makeup refreshed after a full day in the heat, a trace of perfume oil tucked behind your ears.
The difference is subtle, but your hair is freshly smoothed and you've traded your sandals for a simple pair of heels, which feels a little ridiculous now if he hadn't been serious about his offer. You're halfway to wishing you'd stayed in your sandals when you spot the dusty-red pickup already waiting out front, his arm hanging lazily from the driver's-side window.
“You coming?”
“Hi.” You perk up despite yourself, the word escaping with a little too much relief before you temper it with an awkward wave. The crow's feet at the corners of his eyes soften when you trot up to the truck, your heels clicking lightly along the driveway, before you both turn at the voice calling from behind you.
“You two going somewhere?”
Your hand catches briefly at the hem of your shorts, an unnecessary little adjustment, before you instinctively look to Price. He only gives you an easy glance before answering, “Taking her for a drive.”
“Bring her back before midnight!”
“Wouldn't dream of keeping her out that late.” Price flashes you a playful wink as he reaches across to push open the passenger door, the easy drawl of his accented voice sending heat rising to your cheeks.
She's gone by the time you look again, your shoulders deflating before you scurry to the passenger side door and duck inside. “Ugh, I can't believe she said that!” An incredulous scoff escapes your lips sharply as you slump back in the bench seat, as though you might disappear into the leather. You hug your torso, feeling your skin crawl with embarrassment as you dig your fingers into your upper arms. “I'm not a kid anymore.”
“Mm. You trying to convince me, or yourself?”
Price is enjoying this a little too much, you realize, and the huff you let out betrays the small disappointment that you'd expected him to take your side. “Oh, now you wanna be like that?” you question flatly, turning towards the window with a roll of your eyes.
Much to your chagrin, Price only chuckles further at your snooty expression before he shifts the truck into gear, leaving you to stew while he pulls away from the curb. You worry at your lower lip as the familiar houses slip past, only now wondering what you'd thought you were doing when you climbed into the truck.
“You hungry?”
“Nope.”
“Liar.”
You glance at him. There's something almost absurd about him fussing over whether you've eaten, as though he's responsible for keeping you fed and out of trouble, when one might argue that Price is the trouble. “I ate.”
“You had half a popsicle for supper.”
“It was a big one.”
That gets another quiet laugh out of him. The sound leaves you oddly warmed, a little bashful with it, and you sink lower in your seat as the last of the neighborhood gives way to dark stretches of roadside.
“Where are we going, anyway?” you pipe up reluctantly.
“Thought we'd get you something proper to eat.”
“I'm not hungry.”
“You can tell me that again when there's food in front of you.”
You roll your eyes, but don't argue.
By the time he pulls into the little roadside diner, the sky has gone properly dark. Its neon sign hums above the parking lot, red and blue light spilling across the dusty hood of the truck. The windows glow yellow against the darkness, moths circling lazily beneath the awning.
“Here?” you ask, looking up at it, then over at Price, wondering if this is really all he meant by taking you out.
“Here.”
He cuts the engine and gets out, leaving you to follow. The truck door closes behind you with a thud and you jog up to Price. “I thought you were going to explain something,” you say dubiously, leaning forward a little to get a look at his face.
“I am.” Price returns your look. “After you eat.”
You make a face, but he has already turned toward the diner, one hand settling at the small of your back to steer you toward the entrance.
Inside, the diner is nearly empty. The air-conditioning hits you first, cool against the lingering heat on your skin, followed by the smell of coffee, fried food, and something sweet baking in the kitchen.
A waitress looks up from behind the counter.
“Evening.”
“Evening,” Price says, holding the door for you.
You slide into a booth, and he takes the seat opposite. For a moment, with the bright vinyl and laminated menu between you, everything feels almost painfully ordinary.
Price picks up his menu, with that distinct frown that suggests he's left his reading glasses behind at home. “What're you having?”
“I'm not that hungry,” you say, which is easier than admitting your stomach has been in knots since you were waiting on the front porch, or that you want your breath to smell good, for reasons you dare not explain.
He gives you a look over the top of it.
“You're having something.”
“I told you, I ate.”
“A popsicle isn't supper.”
You sigh and take the menu from him. “Fine.”
The waitress comes by a minute later, and Price orders for himself before looking across at you. You settle on a chicken salad sandwich and a vanilla Coke float, and Price adds on some fries for you, which you don't protest.
He watches you for a moment after the waitress leaves, something faintly amused lingering around his mouth.
At family gatherings, it had always been easy enough to think of you as somebody else's kid—somebody's daughter, one of the family crowd. It's an easy category to put you in. Sitting here alone with you after dark, he finds it considerably less convenient. You're another, real person, and the consequences of that are that much more tangible now.
Your eyes lift from the menu after rereading it and examining the warped laminate for the nth time. “What?” you ask.
“Nothing.”
“You're looking at me funny.”
“Just getting used to you.”
You blink at him, offering a tight-lipped smile to cover up your confusion. “Used to me?”
The corners of his mouth slowly curl up.
“Grown up, I suppose.”
The notion rouses a small snort from you. He doesn't know the half of it, which, of course, you're glad he never got to witness your awkward, highschool years. Something tells you he wouldn't look at you the same way now, if he did.
“You never really knew me before.”
“No.”
“Lucky you.”
He laughs. “Were you that bad?”
“Worse.”
“Can't imagine it.”
“Good, I don't want you to.”
“Why?” Price hums, reaching under the table to rest a hand on your kneecap, massaging casually. “Hard to imagine you were ever not pretty.”
Your face grows hot, a sheepish breath of laughter leaving your lips as you tuck your hair behind your ear. “You're just saying that to be nice,” you mumble bashfully.
“Maybe.”
Your float arrives, and you take a long sip through the straw to hide the smile threatening at the corner of your mouth. “...So, you think I'm pretty?”
The coy words leaving your mouth are so stupid, so cliche, that your voice almost sounds foreign to yourself. You don't know what's come over you. Price gives you a sideways look, one eyebrow lifting beneath the heavy line of his brow as you shift your weight under his gaze, already regretting the stupid question.
“I thought that was obvious.”
“I dunno.” All of this is too strange to be obvious, you think.
Price's gaze flicks over you, drawing in a slow breath. “Pretty enough to get you into trouble.”
The waitress arrives with your food before you can think of anything else to say, setting your plates in front of you with a clink. Price pulls away from your knee and shifts his coffee aside with one broad hand, the face of his G-Shock watch catching briefly beneath the fluorescent light as he thanks her.
You pick up a fry, and Price cuts into his food. Price glances over at your plate as you close your mouth around a bite—two or three fries at once.
“Is it any good?”
You nod, swallowing. “Yeah.”
“Good.” His mouth pulls faintly at one corner. The silver threaded through his dark hair is more noticeable under the diner lights, and there's something about the little creases around his eyes when he smiles that makes him look older rather than less handsome.
“Have you been here before?” you ask while dabbing a fry in some ketchup, mostly just for something to say.
“A few times.”
Price eats at an unhurried pace, one forearm resting along the edge of the table. His sleeves are still pushed up from the drive, exposing his forearms where dark hair disappears beneath the cuff and a few old scars interrupt the skin.
You pause thoughtfully after taking a bite of your sandwich, lowering it to your plate. “With who?”
“Usually the lads. Sometimes on my own.”
“I didn't know you came here.”
“There's not much around here open this late.”
You nod, taking another bite. He has large, capable hands, the knuckles roughened and a little scarred, and you find yourself watching them when you ought to be watching your plate.
Your foot shifts beneath the table and catches against his boot. You start to pull it back, but he catches your ankle lightly against the leather and leaves it there for a moment. He doesn't even look down. He simply keeps eating, as though there's nothing at all unusual about it.
You eventually ease your foot free.
“You're annoying,” you grumble sheepishly. Your behavior keeps oscillating between grumpy and fawning at such a rate that it's disorienting even to you. Being alone with Price, you realize, makes you feel off-balance, your nerves getting the better of you the later the evening gets. The thing is, you don't want him to get the better of you, but it's a losing game.
“So you've said.”
He reaches across and takes one of your fries.
“Hey.”
“What?”
“Those are mine.”
“You've got plenty, kid.”
You pull the plate a little closer, as if guarding something precious. Price gives a quiet laugh, rubbing his thumb over the corner of his mouth after taking another drink of coffee.
You eat for a while, talking about inconsequential things. He asks what you've been doing with your summer, about your internship, whether you've decided what you're doing next, and listens with that same mildly amused attention that makes you feel as though he's more interested than he lets on.
At some point, his hand comes to rest on your knee beneath the table again. It's almost absentminded, his palm warm against your skin, his thumb giving one slow pass over your knee before going still.
You glance down at it, then back up at him, breath catching as he gazes back at you over the top of his mug.
“…I know I sound like a broken record at this point, but when are you actually going to explain it?”
He sets the mug down, seemingly unperturbed by your questions.
“Thought you wanted to know.”
“I do.”
“Then quit rushing me.”
By the time you're back in the truck, Price has already settled into the driver's seat. He doesn't start it this time. The diner glows faintly in the windshield behind you, its neon sign washing intermittent color across the dash.
You sit with your hands folded quaintly in your lap, suddenly more aware of how quiet it is, sitting in the smell of tobacco and leather.
Price shifts in his seat, turning slightly toward you. “You've been waiting all evening,” he says, almost like a question. The notion is a bit humbling—admitting he's strung you along this far, and you eagerly played along.
You swallow, the spit catching slightly in your throat, like one of those sweets you like so much has gone down the wrong way. “Mhm,” you meep, quieter than intended.
The bench creaks under him as he leans over your seat, his shadow falling over you. Price's big hand comes to rest on your knee, more familiar than it should be, by now.
“Still want me to teach you?”
Price waits for you to nod, that tiny, willing smile on your face, before weaving his fingers through the back of your hair. 'Then come here.' Your eyes go slightly wide at that slow, insistent pressure on the crown of your head, pushing you down, down. A small push-and-pull before your hands instinctively find purchase on his thighs, gawking down at the bulging tent at the front of his jeans.
You glance up through your lashes, an unsure smile tugging at your lips as you fumble with his belt, and his thumb caresses that spot behind your ear. You let out soft um's and huffs until you successfully fish his cock out of his jeans, your tongue darting out to wet your lips nervously as you feel the formidable heft of it in your hands. He stares down at you with a wordless look that seems to mean 'Go on,' and finally you wrap your lips around the head, lipgloss stains and all.
His head rolls back against the headrest with a soft thump as your soft lips first close around him, his hips shifting under you of their own volition and nudging himself further into your mouth. The neon lights catch the sheen on his spit-coated cock, the only sound the wet seal of your mouth and the hitch in his breathing.
“Look at you. So eager for Uncle Price's attention.” You hum around him indignantly in response, the low vibrations making his hips buck—a small, disgruntled wrinkle between your brows hinting at your feelings about the nickname. You pull up gingerly with an embarrassed expression, wiping the corner of your mouth, your hair tousled and frizzy.
Perhaps he crossed a line, one of many. Price thinks maybe you'll forfeit—truthfully he's lucky you went this far in the first place, maybe you'll finally wise up and call him a dirty old bastard—until your knees hit the floorboard, settling yourself under the steering wheel. There can't possibly be a rational thought swimming behind your eyes as you blink up at him, rubbing your cheek against the inside of his thigh kittenishly, like you're embarrassed of yourself. Apologetic, even, about your transgressions. Blowing your uncle, really?
Price is the lowest of the low, he knows, to have a nice girl like you searching for his encouragement. A bit of handholding down the path to perdition. “C'mere,” Price hums, cajoling. His fingertips scratch the base of your scalp and he guides your head back down on him again, cooing tenderly at the chaste little kiss you place on the tip before inevitably, his cock presses into your throat. “…Don't leave your old man hanging.”
You glow under Price's attention, despite the little gags he pushes out of you, your ministrations a little less hesitant, more fervent than before. Your back pushes into an arch, ass resting back on your heels between movements.
“You gonna be good for me tonight?” His deep voice dips to something rougher, not the controlled timbre that you imagine he uses to command his team, but something else entirely. Something raw, and you know the sound is something entirely of your doing. The realization takes you on a trip.
On the other hand, your voice is lost, trapped in little hums around his pulsating cock.
“Yeah?—” The flutter of your lashes was affirmative enough. “Gonna let me fuck you proper?”
Strangely, you hadn't considered the possibility until now.
Another hum, higher this time, and it rouses a lazy laugh from Price. He catches his breath before looking down at you with a faint smile. “Look at me.”
Your glassy eyes peer up at him from between his thighs, nose buried in his groin. Price sighs, almost sympathetic—in that way cute puppies can make you feel at your wits end. “Pretty thing,” he whispers.
You shrug one shoulder demurely in response, a shy smile tugging at your lips as you stroke his cock while it rests on your cheek, smearing spit and precum on your skin. “I can't believe I'm doing this,” you giggle bashfully, yet barely cognizant of what it really means.
“You're so good at this. Makes me wonder who else you've been practicing on.” Your thighs press together at the low rumble of his voice despite yourself, cheeks burning as you look up at him. “Uncle Price is gonna remember this mouth for a long time.”
“I haven't been-” Your reddened and swollen lips form a pout, petulantly placing kitten-licks up the underside of his shaft—a comical sight, in its own right. He doesn't wait for you to finish arguing before shoving your head down on his cock, listening to your wet sputters below him.
Tears track down your flushed cheeks as he rolls his hips in a shallow, searching rhythm, surely bruising your tender palate as he hits the back of your mouth with each pass. His breathing is ragged above you, one hand braced on the steering wheel, the other tangled in your hair—keeping you pinned like a butterfly under his thumb. Watching you take it, watching the tears slip down and disappear into the collar of your shirt.
His hand loosens in your hair, strokes down the side of your face, thumb catching a tear at your jaw. He tilts your chin up. You blink at him, mouth still full, drool slick on your chin, the glitter in your lipgloss shimmering all over your face under the neon lights.
“Look at you. Pretty little thing, all messy for your old man.” He reaches down, thumb dragging across your bottom lip, gathering spit and slick and wiping it across your cheek. “You know what I've been thinking about, while you were down there?”
You shake your head, still catching your breath.
“How you're gonna look when I've got you bent over this seat. How you're gonna sound.” His hand slides to the back of your neck, thumb pressing just behind your ear. “Whether you gunna cry for me again.”
He tugs you up by the neck, drawing you upright with a steady, measured strength. You rise on unsteady knees, and he catches your mouth in a kiss—tastes himself on your lips, doesn't seem to mind. His hands find your waist, steadying you before he finds the button of your shorts, the steering wheel digging into your back.
“Try not to make too much noise, yeah? Windows are tinted, but they're not that dark.” He says it like a casual aside before telling you to lift up, your hands uncertainly grasping for purchase on his shoulders with a nervous laugh as he slides your shorts off, with your panties.
Price laughs low at your fumbling, one hand catching your wrist and guiding it to the dash to stabilize you. You feel a pat on your hip, signaling you to turn, and eventually you end up on your knees facing the passenger door, chest pressed against the vinyl. You're silently grateful for the vintage build of the truck, and it's lack of center console.
“Look at you. Pretty as a picture,” Price says approvingly, his hand settling on the small of your back, warm and heavy. You hear him shift behind you—the creak of the bench, the jingle of his belt buckle.
The head of his cock drags through your slickness once, twice—teasing, or maybe just wetting himself on you. Then he's pushing in, slow and steady, that same surprisingly controlled strength from before. You grip the vinyl and take it, a shaky breath punched out of you as he seats himself deep.
He doesn't move at first and the stretch is almost obscene, your gummy walls fluttering and squeezing around his girth. Then he pulls back almost all the way and fucks into you again, harder this time—the bench seat groaning under you both, your knuckles white against the dash.
He sets a punishing rhythm right out the gate, one hand gripping your hip, the other braced on the seatback beside you. The truck rocks with each thrust. You're pressed flat against the door, breath fogging the glass, and you can hear him breathing, feverish and panting. “You got any idea how long I been thinkin' about this?” Price grunts in your ear, almost impatiently, the guttural, angry sound of it making your hairs raise.
The bench seat groans with every thrust, the old suspension creaking beneath you. Your knees are starting to ache against the vinyl, but you don't want him to stop—couldn't form the words anyway.
His grip on your hip tightens, fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks.
“Yeah. Take it.”
His breathing's gone ragged now, that controlled veneer—the nonchalant guardian, the cool uncle—fully in pieces. He fucks into you harder, sloppier, the rhythm breaking apart as he chases his end. One of his hands leaves the seatback and finds your hair, gathering it at the base of your skull, pulling just enough to arch your back, your eyes watering.
You gasp against the fogged glass as he hits somewhere new, deeper—and holds you there, buried to the hilt, breathing hot and uneven against the back of your neck.
“Feel that? Feel how deep I am?”
You manage a sound—something between a mewl and a yes. He pulls out slow, almost all the way, then drives back in with a sharp snap of his hips that punches the air out of you.
“Good. Wanna feel you come on it.”
He reaches around, thumb finding your clit slick and swollen, pressing tight circles while he fucks you through it. It doesn't take long—you're already right there, wound tight and trembling. When you break, it's with your face pressed to the glass, a strangled moan muffled against your own arm, your whole body clenching around him.
He follows soon after, burying himself deep with a low, broken groan, his forehead dropping to your shoulder blade.
Afternoon settles over the house in much the same lazy heat as yesterday, everyone gathered wherever there's a patch of shade. Price is sitting nearby with his sleeves rolled to the elbows, listening to someone talk while a pitcher of lemonade sweats on the table between you.
“Wait, is that new?” she asks.
Your gaze lowers to your own chest, brushing your fingers against the fabric absently. “Yeah.”
“When'd you get it?”
“This morning.”
“Went shopping already?”
“Had some money.”
“Ugh, it's so cute!”
“Thanks,” you hum, smiling behind the rim of your glass. Price shifts in his chair beside the conversation, and you catch the briefest glance in your direction before he looks away again.
— a/n: 'at the cookout' and this was 5% cookout 95% everything else lmaoo im sorry. this is somehow one of my laziest fics yet longest (recently), i haven't gone over 2k words in a while.
No thoughts just Ghost who spends so much of his free time with his dog riley that he genuinely forgets not to treat you the same as Riley.
Gaz says it's your fault for not correcting him, but how could you when your mind goes blank everytime ghost slips two fingers into the back of your shirt to stop you from wandering? Guiding you like a misdirected puppy, muttering "over here, runt. Yer needed for the meetin'."
Or when ghost snaps his fingers and you practically perk up from across the room. He doesn't say a word, but the sharp point at his heel has you coming to stand by him, already asking "what did you need, sir?"
Once, gaz literally watched ghost grab your jaw like the muzzle of a dog and affectionately shake your face around after you called him an old man. All you did was laugh and try to bite his hand while ghost huffed "stop that. Do you need a muzzle?"
Really, that was the last straw. Gaz knew you were too much of a people pleaser to do it yourself, so that same day he pulled ghost aside to ask "you do realize you're treating a grown human like a dog, right?"
"Yeah I know." Ghost deadpans, doesn't glance up from his phone. At gazs shocked silence, ghost knocks his boot against gazs shoe "you should try it. Ever notice how all my requests get done first?"
....gaz is not touching whatever dynamic you two have with a ten foot pole.
cw. simon "ghost" x fem!reader. smut, porn au, daddy kink, pregnancy.
You don't know why you started posting your little porn clips. Maybe you were lonely, or desperate for attention. Maybe you were bored. Maybe you wanted to add some excitement to your otherwise boring, painfully normal life.
Becoming a faceless Twitter porn account was never on your bingo card, but there you were, rubbing your clit through your lacy panties, panting into a microphone, moaning how you wish someone could fuck you right.
You've gained a small following. Nothing special, but enough for you to move to another platform, now hiding most of your things behind a paywall. You still post on Twitter, but it's mostly pictures of your tits or you in your tiny little dresses. Never your pussy anymore.
"Shy girl plays with her pussy." is the type of videos people who pay get.
You post a few times a week, always alone, always rubbing your pussy or fucking yourself on your fingers, whining about how it's not enough.
The first video to truly go viral is different. Your face is pressed into your pillow, your pitiful sobs muffled. A big hand holds you down, pressing firmly into your back, while another is on your hip, keeping your ass in the air.
A big, hulking man with a ghost mask is towering over your quivering form, fucking into you harshly. Each plap, plap, plap echoes through the room. The viewers can't see how you're split open on his cock, but the way you wail into your pillow tells them everything they need to know.
He barely says anything, but when he comes, you're rewarded with a hoarse "good girl". You don't look up from the pillow, but it's evident that you're keening, despite how tired you are. He takes the camera and showcases your spent pussy, using a finger to push any cum that dares to drip out right back in. The video ends there.
For the next two months, you only post solo content. Your followers wonder where your new partner is. If it was just a one-time thing, and if he has a profile of his own that they can follow. You don't answer any of their questions.
Then, you post another video. This time you're on your back, so the viewers can watch your tits bounce each time your partner thrusts into you. It's no wonder you go viral again. The way you're split open on his cock is truly pornographic. Thick, veiny inches cramped into your wet pussy, squelching each time he rams into you.
More weeks of solo content. You're whinier now. Often complaining that your fingers aren't enough. That you wish he were here. "His fingers are so much bigger," you huff, and the viewers can't see your face, but they don't need to. They can practically hear the way you're pouting.
You post another solo video. Your legs are open as you press a vibrator to your clit. Your other hand is just out of frame, holding your phone to your ear.
“Wanna come, but can’t without you,” you complain.
Your viewers can barely hear his reply, but clearly just the sound of his voice is helping as your pussy grows wetter by the second. You bring the bullet vibrator down to your slick hole, before dragging it up to your clit again.
“Yeah, I wanna be good,” you whine. “I wanna come so so so bad.”
His chuckle is distinct, even through the phone speaker.
“Then come, baby,” he replies, and you whine. “No one’s stopping you.”
You huff, clearly frustrated.
“I can’t,”
His voice grows firm on the other end. Clearly, whatever he’s saying works, because you’re keening as you grind your hips into your vibrator.
The video ends with your sweet cry as you come, clenching your thighs together.
Your third video with him is 26 minutes long. He's teasing you today. You're on your back, like last time, but he's not ruthlessly pounding into you this time. He slips the head of his cock past your tight entrance before he pulls out again. When you whine at the loss, his mean chuckle responds. He teases you like that, giving you just the tiniest bit, before pulling out again.
"Look, baby, they're kissing," he says, while slapping his tip against your clit. You twitch beneath him, squeezing your hands shut. "Oh, are you gonna come like this, love?"
When you say yes, he laughs again.
"That's pathetic."
You don't post another video of him for six months. Your viewers become confused. Did you stop seeing him? Are you arguing?
The video is a blurry mess. Your harsh breaths can be heard through the mic as you attempt to hold the camera while riding him. There's a perfect view of how his abs tense and flex while you move your hips back and forth. Eventually, you have to give up and turn over the camera.
Your partner flips it so they can get a view of the way you're stretched to the limit. You whimper as you place your hands on his sweaty, scarred chest and begin to bounce up and down. Telling him how bad you missed him, missed his cock.
He grunts as he tries to get a proper frame. The video goes dark as he gives up and throws the phone onto the duvet. Your squeal can be heard as he presumably grabs you and begins to fuck up into you, your giggles turning into moans, that turn into you begging him to come. He tells you to come on his cock, and you do. The string of praises he gives you, have your female subscribers in your comment section, begging for him to start making nsfw audios.
The last video you posted, the one dated one year and 4 months ago. Titled "Fucking my wife on our honeymoon". You're somewhere warm, on some unidentifiable beach. Your bikini top is pushed up, revealing your tits, and your bottom has been pushed to the side. You're straddling him on a beach chair, rubbing your pussy on top of his bathing trunks.
He helps you with a big hand on your hip, thumb tracing your stomach. When you finally sink onto his cock, it's with a keen.
"Show 'em, baby," he murmurs, and you giggle deliriously. Waving a manicured hand in front of the camera, there's a beautiful diamond on your ring finger. It glints in the sun.
"That's right, innit," he says, as he splays his hand across your stomach, his own gold band matching your suntanned skin. "Means there probably won't be any more videos in the near future."
He presses into your stomach, and you choke on a moan. It's obvious just how deep in your guts he is, carving himself a permanent place there.
"We'll be busy, won't we, love?" he asks, and you hum. You slowly drag your hips back and forth, and he rewards you with an appreciative moan.
"Very busy," you agree. You place your hand on top of his, right over your tummy.
"Gonna give them one last show, baby?"
"Yes, daddy," you tease. You roam your hands over your body, squeezing your tits. You must be on a secluded beach, because you have zero reservations as you ride him, shamelessly moaning. Your pussy is loud, squelching in tun with the back and forth of your hips. When you finish, it's with a drawn-out moan as your hips stutter against his.
"Come inside," you whimper, still riding him despite your sensitivity. "Please!"
He spills into you with a grunt and keeps you there on his cock, making sure no drop is wasted. You say goodbye to the camera with a breathless giggle. The final shot is of the way you're pierced on his cock.
Your followers flock to your site when you finally post another video. Title?
"Fucking sexy milf into the next week"
A bit corny, maybe? However, after your viewers finish the 3-minute clip you've graced them with, there's no doubt you won't be walking for the next week. So maybe Simon's not all wrong with that title.
And you never thought john would really want anything sexual with you. He is more war than person.
John carries his work with him wherever he goes. He doesn't have time for relationships or love or pleasure. He indulges in substances to keep him sane enough not to blow his head off. He's utilitarian like that.
So when john has you on your back, soft underbelly exposed to him, you don't expect the tenderness of it all. Of calloused palms smoothing up the expanse of your abdomen until it rests over the rapid beating of your heart. His beard scratching your cheek when he rumbles "settle down, love. Be good for me, yeah?"
You clench around his fingers, a whine caught in the back of your throat that has john kissing at your neck to try and kiss it too. He shifts, rubs his middle finger just right and chuckles warmly when your whole body goes lax "mh, there you are. Taking it so well for me, aren't you?"
John twists, crowds you in until all you can think about is his body on top of yours. There, in the tight space, a world of your own trapped in that moment, he whispers "you're always so good for me. So perfect."
Pairing : Price x f!reader
Cw : None. Or kids I guess if you're scared of that.
Word count : 2.1k
The boy ran off. Everything seemed so much bigger to him as he followed the paper plane he just learned how to make.
Unfortunately for you, your son was easily distracted and infuriatingly curious.
Stranger danger seemed to be a foreign concept no matter how many times you warned him. Every time you were together, you were just a sigh away from cuffing him to yourself. You weren’t a bad mom for thinking that, right? After all, people judging you didn’t have to deal with his shenanigans.
The little boy giggled delightedly because he managed to slip away from his mom's grasp and run around.
You were a magic mom.
You would find him again. He would turn around and you’d be right there.
You always were.
In his short adventure. He spotted a tall man, smoking as he watched over the playground. Your son's legs rushed at an almost laughable speed.
“You have a funny beard!” The little boy giggled pointing.
The school uniform he was wearing was familiar. A lot of kids from this primary school went to this park. He looked around expecting a panicked parent who would apologize profusely to him, but nothing. Who would let the kid run like this?
John looked down at the child.
What a rude little shit.
He extinguished his cigarette. Blowing the last bit of smoke from his lungs.
“You think my beard is funny?” He asked, crouching to your son who nodded.
“It’s like in the cartoons, it’s funny” he giggled, John smiled softly, raising a brow.
“Mocking strangers? What a brave little man you are.” He replied.
“I am!” He said proudly “I don't cry unless mommy makes me eat yucky veggies”
“Broccoli, I’m guessing?” he asked, still looking for the said mum. How careless could someone be.
Your son nodded "and carrots”
John chuckled, the boy did not in fact look frightened but just in case he patted his back gently while speaking.
“Where is your mummy, mate?” He asked.
The little man turned around looking for his magic mommy to point but nothing.
His little smile fell immediately. He continued to look for you. He spotted a coat the same color as yours but it was a different lady.
Panic quickly settled in his little heart as he looked frantically around for his mum.
His bottom lip pulled into a pout fighting the urge to cry.
Oh no. John sighed, picking your son up. Maybe he would get a better view from up there.
“You don't see her?” He asked, looking. Your son shook his head. His eyes glossy, full of threatening tears.
“Come on now mate, you're brave yeah, do you know her number?” the boy shook his head fervently. He couldn’t let the small child just run like this on his own. “That’s fine, then can you tell me what mummy looks like?”
The child thought for a second, but all he could think of at the moment was that he would be alone forever now without his mom.
“A pretty mommy” he sobbed. John sighed, he was getting nowhere with that. He hushed the kid patting his back.
“You’re alright sweetheart, you’re alright,” he reassured, gently soothing the boy.
At that moment he noticed a woman breathlessly calling for someone. You looked tired, red eyes and disheveled. It couldn't be, could it?
“Pretty you said?” The person he was watching looked…rough. When was the last time you had a full night's rest? Was it in the last decade? The little boy’s head shot up and turned to face the noise.
“Mommy!” He cried, wiping his tears, his nose still runny.
So it was the frantic-looking woman. The boy was just clearly enamored with his mum, to use such a description. You turned to them and he got the odd feeling that he knew you from somewhere.
John sent you a polite smile. Your eyes widened “Oh my fucking god!” You dashed over and ripped your son out of his arms.
He refrained from saying anything when he saw the way you were hugging your son for dear life “Oh my baby!” You sobbed tears running down your cheeks.
“You didn’t use magic” your son cried;
“I know baby, I know mom is so sorry.” You said “But don’t ever let go of my hand again! Do you hear me?” You mumbled as you continued to hug your son, with a tightness that could probably break a rib or two.
Your gaze lifted to meet Johns, faint frown lines forming between your brows.
“He was wandering alone—”
“Was he?” You asked with an accusatory tone. He swallowed back a sigh. He often found himself in a situation where he had to explain himself.
Today he didn’t have the patience for it, especially when you were the one who’d just lost the kid.
“You just happen to wander next to the kids playground?” You pressed.
“I have my reasons.” he chuckled.
“Care to explain them?” You said quickly, your eyes got sharper it seems he said something that was setting you off. He was sure he met you before, but where?
“No.” He replied simply, still assessing you, "Have we met before?" he asked, he caught the way you suddenly got flustered.
“No.” You glared at him. "And I don't think you should be here."
He scoffed and shrugged, watching your palm rub soothing circles onto your son’s back. "You should take him home and rest, I heard it makes people less irritable,"
He immediately saw anger brew in your eyes but a cute little voice sliced right through that tension.
“Daddy! Daddy! Look what I found!” His little girl came running to him, holding up her dirt-filled hand like carrying a prize, “A lizard! Can I keep it please? I wanna show Uncle Si!”
John sighed, crouching once again, “What did I tell you about picking random things up?” he said, picking the poor lizard and releasing it. He pulled out a packet of wipes from his pocket.
“But it looked so cute.” She pouted as he wiped her hand clean.
“Cute or not you can’t pick it up, nana would have a heart attack if she saw that,”
You were silent, staring at the interaction. He could only imagine how stupid you felt at that moment but he was far too busy with his own little nightmare to care. “Your daughter goes to–”
“The same school, yes,” he said, mentioning the uniform. “Probably why you seemed so familiar.”
“I thought…” you started. “I’m sorry…”
Your voice was quiet, your shoulders lowered and your eyes softened.
“You're alright. I'm just glad the little lad found his mum,” he said “I got to get this one cleaned up” he said picking up his daughter. "Have a good one, yeah?”
It was the second weekend of the month which he had agreed to drop Lia off at her grandparents’ house. They were always happy to have her.
But for him it was a moment he dreaded. The house was empty and silent. He’d spent years chasing peace, but now that it was here, he wasn’t sure what to do with it. His daughter was a turbulence he needed, the one that helped him feel grounded and normal.
When she wasn’t here…he spiraled. He stared at the empty cup in front of him. As the kettle was slowly turning the water into a boil. The tv was on, a desperate attempt to quiet out the silence.
Eventually, he was unable to bear it any longer. He grabbed his coat and left. The club was on his usual spot. Full of clatter and people who didn’t want to talk. It was ridiculous how the rancid, humid air actually helped.
He pushed the doors open, getting his hit with the already warm air, stinking of musk and alcohol. The bass resounded in his chest. He slid into his usual booth. He closed his eyes for a moment, taking in the chatter and laughter drowning in the loud music.
Not much but it was better than staring at walls. Anything to stay out of his own head.
And then he looked up.
There you were, mid-routine, moving across the stage. The lights caught on your face, and for a moment, he wasn’t sure. But when your eyes met his. The pure dread that flashed in your eyes made everything locked into place.
So that’s where he had seen that face. He never paid more attention. He was just here for the noise. The makeup made it hard to pinpoint but he was sure.
It was you.
He didn’t react. Just sat still, you regained your composure and carried on. He then shifted his attention. That wasn’t his reason for being here. There was no interaction needed. He ordered his drink and by the time you disappeared behind the curtain, he was already sipping comfortably.
He closed his eyes for a brief moment and only opened them when he felt the seat dip beside him. He glanced at you.
“So, it wasn’t at school,” he said.
“No,” you replied, staring at the drink in your hand. He looked at your barely covered body and extravagant makeup. Trying his best not to make you feel more uncomfortable than you already were.
“You recognised me, didn’t you?” He continued.
“I did,” you replied simply. You hesitated for a moment, “Sorry about earlier, I didn't mean to…I panicked when I lost my baby and…I shouldn’t have spoken to you that way.”
“It’s alright, I would have had the same reaction if a stranger talked to my unattended kid, besides I don’t have the typical dad look, some might say a bit unsettling.” He joked.
“No! You're a charming looking man!” you exclaimed, sounding a bit too desperate. He raised a brow at the comment.
“I mean it’s just…”
“I know, and it’s okay,” he replied but you didn’t seem to ease in the slightest. Pulling on the hem of your short skirt. You sip on your drink glancing at him occasionally. Something was clearly bothering you but you had no idea how to approach the subject.
“I only come here for the drinks, if that’s what you’re wondering” he said. It was clear in your face that you didn’t believe it one second. “Good whiskey” he continued.
“So I heard.” The silence stretched for a moment.
“How’s your son?” He asked, and you seemed to stiffen at the words. Maybe he shouldn’t have tried casual talk. It might have been a weird thing to bring up, given the setting.
“He’s good,” you replied “he's a really smart kid…a bit in the clouds sometimes, but he's a brilliant kid…that school is really good for him,” you continued, he was starting to understand where you were heading with this. “It was really hard to get him there, with the school fee and they are very picky with their students…”
“I have no intention of ratting you out to the school.”
“That’s not what I was…” he looked at you, tilting his head slightly.
He noticed the way your fake smile faltered as you tightened your grip on the glass.
“I know what you’re thinking”
“You don’t,” he affirmed, shaking his head.
“I worked really hard to get him there and this job is helping.” you defended, though you tried to be assertive, your voice was laced with doubt and shame. “I’m not a bad mom,”
“That never crossed my mind,” he replied and you gave him a small defeated smile. “Moreover would that mean I’m a bad father for coming here?” He shrugged.
“No, it’s not the same,” you replied, he sighed.
“They are almost the same age?” He asked, “Lia is 8 and your son?”
“He just turned 5.”
“My daughter has a temper,” he started, “ and doesn’t have a lot of friends, maybe we could do a playdate.” he said.
“I’d love that” you said, something seemed to cross your mind. “I mean if your wife is alright with it,”
“No wife.” He said, chuckling.
“Oh, uh…” you panicked a bit. Trying to find words but you felt short.
“Don’t worry, her mom is alive and well.” He started, to which you let out a sigh, “it’s fortunate, well depending on who you ask,” he stated, not really looking at you.
“It’s complicated?” You asked.
“No, she left, there is nothing more to the matter” he said, chugging the remainder of his drink, the alcohol smoothing down the bitterness of the words. He stood up.
“I should be on my way now,”
“It was nice chatting with you John.” You said.
“You too,” he said. You smiled at him with the same tired eyes, but right now they were soft.
The little flicker in them signaling that the conversation you had, though it was short, lifted just a little bit off your shoulders. He found himself staring a bit too long, realizing at that moment, maybe your son wasn’t completely off about his mom.
you push the bounds of your job description when your boss's nephew calls in need of help
length: 3.3k words
kind of headcanon Price has a shitty older brother who married young, had a kid then divorced and just doesnt care and so Price steps in because *dad mode initiated*
part two // out of his league // main masterlist // ao3
The tap tap tap of your pen bouncing off the page of the open report drilled into your slow head as the afternoon wore on. Reading over the same line for the third time, praying the words sunk in and getting left on read. Whittling out a long, beleagured breath and you dropped the pen entirely. Sinking back into the chair—ignoring the creak of your stiff back—rubbing at your eyes.
The elegant trill of the landline atop your desk drawing your attention, tugging yourself back to the desk to answer. The receptionist's frilly voice greeting you on the other end.
"I don't suppose the Captain's about?" She queried first, "I tried his line first, no answer."
You clenched your hand around the pen, twisting it between your fingers as your gaze flicked to the locked door. "He's deployed." You answered, fiddling with the chewed lid, resisting the urge to shove it between your teeth. Been gone too long, this time.
"Oh." The receptionist faltered, the line fizzing in the silence.
"Is there something I can help with?"
A pause as she considered, "I've got his nephew on hold asking for him." The resigned sigh left her lips gave you the impression this wasn't the first time it had happened. "Captain Price has always picked up before, I've been dreading the day this happens."
A name rang in your head, you'd definitely heard mention of a nephew—his older brother's kid. Price didn't like to talk family around the office.
"Pass him through to me." You told her, sitting straighter in the chair. "Let me sort it."
"If you're sure." The receptionist accepted but sounded glad to hand it over.
The line crackled for a second as it connected the call, a small, boyish voice answering you when you introduced yourself warmly. “Right, yeah, you’re his assistant, right?”
Jamie Price. Of course you knew the name, met the boy in passing and he’d given you the cheekiest grin. Earning a slap to the back of his head from his uncle after whispering something obviously inappropriate.
Something about divorced parents, absentee father, Price picking up the slack. A pair of bright eyes flashing as he passed you in the corridor.
"I'm sorry, Jaime, Captain Price is not here, is everything okay?" You told him, the open report immediately forgotten on your desk. This took priority.
“He’s not there?” He asked, the boy’s voice dropping, and you suddenly straightened.
“No, sorry, were you expecting him to be?”
“I–no, not really.” You heard a thud from his end of the line, then another, and your brow pinched together. “I just–never mind.”
“Are you okay?”
“Fine.”
A beat passed, you gave him time to fill the silence, or to hang up, but he didn’t do either, so you pressed harder. “You sure?”
“It’s fine.”
“Then you won’t mind telling me what exactly is fine.”
“Are you even allowed to talk to me?” He deflected and you suppressed the urge to roll your eyes. “You’re like a stranger, I shouldn’t be talking to you.”
“Kid, you called us, cut the crap.” You shot and heard him snort. “Do you need me to call your mum, or something?” You narrowed your eyes as you heard a third thud. “Or is there a reason you’re calling your uncle instead?”
“Mum’s out of town.” He grunted back, “Dad was supposed to pick me up.”
“Pick you up from where?”
Silence. Another thud. The sound of something snapping. “I said it’s fine.”
You connected the dots on your own, tugging open your top desk draw and fishing out your mobile. “Yeah, no, that ain’t gonna sell, kid.” You replied flatly, picking out the spare set of keys to Price’s office from the lockbox behind your desk. The cord of the phone barely reaching. “Where are you?”
“Nuh uh.” He groaned, “Now it’s really stranger danger.”
“Stop being stubborn.” You snapped, "Is there an adult there I can talk to? I’m coming to pick you up."
“I don’t want you to pick me up, I’m fine.”
"Jamie, sweetie, Price’ll make my life a living hell if I leave you stranded, so either put an adult on the line or I track your phone.” You clipped, keys clinking together as you shifted them in your hand.
“You can’t do that.” He scoffed and you let the line hang silent, letting him stew for a moment, mulling it over, his young imagination doing the work for you. “Can you?”
“You know your uncle works for the army, and I work for him.” You reply, quirking your lip. “You really wanna try me?”
Another few minutes and you heard some frustrated breaths down the line, the phone crackling all muffled and warped and then a pleasantly masculine voice picked up. His football coach. Agreeing to let you come pick him up from the local club, noting down the address, taking down Jamie's number then handing over your personal mobile. Promising to be there soon.
You were already standing when you hung up, slamming the phone down, swiping your jacket from the back of your chair, retrieving your mobile from your top desk drawer, and shrugging one arm in by the time you had Price's office door unlocked. Looping the other in as you found the keys to Price's truck stashed in one of his drawers, ignoring the foul smell coming from the half empty mug he left behind, making a note to dispose of that crime when you got back. Keys and phone tucked in your back pocket, you locked up Price's office—then yours—and headed ou to the parking lot. Locating Price's dusted up truck from the cluster of vehicles stashed away and unlocking the drivers side.
“Right.” You breathed out, rubbing your hands along your thighs as you glanced over the dashboard. “Shouldn’t be too hard to figure out.”
You twisted the keys in the ignition, summoning muscle memory you hadn’t used in a long time to drive the thing from the garage, messing up only once on the gears as you pulled out from the base. You hadn’t driven a proper car since you got your motorbike license, let alone something like this, but your dad insisted you drive properly before jumping on the first two wheeler you saw. That’s the deal you made when you became old enough to learn and it’s a deal you kept. Proper license, then the bike.
It took you a good thirty minutes to find the club, parking up in front of the main reception, dipping inside to find Jamie sat on the leather couch by the desk. His coach chatting away as he kicked his feet. Bright eyes finding you and sticking to you as you showed your driver's license to the coach, your base ID just to be sure. The coach eyeing you up and down and likely thinking what everyone thought when you told them you worked for Captain John Price—aren't you a little young?
"You ready to go?" You turned to Jamie, flashing him a reassuring, a warm, smile and tapped your fingers against your thigh as the lanky kid dragged himself up from the couch.
A round face and limp brown hair atop his head, chubby cheeks and bright blue eyes giving you an uncomfortably familiar image of what your boss looked like as a kid and you swiftly banished such thoughts with an imperceptible shake of your head. Shouldering Jamie's backpack as he lugged around his kit.
Leading him out to the truck and he threw the kit into the back of the truck, backpack and muddy boots following suit. Plucking open the drivers side as he hauled himself into the passenger seat, clipping his belt on. Propping an elbow against the window as you copied and turned the keys in the ignition, his head dumped against his clenched fist and a glum look pulled his features down.
“So, where am I taking you?” you twisted the keys again, engine sputtering to life.
“Don’t care.” He hmphed, hunching back in the seat.
“Yeah, because I really wanna get done for kidnapping.” You joked and he shot you a grim side eye. “Fess up, kid.”
He pulled the hood of his hoodie over his head and slouched further back in the seat, arms crossed over his chest. You took a long breath and fixed the truck in gear, glancing over your shoulder through the back window before reversing.
“Gonna be like that, is it?” You huffed quietly and he tossed you another side eye. “Fine, but I warn you kid, I can be just as stubborn.”
“Doubt it.” You heard him mutter under his breath as you twisted back and pulled from the club, your lip quirking.
Challenge accepted. “You asked for it.”
You drove back to the base, catching on the same mistake as you left parking up and winced as the gears grinded when you tried to change them, pulling a snort from the kid in the passenger seat.
“Can’t believe Uncle John lets you drive his truck.” He unclipped his belt before you switched off the engine, tugging out the keys.
“He doesn’t.” You replied honestly and the kid paused with his hand around the door handle, frowning at you incredulously.
“You stole Uncle John’s truck?” he huffed, something like awe in his tone.
“Borrowed.” You insisted as he opened the door, leaning across to yank it shut again until he heard your demands. “And what Uncle John doesn’t know won’t hurt him, agreed?”
He waved you off and you released the handle, pushing your own door open and slipping out. Locking the truck up tight.
“So what do you drive?” Jamie perked as you stepped around to the other side, his backpack perched on his shoulder. Kit and boots left tucked inside.
“Not trucks.” You answered vaguely but curiosity swelled in his features so you jerked your head to the bike sat across the lot.
“No way.” He exclaimed, his jaw dropping open. “That’s yours?!”
"Go on." You prodded him forward, his feet dragging on the gravel to steal a few more seconds staring. “You quit being so stubborn with me and I might let you sit on it.”
Jamie’s eyes lit up like you’d told him he’d have a birthday every day for the rest of time as you led him to the front entrance.
The receptionist raised her eyebrow in a question as you signed him in, filling out the visitors form and tucked the badge she slid across to you in your pocket, ushering him down the corridor.
You dug the keys from your back pocket, unlocking the office, and let him dump his backpack on the couch. Watching him stall in the small space, toeing the rough carpet.
"You hungry?" You prompted, returning your mobile to the desk drawer, truck keys to their home in Price's desk. A mild curiosity getting the better of you. “If I bribe you with food, will you tell me why you called Captain Price and not your parents?”
He kicked at the floor now, dropping his gaze, fiddling with the strings of his hoodie instead of looking at you. “Maybe.”
Despite yourself, your lip quirked. Typical preteen. “Come on.”
He followed you after half a beat, keeping a step behind you down the corridor, one of the officers walking by and giving you the strangest look. You glared back unprompted, taking Jamie’s shoulder and walking him in front of you until the man turned the corner, directing him to the break room.
“Uncle John says they only have normal stuff in here.” Jamie complained as he propped himself on one of the chairs, tucking his hands beneath his legs and swinging his feet as he watched you. “Like sandwiches.”
“Yeah, well.” You bent low, reaching beneath the counter to scrape out a set of keys taped to the underside. “Uncle John doesn’t know where Soap hides his secret stash.” You pulled the set free and knelt on the floor, unlocking the cabinet kept purposefully locked whenever Johnny deployed and revealed a feast before you.
Colourful crisp packets in all flavours; packets of biscuits from chocolate digestives to custard creams; a box of popcorn waiting to be popped; various multipacks of chocolate bars and the can of pringles Johnny was saving for the right occasion.
Jamie’s eyes widened and you waved him forward, opening the doors wider for him as he crouched beside you. “Pick your poison.”
He glanced at you sideways, “Really?”
You nodded, figuring Soap owed you for that last minute demolition request you settled for him. “Go nuts, kid.” You straightened, stepped back, let him pick out what he wanted and snorted when he came back with his arms full. “I like your style.”
You locked the cabinet back up and returned the keys to their hole, grabbing down two glasses and filling them with water from the tap as the sound of foil crinkling open sounded behind you. You set one glass down in front of him, dug your hand into the packet and picked out a crisp, salt exploding on your tongue as it crunched between your teeth. Taking the seat opposite him as he stuffed a few in his mouth.
He finished the whole packet before saying anything, wiping greasy fingers on his hoodie and peering out at you from beneath the hood. “Uncle John says you haven’t been here long.” He unfolded one of the packets of biscuits, pushing out a few bourbons.
You sat forward, taking one. “Not really.” You answered, snapping off the top layer of biscuit to get at the creamy filling. “Why’d you ask?”
He shrugged, biting a biscuit in half, a crumb caught in the corner of his mouth, and he licked it up. “Just wondering.”
You nodded, scraping off the filling with the top half, scooping it up. “You know what I’m wondering?” you prompted, licking off the filling.
Jamie had his eyes narrowed, watching you. “Why you’re being weird?”
“What?” You exclaimed defensively, “This is how you’re supposed to eat bourbons.”
“That’s oreos.” He retorted softly, finishing his own biscuit and picking out another.
“Try it.” You urged, nodding at the biscuit and he crinkled his nose. “Go on, it won’t hurt.”
He turned his nose again but did it, snapping off the top, scraping the filling off with his teeth and let out a smile. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have a convert.” You smiled back, giving a small clap and his smile widened.
“I'm definitely telling Uncle John how weird you are.” He shook his head, snuffing down another two biscuits.
“You talk a lot about me with your Uncle John?” you took a sip from your glass, watching him over the lip, your own curiosity getting the better of you.
“I said you were out of his league.” Jamie kicked his legs under the table, chatting away through half a mouthful of biscuit. “You’re way too hot for Uncle John.”
You couldn’t help the smile lining your lips, the heat in your cheeks, practically hiding from a twelve-year old behind your glass. “Is that so?”
“He said he’d keep it in mind when he asked you out.”
You almost choked on the sip of water you took, setting the glass down, but the kid was too enamoured by the biscuits to notice your slip. “If he did what, now?”
Jamie glanced up from the biscuit irritably. “If he wanted to ask you out, keep up.”
“Jamie, this is very important.” You straightened in the uncomfortable chair, hands flat to the table so he knew you meant business—and couldn't believe you were about to interrogate a twelve-year old. “Can you tell me what your uncle said, exactly?”
He rolled his eyes as if you were the child here. “You're way outta his league anyway, what does it matter.”
“Sure.” You nodded quickly, if impatiently, “But was it an if or a when, Jamie?”
“You should be Iron Man’s girlfriend.” Jamie carried on as if he wasn’t even paying attention, steadily working his way through the biscuits.
You set your hand over the packet, sliding it away. “That’s enough bourbon for you.” He glared at you as you folded up the packet, keeping them trapped under your folded hands. You could certainly do with a bit of real bourbon round about now. “You get them back if you answer my question.”
“Well, I don’t remember.” He whined, “Can I have them back, now?”
He made a strangled noise and you hung your head, releasing the hostage held biscuits back to him and he punched the air. The sound of munching and spilled crumbs the only thing to be heard, the two of you settling into a strange—but comfortable—silence.
Until Jamie kept glancing at you hesitantly, still swinging his legs, though the chewing slowed. Half eaten biscuit turning over and over again in his small fingers and you waited patiently as he warred with himself in his head. Certain he'd come to a decision in his own time.
“Can you tell me where he is?” A quiet voice asked, peeking at you, and nibbled at the biscuit distractedly. Averting his gaze when he caught your eyes.
“Who was supposed to pick you up tonight?” You asked gently, softening yourself as much as you knew how.
Jamie shuffled on the seat, fully focused on the packet now, and you made sure he knew he had your full attention. “It’s okay, Jamie, nothing’s gonna go wrong, nothing’s gonna happen.” You tilted your head, trying to catch his gaze but he really didn’t want to look at you. “It’s just you and me and the biscuits, yeah?”
Another bite. Another swing. Another hesitant breath.
“Mum’s away.” He pushed out and you nodded encouragingly, “Been staying with Dad.” You nodded again, sitting patiently, waiting for him instead of trying to put words in his mouth. “He said he’d be there.”
“Your dad?”
Slowly, he nodded. “I tried calling him, but he didn’t pick up.”
There were a few times—the moment's when Price stepped out so unexpectedly—you had to cover for the captain if the phone rang, if someone stopped by. Once when he had a meeting and you made up some bullshit about an emergency in the war room, something you definitely got called out on the next day when nothing happened.
He'd come back with Jamie in tow, settling the kid in his office doing his homework or playing on his phone until his mother came to pick him up, or Price finished his paperwork and took him home.
It had always been around the end of the day, when you were just packing up, never lingering too long to question or really notice the kid. But enough to know, enough to hear the gossip.
A swell of pity rose in your chest for the kid, but you didn’t let it reach your face. Kids of divorce got enough of that from regular people in their lives, he didn't need it from a stranger.
An idea snuck it's way into a mischievous smile on your cheeks and you swept up the two glasses on the table, jerking your head for Jamie to follow and bring the snacks too.
With the boys gone, the rec room would be empty. The other sergeants caught up in late afternoon drills, third meal or their own endless paperwork to bother mucking around. Bumping open the door to the predictably empty room with your hip.
You set the glasses on the scuffed coffee table, placing one over an incredibly non-PG doodle Johnny had drawn in sharpie when he’d had one too many shots, and switched on the television. The console slotted underneath the cheap entertainment centre with one too many dings decorating the wood.
Loading the worn console and letting the time pass beating all of Gaz's high scores. Starting slouched in the cushions, testing the waters, and ending the afternoon surrounded by packets on the floor. Bright laughter and squeaked yells filtering down the corridor to anyone still haunting the halls.
part two // out of his league // main masterlist // ao3 dividers by @cafekitsune - consider checking them out they're so good!
forced away from home. a new job, a new city, new people, and no friends. makes for a pretty shitty birthday.
length: 1.3k words
bit of hurt, bit of comfort, never did anyone wrong
ao3 // masterlist
Had to happen today of all fucking days. Drowning the stinging cut beneath a flow of water in the bathroom, curbing the tears welling in your waterline with deep breaths until they choked painfully in your throat. Of all fucking days. A damned paper cut. The cherry on the so called cake. Fucking perfect.
You’d let the paperwork pile up intentionally, let it become an alien mound on your desk, filling your in-tray. Just to keep yourself here, just to keep working on into the night and pretending you weren’t going home to a cold empty flat that barely felt like home.
Real home belonged to rolling hills full of supple meadowsweet and the smell of rain, crumbling cobblestone walls lining rough beaten roads barely big enough for the tractors drilling through and a warm hearth. Always lit, always warm, always welcome. The smell of whiskey and smoke.
The surreal reality you lived in only drove the breath from your lungs, two fists wrapped around your chest and squeezing tighter with each passing week.
This time last year you were drinking yourself dirty with true friends, colleagues. A celebration, not just of you but your life, your work. Your excellence. The word shivering through you on a memory you wished stayed buried along with the feel of his hands branding you.
The year before that, candles and cake and cheery faces. A house full of laughter, of little running feet, and the patter of rain against the stained windows. The glass reflecting the flicker of the newly lit fire.
You pinched the cut, biting your lip at the sudden sting, and quickly wiped the back of your hand across your cheek before the tear could fall further than the dark shadows under your eyes. Rubbing at your nose with damp fingers.
Lifting trembling eyes to the reflection, a stranger staring back at you. Poorly dyed hair and all. Switching off the tap, succumbing to the flimsy papercut, gripping the basin tightly.
Happy birthday. You weren’t sure if you muttered the bitter words to yourself or the reflection, you weren’t even sure which of you deserved it. You didn’t feel happy, not in the slightest, you barely remembered what it felt to be happy and as for the birthday? Another year meant nothing spent like this. The shadows only growing the longer you stared and this time you didn’t twitch an inch as a tear shimmered in the mirror.
Bold as glass trailing down your cheek. Happy sodding birthday.
You splashed water on your features, stole a deep breath, avoided the reflection as if it were out to get you, and yanked a few paper towels from the dispenser. Hands dried but the sting remained. A filmy red line along your finger disappearing beneath the plaster you folded around it.
Smoothing down your shirt and walking out as if nothing had changed. You still had a mountain of work to get done, the grind never ended if it already chewed and spat you out in the dirt. Returning to your office wearing the same old mask, the same old sodden professionalism you’d forced upon yourself.
Only to crack the second you stood before your desk, sinking to your chair with lips parted, breath caught, at the sight of the little cupcake sat atop the open file. The one that sent you fleeing in the first place. A single candle stuck in the pretty red frosting, and you tugged the note out from beneath the box of matches beside it.
An open flame would be a safety hazard on your desk. You pursed your lips, sat back, hand shooting to cover your mouth as a fresh wave of tears plucked your eyes. Nobody knew you here, nobody knew to even ask about a birthday, about a family or friends or have you got any plans this weekend? They just knew the worker, the assistant, and yet somebody had. Amongst all the mess, somebody knew.
Laswell, maybe? You sniffed. She didn’t seem the type. So, Soap, then, but you’d only just struck up a friendship with the man—if that’s really what you could call it, you only spoke to him to rebuff his cheeky lines.
Oh, who the fuck cares. You poked open the matchbox, striking a light and lit the candle carefully, extinguishing the match as soon as the flame caught. Paperwork be damned. Refusing to let the moment pass—to relinquish the warmth flooding your chest—by blowing it out, letting the wax run into the frosting.
You blew it out eventually, slipping the cake back into the box, tucking the candle away safely with the note and marshalled the tightness in your throat as you left with it. Keeping it tucked in the fridge because you couldn’t bring yourself to eat it and used one of the broken magnets to stick the note on the fridge.
Catching Soap the next day as he dropped something into Captain Price’s office and thanking him—albeit sheepishly—for the gesture. “I don’t remember telling you it was my birthday.”
“Ye birthday?” He raised a confused eyebrow, “Lass, I dinnae get you no cake.”
A frown pinched your brow, glancing down at the spot the cake sat last night. “Then who—?”
“Wait.” You didn’t get to finish the thought as Soap slammed his hands flat to your desk. “Yesterday was ye birthday?” He peered at you, bold eyes wide. “And ye spent it alone?!” He practically spat the last word. “What kind of crime is that?!”
You weren’t exactly alone, you had a cupcake. “It’s not a big deal.” You tried to shrug but Soap pushed off the desk, shaking his head vigorously and muttering words under his breath you didn’t quite catch. “Captain.” He stuck his head back in Price’s office. “Am borrowing the lass for the foreseeable future.”
Your features twisted, suddenly alert. “Wait.”
Price grunted, “I want her back intact.”
“Soap, what are you—?” he had your jacket off the hook before you fully stood from your chair, forcing your arms into the sleeves despite your protests. Dragging you out by the wrist, calling into Gaz in the comms room as he went.
“Garrick, get yer arse in a tizzy, we’ve a travesty to rectify.” Soap instructed, still clutching your wrist even as his fellow sergeant blinked, staring confusedly until Soap released a breath. Sticking a thumb at you. “Was the lass’s birthday yesterday, she dinnae feel inclined to tell us.”
Kyle recoiled, “Seriously?” he set down the file in his hands without a second thought and then a frown crinkled his brow as he followed them out.
“Where are we going?” You spluttered as Soap continued tugging you down the corridor.
“It’s five o’clock somewhere.”
And that’s how you ended up driving three—Ghost showed up an hour after you hit the nearest pub, skull balaclava and all, claiming he just came for the drinks—drunk, lumbering SAS operatives back to your flat for the first time.
What you didn’t tell them in the morning is you snapped a picture of them all in various stages of distress around your living room at gone midnight, legs hiked up over the cushions, arms splayed across the nearest thing they could find. Gaz hugging Soap’s leg like a teddy bear. Pure gold.
Ghost woke before any of them, even you, the black balaclava hiding the hangover draining his features, and he stood staring at your fridge door when Soap stirred. A particularly virile snore startling him awake and he fell off the couch with an oof.
“What ye looking a’?” He yawned, rubbing heavy eyes as he joined Ghost in the kitchen, narrowing them at the little note you had pinned to the fridge. “S’tha the Captain’s handwriting?”
find me on ao3 or check out my full masterlist here!
And reader! who’s still fragile after making up with John.
It’s not John’s fault, you know that, have engrained into your brain, he couldn’t help the amnesia. Things still are distant in his mind even though you know he remembers you.
But you’re holding your breath, taking in sharp inhale in an attempt to compose your heart from pouring like it’s done before. Counting down numbers before while you’re messing with fingers just before you knock on the door.
And John notices.
On accident, he knows if you weren’t so restless you would have hid it better. But he catches glimpse of it one day, you still haven’t used the key he’s given back to you. And he figures you’re the cutest thing walking uo the pathway to the house, that you are.
But theres a fear before you knock. Rocking on your heels and shaking off the anxiety, the fear of being left behind haunts you.
As if you’re waiting for the fall to happen again.
You’re good at masking your feelings with a smile, a laugh and flirty joke there because you’re able to forget when you’re with him. That’s John is all yours, past and present. You feel it.
As long as you can be at arms length, fingers brushing against yours from the other side of the couch. Any closer, your knees bouncing, another deep breath, heart pounding against your chest while you force an Emmy winning smile. You’re not scared of him, you’ve made love to this current John for peats sake. He still kisses you goodnight and good morning that has you swooning like a fool.
It’s easier for John to catch a misstep, a slip of the charade. Crying in the master bedroom over something so stupid. Waking up curled up in John’s arms after watching a move. It shouldn’t have been something to cry over. But you’ve been restraining yourself so bad, aching for his touch, his caress, those kisses he plants on your forehead, on the top of your curls. Oh, how warm it once, hairs on his arms and from his beard tickling you—
How long were you gonna have that this time? That’s tenderness? That solace?
“Christ sweetheart,” it’s almost a whisper but it fills the space, it pains him seeing you like this. Slow tears dampening your face, nose slightly snotty. He moves before you even muster up the strength to tell him not to touch you. “You broken?”
You sob at that, harder than you wanted to but it’s like hearing something you’ve been in dire need of. John, John, John, this man you love so much. He catches you, your legs giving out, but Price helps you wrap your arms around his neck. Helps you hold him tight, hand soothing you from the top of your back to the small of your back. And you clutch at his shirt for dear life, tight enough you’re almost using his lungs to breathe life back into you.
or: just because John Price lost a bit of his memory doesn’t mean he’s letting you go.
cw: 5.6k wrds, 18+ mdni, smut with plot, no use of y/n, John! With lost memory, dad bf!Price, age gap (28 yo reader, 40 yo John), (kinda) possessive!John, avoidant!reader, angst/comfort, ex’s to lovers, Daddy kink (use of Daddy/Dad (idgaf)), humping, pronebone, sideways, creampie, choking, no proper prep, unprotected sex, a little rough but sweet, pet names (kid, baby, lovie, sweet heart)
a/n: song inspo :p. can be read as a stand alone but a continuation of this post. I’m going to hell.
The past two years, even in the current moment, it’s foggy.
Like he was living a life that had already happened, but with someone else. Something like Deja Vu. He’s still trying to catch up to the present.
John Price tries to act as if everything is in it’s right place, he goes on missions, he drinks with the crew, he works a bit of overtime, hangs out with his old mates and their families, dates with his new girlfriend, take the dogs for a walk, family dinners at his parents house with his siblings— he puts his best foot forward.
It makes him laugh sometimes, that maybe the routine will help him remember what’s missing. And hes asked the boys, if he was missing something— and he knew he was, the question was almost rhetorical— but they dance around the question. Can’t look at him straight. Simon, sturdy as ever, lips stay in a thin line. He won’t lie to him, he just stays silent.
Is it frustrating?
Yes. Obviously yes. Half truths getting told to you is never good.
But John, this one time in his 38 years of life, he doesn’t push for an answer. Partly because he’s afraid of the answer, afraid that even if they do tell him what’s wrong, he won’t remember. The doctors say he might not get those two years back, that it’s best to move forward. And maybe things will come to him along the way.
He’s hopeful. Weary, yet hopeful.
But sometimes he wakes with these annoying headaches that can’t be relieved till he lays flat on the hardwood floors for at least five minutes. Strange, he knows, but it helps. His brain trying to remember something, he figures.
The hairy man will close his eyes, let the house creek, he can hear the dog collars rings as the dogs walk around downstairs, the birds tweeting, cicadas singing, the cars in the distance. It’s calm. But he sees it sometimes.
A memory he can’t exactly make out, but you’re there, head in his lap, or tugging at him to look at something, but he can’t make out your face. John can hear your melodic laughter, your voice ringing in his ears like a wind chime, your curls in a ponytail, in your favorite pair of jeans, a simple t-shirt. And he wanted to stay there, stay in that moment for eternity because it felt like he should’ve been there, with what once was. You. In your arms. Or in his.
But he always wakes up, be it from the dogs he got licking his face, the uncomfortableness of the floor on his back or, from his girlfriend calling out to him. Back to that ache of reality, not remembering.
This time it’s just from the floor. He groans at the feeling, he’s getting too old. But something catches his eye, theres a half of floorboard missing right under his bed. And hes surprised he hasn’t noticed it till now. He reaches into the floor, hoping to find the broken piece of wood but his hands touch something— paper? Something laminated? He’s not sure but grabs it with the grunt, lifting himself off the floor and onto the bed.
It’s someone else’s hand writing on the back, ‘another endless beach day, me + Price, June 6th, 20XX.’ signed off with a heart. John turns the picture over and his heart aches all over, chills rolling down the hairs of his arms.
It’s you.
Sunset behind you, winking at the camera, Johns arm wrapped around your bare waist holding you close, sharing a towel on both of your heads, covering your wet hair, the swimsuit and your bodies are both soaked. And John can almost hear it, your voice rings in the back of his brain telling him to hurry up. It makes his heart pound a thousand times faster.
And there’s another picture, in the backyard, Johns swinging you in his arms, you have a baby blue sundress on, curls in a side part, the biggest smile on your face. Gorgeous, gorgeous thing, John remembers it, the feeling of his lips on your cheeks, over and over, till you’re laughing and playfully shoving at his shoulder.
It’s warm. John knows it is.
He huffs, your name is at the tip of his tongue, yearning to get out, but it’s not easy. Clearly you’re someone who John loved. More that important, more, more, more, he mumbles.
And he goes through the house one more time, just like he did before he started fresh. Maybe he missed something like he’d just done. Maybe he’d find another few memories— bits of you, in a kitchen drawer, or the bathroom closet, or in the spare bedroom, the reading nook at the end of the hallway, in the old guitar he hasn’t played in ages, the ring that’s sat on his nightstand that he’s been too scared to touch, the attic—
“If you knew how to paint professionally, you could turn this attic into a studio.” You said, sitting a box down the last of the box.
It was long due for a cleaning, and everytime John needed something from up there he was left in a fit of egregiously loud sneezes. So you both got up there and cleaned it, reorganizing what did and did not need to be there. Which led to a lot of John’s old man wining ‘what if I need this’ and ‘I haven’t seen this in ages.’
You had his old blue varsity jacket on from when he played football with his mates, David & William. It was large on you still, down to your hips, the shorts on you hugging your ass perfectly. You looked so cute, all his, which lead to him being sidetracked while you tried to do your tasks. Off guard pictures taken on that polaroid he had that had a little film left, feeling up on you while leaving kisses all over you. It was late now, around ten a clock and you’d finally finished cleaning. You were both exhausted.
“Well I’m no artist, but if you want a studio to paint—“
“I don’t want a studio, I’m just throwin out ideas.” You giggle, throwing yourself in his hold.
“A studio for our child then?” He quips, moving the braids out of your face, entertaining your fingers. He’s in no rush to start a family, but the idea of one, with you, swirls his mind. You with his baby in your arms, looking a little bit like you and a little like him. Ugh, so cute.
“And if they can’t paint?”
“At least they’re taking after their parents.” He grunts, pulling you into his chest. You laugh, resting your chin on hard muscles.
“But raising our kids in this house,” he breaths out, hand trailing under the jacket you had on and to your back. “I’d like to do that more than ever with you, sweetheart.”
Your heartbeat speeds up, you want a future with John. To grow old with him, start a life together, but— “I want them to have consistency.”
“And I’ll give you that.”
“John.” Your voice is soft, but you get his attention in an instant. your brown eyes meet his blue ones, and you’re praying what he tells you is the truth. He knows you’re scared, to lose him, to be left behind. You’d talked about it before, how your family was difficult. But Price understood, he was there for you. Apart of him took on that role for you. John knew he was your constant, he was your family. Even if everything went to shit, John would swoop in and save the day.
But his job was dangerous, and sometimes John himself didn’t even know if he’d make it back home. Uncertainty. You hated that.
You’d settled in the feeling, gave him a pained smile.
He winced at that, was he really so faulty? So used to empty promises. Or were you just not used to someone willing to do anything for you? He'd crawl back to you with one arm if he had to. All for you. Only for you.
“I’ll be here lovie,” he reassures you, caressed your cheek, his lips meeting yours, sealing your future with a kiss. Putting your foreheads together,
“I promise.”
And it’s when John decided to put you as his emergency contact, just in case. Put your name in his will. His life hand wrapped and tied with a bow and ready to be given to you, one of the few things he was certain about.
Just in case.
It’s there, in that chest to the far right of the attic that you moved when you cleaned it out, his copy of his will. Your first, last and middle name written in print, that’d you get every last thing in his name, a promise that you'd be taken care of even if he wasn’t there— consistency.
And maybe he lost track along the way, but Price knows, your his. Still his, and he’s yours. That the love he has for you was only sitting dormant, waiting to flourish in the depths of you.
And Price is sure it will.
┈┈・୨ ✦ ୧・┈┈
“You’re not gonna tell me how your date went?” Your co-worker, Dani, pestered as soon as you got your apron on.
Dating was- well- they were opportunities to enjoy food.
Even if the date was shit.
Everything in your life had changed.
The first right after moving out of his place being fired from the job John got you. And God did it fucking hurt when they let you go, ‘missed too many days’ it was a week max.
Maybe two.
You just couldn’t get out of bed. It’s hard to move on from a relationship you spent so much time building all for it to crumble in an instant. But it was probably for the best, right? It was one of your last attachments to Price.
A life without being so reliant on him.
One where you were fully independent. Just like you’d always been before him.
You found a job as a waitress at some cafe and you were good, dropped a couple orders, but got closer to the rest of the staff, got on your feet just fine. The dating scene though? Mortal enemy #1.
Your friends wanted you to quickly get over the breakup- hell— so did you. That didn’t mean you didn’t need to immediately start dating someone. You couldn’t be a heartbroken girl for a second without your friends pushing you to find someone better, younger and hotter than him.
Well, was there?
Another hard task you didn’t know if you could accomplish. You’d put it with your list of things ‘to do’.
Last night was another failed date, with a man who couldn’t stop rambling about women needing to stay at home and take care of the family while he worked as a "entrepreneur." AKA, a scammer, probably in some pyramid scheme. Your burger was dry but you ate it anyway, a way to avoid the topic of discussion but he made it worse. Saying something along the lines of, “why are you eating a burger with your hands? A proper woman would eat with a fork and knife.”
You paid for your end of the bill and went home.
You roll your eyes, grabbing a note pad and pen from the counter, “I’ll never let you convince me to go on a dating app ever again.”
She whines, right on your tail as you make your way to the order station, giving a few hellos to your other coworkers, “Was it that bad? I thought he said he was a real estate agent!”
“Are we shocked the real estate agent is good at lying? Let’s be serious—“
“—[+]! We need you at booth 7!” The manager interrupts, nodding toward the section.
You shrug to Dani, feet already on the move, “The dating scene just isn’t good. Let’s give up.”
She give you a smile, “We can’t give up! Have some faith [+]! There’s gotta be good person for you somewhere!”
Yeah, there was. But he wasn’t yours anymore.
He was a memory in the back of your brain, long cherished and stuck there.
Your John wasn’t coming back, he'd looked you dead in the face at the beach a year ago like-no- you were a complete stranger, and you had to bathe in that feeling. You’d settled with being stranger #6 and background character 2 in your own life now, getting a few scrapes and bruises from this harsh this we call life and blowing the dirt off it instead of properly patching it up. It’s what you knew how to do best.
The shift went by smoothly this time, no weird guys or uptight older ladies, getting home in your car and eating a bowl of instant ramen. The tv volume on low because you don’t want to bother anyone.
It’s simple routine, simple enough that it gives you the comfort you need: eat, drink water, shower, a bit of skin care and then a book or journaling on a good day. No electronics right before bed, not unless it's to set the alarm, or to play music. It keeps your mind at ease for once.
The light on your nightstand brightens up the space but keeps you tired, touching different parts of your room some shape or form, some objects getting little to no light. But there’s a jar that sits on your bookshelf, stuffed behind a bunch of books and trinkets, you just barley miss it. But it’s there. Light shimmers on the gold and silver objects that sit inside it.
It’s filled with jewelry you should be wearing before they start to rust, but it fills you with heartache, a little spite. It’s filled with things you used to wear, rings, a few bracelets, random scrunchies and rubber bands and a couple other things you got from him, a few things that you gifted him. You’d shoved everything in there last minute when you hauled ass out of that house. You took anything that could make him think about you. But you didn’t have the strength to go through it. Didn’t have the strength to let go either.
It was a memory now, stuck in time.
And you couldn’t ignore it, never. You give it a quick glance as you go about your day, or when you’re bored out your mind it’ll feel like the object is staring back at you. Just begging for you to look at what could’ve been.
But you don’t, because it’s at arms length, watching over you like some alter, and you give it a pained look as you shuffle over to your bed— maybe praying to the little thing, because truly, that’s the closest thing you’ll get to him.
And you were okay with that.
Because at least there, your John Price is something to you.
Even if it’s stuck on a shelf.
┈┈・୨ ✦ ୧・┈┈
“I didn’t take ye for one ‘f these kind’a places Captain.” Soap teased from his seat at the outdoor table.
They were at some bo-ho, “modern”, yet uptight cafe on a Saturday afternoon.
Did Price belong here? God, no.
Took him too long to decide what he wanted because there were too many options on the menu, the staff all looked to be in 21 or younger with customers who were 26 age or younger, and they were playing some generic indie music he thought was god awful.
The four of them stuck out like a sore thumb.
But he wasn’t exactly there for the tea that was just okay or the overprice the danish— he was staking out the place across the street.
A little stall outside a clothing shop, it sat there every Saturday. And you came there almost every weekend.
Sometimes just browsing, other times buying, and then sometimes donating, because it was a thrift type of stall.
It wasn’t like you disappeared off the face of the earth, you’re a civilian, if you wanted to hide from Captain John Price of the task force 141, the first step should have been to move to another country by car, with cash only, not 40 minutes away. But that’s like Usain Bolt giving you a five second head start. You’d still get caught sooner than later. It wasn’t hard to track you down, well, tracking people down was also apart of the job. You had a small one bedroom flat that John felt had you too cooped up, a job that overworked you no matter how “nice” people were there, and a small group of friends who seemed to have good intentions.
You were always smiling when they left or out and about with them, so they must’ve been doing something right.
The first time he laid eyes on you in person, he knew you were his.
So pretty, even dressed plainly, rolling your eyes at something your friend had showed you on their phone. Your curls in your eyes, but you keep surveying your surroundings, observant, quick to move your friend out the street when a car is coming. Or picking up a wallet someone dropped and quickly returning it to them.
Despite the tiny spec of uncertainty on your face about whatever was on your mind, you're upright. Headstrong.
Atta girl.
Just like he knew you could be. Knew you would be.
John brings the tea up to his lips again, eyes still trained on the stall, the passerbyers and the old chap handling the few customers surrounding his makeshift register, till you appear by one of the racks. Ever so beautiful in that off white long sleeve dress that went down to your ankles, the fabric clinging to every divine curve on you. Cute black clogs on and your hair done in two slicked down low buns, parts in a zig zag with little curly flyaways. His eyes soften at the sight of you, Gaz catches it first.
Mumbling a curse when he sets eyes on you, “Bloody hell—“
“How did you-“
“—Did you expect me not to figure it out sooner or later?” He takes a sip of the tea, unflinching.
Soap looks between Simon and Gaz, clearing his throat, “ ‘S not tha Captain. Just- just- we thought this would be for the best. Not tellin ye since loosin your memory is so much.” He stutters.
But it just sounds like an excuse. John looks to Simon, thinking he’d get another weary look on his face, but he has that irritated look in his eyes, he sits back in the chair, finger slowly tapping the table.
“She didn’t want you to know, John. That’s what it is.” He finally speaks. And that’s what knocks John down a peg or two. Simon continues, “[+]— the girl— all ‘f us only met a couple ‘f times. But this was the one thing she asked of us. Didn’t cry or ask a laundry list of questions about the incident, just held herself together best she could. Called your parents and then she said she’d take care of everything at the house. Make sure all your medical bills were straight. But Asked if we could keep her- the whole relationship— a secret. She didn’t want to be another burden to carry John.”
Gaz takes a deep breath, he grieved, “And if you’d seen that look on her face man- like life'd been sucked out of her face, you would've given her that too.”
The air is tense around the table.
You’d given it all up. Not like you wanted to, surely. It wasn’t just something John alone went though, it was a loss for you too. Something that would've pulled you apart if you'd stay or not. John figures, you leaving was you giving the older man a chance for him to move on from the incident as if nothing happened.
But everything happened.
Everything changed right before his eyes and John had to move past it like you idea of you hadn’t been stuck in his head.
But you ran through his mind, over and over, had the man praying for a life that he just wouldn’t be able to get back.
He let out a ragged laugh, humorless, rubbing at his beard, it was times like this he prayed it was all some sick joke. But it’s not, it’s reality and he has to try.
“I don’t remember everything from back then, it’s a given.” He swallows, finding you amongst the crowd of people once more. But he’s straightens in his seat and looks at the rest of the team around him, confident, “But there’s a few things I do. Clearly I’ve been given another chance. I dont— I won’t lose her a second time.”
It’s almost as if he’d never left, Price is still the old captain who’s dead set on getting exactly what he wants. No matter the cost.
“You should hurry up then,” Gaz nods over to you, “She might just get scooped up before you get a chance.”
And you’re there still, with some younger guy now, model-esc kind of guy following you through the few clothing racks. Smiling. You couldn’t have been so perfectly dolled up for the likes of some fuck boy, could you?
No, no you wouldn’t.
That's what John tells himself.
John grimaces at the sight, taking a swing of his tea, he gruffs, “Won’t last.”
“Maybe her interests have changed mate, yer not the same ‘young man’ from a couple years ago…” Soap snickers.
“Gotten old, naps between missions, got some weight on you now, think she’ll like it?” Simon teases.
“Oh fuck off the lot of you, Jesus.” He scowled, still looking over at you.
You’re smiling, more that happy with the few items you’ve gotten but your face twists as you look at the guy, confusion and disgust flying all over. You shake it off, buying the items you have. As soon as you finish, he avoids your attempt to spark up conversation again, walking ahead of you while taking some phone call. The least bit of care about you as you trail behind him.
That cunt.
“So what do you plan on doin? Gonna go after her now?” Gaz raises a brow.
“Just looking for a soft spot.”
And it’s there, not just the way the prick walks ahead of you like you’re a stranger, that's an easy opening, but you rub your shoulder in annoyance. And there, or your right wrist, sitting between a stack of gold bracelets, is a watch with a green strap with a white dial with a silver bezel— a watch John remembers was his.
There are just a few glimpses of it, nothing serious. It was on the nightstand, and he remembered putting it on, and it came up in a few pictures with the guys. A gift for him, that was in your possession.
Hanging around some young guy but a bit of him lingering on you.
You were practically begging for Price to come and take you back where you belong.
Right up under him.
┈┈・୨ ✦ ୧・┈┈
“I just wanna go home and take a fuckin nap—“
“Language baby,” he chides, but there’s no bite, wrapping his arm around you.
“Don’t- ugh! what’s the point ‘f doin this when we could be goin home!” You whine, throwing your weight against him. And he takes it with an ‘umph’ as always, pulling you closer.
“Gets your stomach ready for dinner, just take a moment and relax.”
You two were sitting on the bench a fair distance away from the movie theater you just exited. It was a movie you were dying to see, so Price made it a date. And then you’d go home and make dinner together with a little wine, maybe have Price fuck you right in the kitchen before you could even finish eating—
But you couldn’t wait to get home, eager thing, how adorable?
Right before you can whine again, Johns tapping your forehead, gently nudging it in the direction of the crowd of people that just got out the theater. They’re all different of course but they have a few facial expressions that are similar.
“What movie do you think they saw? couldnt’ve been good.” John says.
And it’s simple, really, you could just ignore it and press him again. But you always cave at his calmness.
“Cats, the movie’s shit.”
“You’ve seen it?”
“The trailer is enough to see that the movie's shit,” you giggle, you nod towards the couple of guys heading to their car, laughing their ass off. “What about them? What do you think they saw?”
And John thinks for a moment, eyes flicking to the large movie posters that hung then rests his head atop of yours, “John Wick 3 is good, I think.”
“Don’t tell me part of the reason you chose it is because of your name.”
“Oh come on lovie,” and now he’s laughing at his own corniness, “But truly I didn’t mean to. The first John Wick was good!”
“That poor puppy.”
“God that puppy didn’t deserve that.”
It’s a comfortable silence after that, one that’s got your heart thunking, a little more love blooming inside you. John’s kisses your cheek, getting up from the bench and stretching. And he gives you that stupid smirk with that perfectly trimmed beard, eyes gleaming—
“See? Hanging out with your old man isn’t so bad, is it kid?”
“Oh fuck off!”
Such a silly memory always led you to some movie theater.
Hanging on the hood of your own car, just casually watching people enter and leave, or from a near by bench. The moon was high in the sky, stars dancing while cars past. The cool autumn breeze was present tonight, just barely feeling it through the thick of the hoodie you had on.
A group of people leave out the theatre, faces either hipper or stone cold. A group walks down the block.
“What do you think they saw? Think they saw Forrest Gump. They’re replayin that, yeah?” And the voice is so warm, so familiar it sends a chill up your spine. But you keep your eyes on the ever moving people going in and out the theatre. Maybe your hallucinating what you just heard. Maybe it’s coincidence.
“Well,” you start, leaning back on the bench, stuffing your hands in the pockets of your oversized sweatshirt, “They’re replaying The Truman Show too, so maybe that, I guess. It’s pretty good movie, fuckin crazy in retrospect.”
“Never seen it.”
You shake your head, rolling your eyes, “You’re shitting.”
And he laughs inward softly, “ ‘M not! Who’s in it again?”
“Jim Carey! How could you not’ve seen-” And you turn, the end of your lips curved up, but the sight sitting directly next to makes your breath hitch. Makes you want to fall into a million pieces, “-The- the Truman Show.” You mumble.
It’s John Price there. Right in the flesh. He looks older, in that old bomber you wore once, And this has to be some sort of hideous trick of fate. A joke, someone up there’s laughing at you— hell, maybe you were in your own version of the Truman Show.
You needed to find the cameras and turn them off.
Your eyes look elsewhere, to the street, and then behind you— maybe he’s with someone. You’re willing to use all the strength you have left to divert this whole situation. Be stranger #6 and background character #2 like you told yourself you could be.
“Sorry,” you whisper, looking back at John. And it pains you, right to the core. You clear your throat, rambling, “Been yapping to you, and you’re with someone, right? I-I’ll be on my way.”
And just as you find the will to move your feet, John grabs your wrist, making you look back at him.
“No, I’ve come here looking for you, [+].”
And you want to snatch yourself away, run as far as you can, but you can’t. Something is making you stay, maybe grief of what you lost? What could’ve been is right here, sitting so close to you, with that glint in his blue eyes.
You let out a ragged breath, feeling the lump in your throat swell and your brown eyes glossing over, “Please, don’t do this Price. I really- I can’t do this Price."
You’d let him go. That was supposed to be it.
Be with him in another lifetime. You’d prayed and prayed and prayed for it. Maybe then you’d have the heart to hold onto him—
“I know I’ve made a mistake [+], forgetting you— bloody hell- Darlin, if I’d known that I would’ve gotten amnesia during that mission, I wouldn’t’ve taken it. But I can’t help what happened, and neither can you. I’ve forgotten things, and I’m not even sure if I’ve got enough memories from back then to count on two hands—“
You try to tug yourself away, because it’s too much, maybe it’s breaking your heart in two all over again, you can feel the tears wetting your face, but he pulls you into his big arms,
“But I still— I still love you [+]. More than anything, I know for certain that this feeling in me that’s been annoying me this whole time, for you, is love. And it has always been you that I felt was missing. I can’t stand being apart from you anymore sweetheart. Please [+], please!”
And your knees almost go weak, your clutching John’s arms. You want to squeeze your eyes shut, wake back to the reality you settled for, because it felt like a dream. John filling you to the brim with that feeling you’ve been yearning for, for two years.
“Been so alone, John.” You hiccup through your cries, it’s the only thing you can sputter out. No more strength to push him away.
“And I’m sorry about that [+].” He sucks in a weary breath, cupping your face in his hands and wiping your tears from your face.
“ I’m not sure if I’ll remember much from back then, but if I can’t remember, I still want to start over with you. Spend the rest of my life loving you. And I’ll be here every step of the way, ‘m not leavin you behind sweetheart.”
And your heart melts, a strangled noise comes from you, letting him capture your lips onto his and your body into his arms. His beard pricks your face, it’s a kiss mixed with emotion, hunger and desperateration, love and sadness. John presses your foreheads together, panting, squeezing your hand.
“Let’s go home.”
┈┈・୨ ✦ ୧・┈┈
You’d never seen John Price so desperate in your life. The drive home was a short one, maybe from him speeding like his life depended on it. His hand clutching your hand in his, kissing the back of it, then your knuckles and your wrist every chance he got.
You couldn’t even get through the door properly before you got yanked into his grasp, lips smashing into yours. Pulling whatever jackets you both had on, off. The front door finally shuts behind you, John so lost at the thought of you, breath growing more and more feverish the more he kisses you, he doesn’t know if he locked the door.
“Joh-“ you couldn't even get a word out, him slipping his tongue in your mouth, intertwining your tongues together until you were both breathless.
John grunts, hosting you up so your legs wrap around him, his hand holding you close, “[+], let me hold you.”
You stupidly nod, reattaching your lips as he takes you upstairs.
It doesn’t take long got the older man yo lift your naked body on top of him, pulling your bare chest against his hairy plush one. His large calloused hands have been all over you, taking his sweet time caressing and touching you. As if to remind himself and ingrain your very being in his brain. You can feel his growing hard cock hit your thigh. You shift, already reaching down to put it in, but John moved your hand away.
“Price mmm- please,” you beg, oh-so adorably.
“Gotta get you all wet sweetheart,” he says softly against your skin, sucking at it and creating little small hickies, “take it easy.”
He guides your hips, slowly rolling them against him, and he meets you. Rocking himself through your glistening folds and back, till you can hear how wet you’re making each other. You can’t help the little moans of frustration. It’s not enough, you want- no- you need more.
You whine, hazed brown eyes looking into his, hips bucking down on him when you feel his tip graze against your clit, “Ah- fuck- Need it Price-“
“What did Dad say?” His voice rumbles from his chest, deep, smooth, you shoot up, your own moans caught in your throat.
It’s electric, adding more fire to what’s already burning within you. Chills roll up your arms, and you feel John continue moving your hips with one hand, eyes low as he watches every twitch, every movement.
Part of him doesn’t know what’s come over him, truly, it’s completely different. But it rolls of the tongue like it’s instinct when he looks up at you, the way you bite your lip, face turning into one so obedient, longing— trying to contain yourself. The other half knows it’s a sweet spot for you. Like you need it, for him to come in and save the day.
Such a Daddy’s girl, despite being so independent. Or was it a façade—
His other hand dips down, pressing his thumb against your pulsing clit and rolling it around. “Such a needy little thing, hm? Always been like this?”
You can only moan in response, trying to hide your face with your hand over your mouth.
Just with you, just you, just you—
Your hand grips his shoulder, nails creating moons in his skin, you move your slutty hips faster at the friction, “Fuck lovie, look at you,” he sucks in a breath, gripping your hips tighter so you don’t fall on your back as you fall apart.
He flips you on your stomach, letting his fingers trail your back as he spreads your legs open just enough to get in between them. His fat, angry cockhead leaking pre, circles your sappy entrance.
He grits his teeth, “Gonna be a bit of a stretch honey, you’ll be good for Daddy ‘nd take it, yeah?”
He doesn’t even give you the time to respond, breaking you right in half as he slowly eased his massive girth inside you. Your mouth is left agape, clutching at the sheets, “S-so much, so muuuch Price!” And your voice goes up an octave.
Your hips wiggle, trying to adjust to only half of his thick, nine inches. Tears prick the corners of your brown eyes whilst he adjusts the arch of your back, “Eassy baby, breath out for me.”
You whine, face hitting the plush of the pillowcases, “Okayyy.”
And it’s just enough, with a swift motion, he rams it into you, your glutenous pussy taking every inch he’s got. He lets out a ragged sigh in relief, shuddering as your warm and dripping cunt encapsolizes him.
“Good girl darlin, so - hck- so fuckin good f’me.”
But he’s not stopping there, making sure his weight is properly onto, managing to get even deeper inside you, holding you close. You can’t help but let out a loud sob, the loud ‘clap’ of his hips meeting your ass with every slow pound of his cock.
“Missed you, shit dove, missed you so much.” He groans.
“I missed you- angh- much Daddy.” You so prettily moan.
His eyes flicker with mischief, leaving long kisses on your back as he breaths you in, he taunts, “Saw you- hah- saw you with that muppet not too long ago.”
If you were in your right mind, you’d ask, ‘how?’ But your brain has been turned into mush, only thinking of John, John, John, and the sweet feeling he’s giving your pussy. Every thrust rough but so painfully good as his dick kissed your sweet spots, doltish babbles leaving your two tone lips.
“I- nngh- I wasn’t- oooh fu- I couldn’t- with that guy—“
“I know pretty girl,” he hisses as you clamp around him, “But then I saw that green watch sitting right here,” his hands entertains with yours. Coming down and kissing your wrist.
“Why were you doing wearing my things while dating around?”
It was supposed to be a secret.
Your friend had dragged you onto a double date, and for once you finally gave yourself the leniency to try. Not just show up. But you just needed a little piece of him on you, for a little courage. John would want you to move on, is what you thought.
But he’s so thankful, thankful your head was so full of him that you couldn’t let go.
You’re too embarrassed, wanting to hide your face in the pillows, but John snakes a hand around yout throat, lifting your chin up with a squeeze as he keeps moving inside you, air barley getting to your brain, “let me hear you baby.”
You look back at him, his dilated pupils trained on, your pussy clamping down on him “Couldn’t stop thinkin ‘bout you- mmh- it’s always you Dad—“
And the words are like music to his ears, he mercilessly fucking you.
John isn’t stopping till you can’t walk tomorrow, with cum dripping out of your stuffed cunt and onto the bed. Sure to keep you in bed doing the exact same thing tomorrow.
You can see the sun peaking through, John has you both on your side, drilling his throbbing member into you once more. He peppers kisses all over you as your lashes flutter open, you let out a sweet mewl.
“You passed out on me kid, you alright?” He hums, brushing your curls back.
Your eyes roll to the back of your head as he licks around your ear, barely able to catch up. “Shit- ugh- feels so gooood Daddy, feels-“ you’re slurring your words.
Price’s cock manages to hike up further inside you, curved and slamming in you, his balls smacking against your sobbing cunt. You can’t help the shrieks that come out of you, your body molasses, your elastic walls barley able to let him go as he rolls his hips into yours.
John snakes a hand around you, groping your perfect tit in his hand, swirling a finger over your hardened areola and then tweaking your hardened nipple as your legs shake, “Fuckin made- fuck- just for me sweetheart. All I’ve ever needed.”
You don’t even know what’s come over you, mumbles of ‘cumming’ while you slap at his hands, it’s so much. Almost too much. But John tilts your head back, giving you a sloppy French kiss as you fall apart around him, your velvety walls clinging to him. He groans in your mouth, spilling every drop of his seed inside you.
“That’s my girl.”
a/n: ngl I hate this. It’s shit. But I needed it out my face cause I’ve overthink it too much. I wish I could get better at writing smut and dialogue and plot :/. Anywho, happy birthday to me and John (my libra twin🙂↕️)
Warnings: discrimination, violence, descriptions of illness and injuries, death and violence on the basis of discrimination, implied suicidal thoughts, brief mentions of torture
Summary: you never planned to reveal your identity to your team, however being trapped in a safe house with them for over a week may not allow you to keep your secrets hidden for much longer
A/N: this week of work has been awful so have not had any brain power to write for the most part, this chapter was a slog to get through so apologies if it's a bit shit
Series Masterlist | main masterlist
Part 1 | Previous Part | Next Part coming soon...
The so-called ‘week’ Price offered to you, turns out to be about 8 hours. You wake to alarms blaring loud enough that your brain rattles in your skull. The hallway is in chaos when you step out of your bedroom, hastily doing up your belt as you start to weave through the racing crowd. Through the thrum you can make out Ghost’s and Soap’s heads further down the corridor, bobbing through the hoard themselves. A few shoulders collide with your own sending sharp jolts down your arm but you pay them little mind, offering a clipped ‘sorry’ or ‘scuse me’ as an after thought just to avoid any grudges coming back to bite you later.
Once you step outside it is easier to gain some ground on your teammates now striding toward the armoury, the paths outside no less chaotic than the halls but the open space at least allows for people to navigate towards their stations with slightly more ease. You are only a few steps behind the lieutenant and sergeant as they push the door to the armoury open. Gaz and Price are already inside as you follow the two men through the doorway, strapping on gear with quick precision.
“Sitrep?” Soap breaches the question that had been swirling in your own mind, the man sparing a quick glance toward the captain before following suit in gearing up.
“Bomb threat inner city, chopper is getting ready for us as I speak,” Price barks out, tightening the straps on his tac vest, “we move out in ten. Will give a full briefing once we are in the air.”
You watch as your team moves almost in sync, bodies moving in a methodical autopilot that you would also typically fall into in a moment like this, instead you find yourself in a weird state of limbo. Does Price expect you to come along? Or are you supposed to remain on the base until a decision has been made. You aren’t even sure if the rest of the team wants you along considering you haven’t had a proper talk with anyone except Price. Asking is the easiest solution… however it also may make you look like an idiot. Hey cap, am I supposed to be doing my job this week or just having a paid week of introspective thoughts? Doesn’t exactly have a great ring to it.
Price’s eyes finally fall on you, still standing in the doorway, frozen in deliberation. His jaw tightens, gripping the front of his vest firmly, “I know I said you could have the week, but we need to move now. Are you with us or not?”
Are you with us or not? The words ring in your ears uncomfortably. There is still so much uncertainty you hold, unsure if you can find it in yourself to trust these people to truly have you back. But as much as you hold doubt, as you still question the path you should take moving forward, there is one thing you know for certain. You would never forgive yourself if something happened to the team while you stood on the sidelines. You offer one stiff nod, striding toward your gear hung on the wall, “I’m coming.”
A similar buzz sets in as soon as you start pulling on your vest, a thrum of adrenaline that begins to course through your veins. An invigoration as if you've been struck by lightning. A feeling you have come to crave, one you would struggle to ever be without. It didn't hit you until this moment, how hard it would have been to disappear all those days ago as you had promised. To leave all of this behind just to save your own skin. Hopefully you never come to that crossroads again.
It seems only minutes later that the five of you are striding through the perimeter that has been established around the building the bomb threat was targeting. One of the commanding officers is quick to meet you, gesturing for you all to follow his quick pace toward the entrance.
"The bomb has been located in the building's ventilation system, almost inaccessible. Bomb squad are trying to get a robot in but the space is looking too tight even for the smallest model we have available."
Price nods toward the surrounding buildings, multi level offices and apartments packed tightly together. "They all being cleared out?"
The man grimaces, "I've sent what officers we can spare, but it's a lot of people to move in not much time, if the explosive goes off…. Casualties would be astronomical."
"What do you need from us?" Price asks.
"A solution, and a quick one."
The man pushes the entrance door open, "second floor next to stairwell B, you'll see the vent that's been marked."
The captain nods, 'How long have we got?"
The man glances at his watch, jaw tightening, "26 minutes."
Price is moving before the man even finishes, the rest of you falling quickly in pace behind him. You pass the bomb squad on the way up the stairs, carrying what you presume is the unsuccessful robot back toward the exit, faces grim.
It doesn't take long to find the vent, bright orange cones circling it. The vent itself is small, definitely too small for any person to fit through. The captain is crouching down quickly, prying the cover upward so he can look down the metal duct.
"Can't see it, must be around the bend which is why they've struggled to get to it."
Gaz hums, tilting his head to the side, "can we use something to hook it out? I know the robot they tried is too big but surely we have a small rover that can go in and pull it closer."
"Too risky if we dinnae know how the bomb is made, the movement could set it off," Soap replies.
“Can we go through the wall? Dismantle parts of the vent system to get access?” Gaz asks, hitting his hand against the wall to assess its thickness.
Price shakes his head, “walls are solid concrete, getting through them won’t be quick.”
"What's on the other side? Can we try and access from the back end?"
The captain stands back upright, scratching at his jaw, "solid concrete again."
Soap huffs a breath through his nose, throwing one hand in the air, “so we’re out of options? Just like tha'?”
“Not quite.”
You try not to shift uncomfortably as four sets of eyes all land on you, keeping your voice steady as you nod toward the vent, “I’ll go in.”
Price's gaze flicks from you to the vent, brow furrowing as he stares at the metal opening. For a moment you think he may actually agree, until he shakes his head, voice firm as he turns back to you, “you are not trained in demolitions, trying to dismantle it through guess work will just set it off quicker.”
“So fit me with a body cam," you counter, squaring your shoulders, "I’ll take a radio in and Soap can step me through what to do.”
“You will have no way to communicate back, last I checked you can’t talk when shifted,” Price argues.
“Then Soap better be clear with his orders so I don’t have any questions," you say matter of factly, unwilling to back down. You know this is the best option, and by the look on the captain's face, he knows it too.
After a moment Price lets out a sigh, his chest deflating as he concedes, “... fine. But we’ll stay close to the vent, can at least hear you call out if there’s a problem.”
You shake your head, already unstrapping your vest and tossing it to the floor, “there’s no guarantee I can disarm the bomb, you all should be helping clear the area in case it does go off, at least get what people out you can.”
Gaz scoffs, shaking his head, “and leave you alone? Not happening.”
“Price,” you say firmly, eyes burning into his in sharp persuasion.
“... They're right, we’re needed elsewhere," he says, tone not pleased in the slightest, "Soap stay here and get them kitted up, once they’re in the vent get back to the command point and work with the demolitions team to talk them through what to do. Ghost, Gaz, with me, we have work to do.”
Price pats your shoulder firmly as he steps past you, his silent notion of good luck.
Gaz looks at you in displeasure, his nose twitching once as he is clearly unhappy with the plan but knowing better than to waste more time arguing. He mumbles a soft "see you in a bit yeah?" as he steps past, forcing a brief smile that lacks its usual warmth.
Ghost nudges your arm lightly, not quite meeting your eyeline as he grunts out, "stay in one piece."
And just like that the three of them are gone, rushing down the hall with their own objectives to complete. There is no time for you to mull over the reality of your situation with a genuine ticking timebomb only a few metres from you, so you focus on making quick work of unstrapping your gear and preparing yourself to shift.
"Once I am shifted strap the body cam to my chest. You can use one of my thigh holsters as a makeshift collar if you cut away one of the straps," you instruct Soap as you unlace your boots, kicking them from your feet, "I'll have to carry the radio in my mouth and won't be able to adjust the settings once I am in their so make sure the volume is set high enough I can hear it and lock it onto the right channel so I can't accidentally bump it to a different frequency."
The sergeant nods, grabbing one of the holsters you had tossed to the floor and using his knife to cut through the stitching.
"Could you turn around please," you ask, waiting for him to do so before taking a breath and letting the shift start to sink in. It's probably a silly request in a situation like this, but the thought of someone watching you shift still has your skin crawling in discomfort. There's a small part of your brain that reasons the fact you can still claim deniability of your status if no one ever directly sees you shift. That at the end of the day you could still argue the evidence to indicate your affliction is circumstantial at best.
After a moment to steady yourself, you let out a soft bark to let Soap know he can look, tail drooped low in discomfort. You know he's seen you before like this, the whole team has, but it doesn't make it any easier. To his credit Soap does try his best not to stare, instead focused on attaching the body cam to your chest. The moment he tightens the strap you have to fight the instinct to bite him. The sensation is unsettling, how the hell dogs and cats live their lives in a collar is beyond you.
Soap fiddles with the device for a few moments until he is satisfied, reaching for your radio that is now laying to the side along with your other gear.
"Here," he holds it out for you, allowing you to grab it carefully within your jaw. It's not too heavy but the shape is awkward to get your teeth around, and you know for a fact it has been covered with various fluids and filth over the past months which makes it all the more unpleasant to have in your mouth.
Once you have it firmly held, Soap moves toward the grate leading into the duct, undoing the small latches and holding it upward out of your way. You trot inside, minding not to hit the antenna of the radio on the way through. You barely get a few feet before you hear a soft voice.
"Hey," Soap's voice echoes in the duct.
You pause, turning back toward him, ears pecked up. He holds the hatch open still, looking through the small tunnel with a tense expression.
"My shout at the pub tonight, ya' better be there," he says firmly.
You offer a small way of your tail in acknowledgement before continuing forward, following the curve of the metal tubes. Your nails click lightly against the cool steel, echoing through the duct. It's a comforting sound, for a moment you can almost pretend you aren't alone down there, that you aren't facing this daunting task with little more than a voice on the other end of a radio.
It doesn't take you long to find it, the smell of explosives acidic in your nose the closer you get. The same scent that lingers on Soap after a lot of missions. Explosives aren't a new sight, having watched your team mate dismantle or set up quite a few over your time in the 141. However, seeing it this close, knowing it is now your job to deactivate it, has your stomach flipping on itself like a pancake.
A mess of wires and tape that you can't decipher in the slightest, like a whole other language you aren't versed in. The radio in your mouth is still silent, yet to have confirmation the Soap can access the body cam and start walking you through the next steps. So for now you'll wait, setting down the radio beside you, sitting in anticipation for what is to come.
Ghost desperately needs to fuck his client. (You) Pt. 5
tags | plug! Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x reader, smut, morning sex, somno for a bit I suppose, vaginal sex, heavy petting, not edited, my current brain worm
prev | plug! Simon masterlist | ao3
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It probably doesn’t mean anything that Simon has all your favorite cravings memorized at this point. Definitely doesn’t mean anything that he keeps them stocked in his cabinet and fridge just in case you make an appearance.
That’s just what good friends do, don’t they?
Though, it may mean something when you message him, and he drops everything.
‘Come over?’
‘What you need me to bring, pretty?’
‘Just you.’
‘Oh.’
He pauses before continuing.
‘Okay.’
You greet him in these ridiculous pink pajama shorts, bunnies doodled on the material. An equally ridiculously shy smile worn on your lips and cancelling all his plans for the day just for you was suddenly worth it.
It doesn’t mean anything when you’ve got those peach rings he likes on the coffee table waiting for him because you saw them at the store and thought of him. He doesn’t even like them all that much, he tells himself that, they get stuck in his teeth anyway.
“You didn’t wanna smoke?” He asks when you sit down on the couch by him.
“Nah, you can if you want.” You shrug.
“I’m good.”
You turn to him, a smirk on your face, “Do I gotta smoke with you to see you?”
His eyes meet yours, “Don’t gotta have a reason to see me.”
He watches you gulp, smirk falling, trying your best to hide the way you fluster behind a shaking smile.
“You wanna watch anything?” You ask.
“Put that show on you like,” He suggests, “New episodes come out today, no?”
“How do you know that?” You look at him incredulously.
“Because I listen to you?” He chuckles, raising his brows at you.
“Right.” You whisper, turning back to the TV.
“Mind telling me what happened last episode, though?” His warm palm finds your thigh on instinct.
You tell him animatedly, using your hands to emphasize your words, tone changing when you talk about a particular character you don’t like. He keeps his eyes on you the entire time, thumb rubbing idle circles into the skin of your thigh, a stupid smile curling at the edges of his lips that he should probably try to hide.
You’re curled into his side by the end of the episode, big arm coiled around your back, fingers at your hip, your head resting on his shoulder. You smell so good, some fruity scent that he only recognizes as yours with each inhale. If he were a weaker man he would’ve buried his nose into your head and smelled, but he doesn’t.
Not even when you fall asleep against him halfway through a movie you put on. He carries you to your bed then, tucking you into your flowery sheets, brushing his thumb over your cheek, once, twice, before standing. Your fingers grasp his palm and he freezes.
“You’re not gonna stay?” You whisper, half asleep.
He stays.
You curl into his chest when he joins you, tucking your head under his chin, and he holds you close. He hardly gets any sleep because his mind races all night.
When morning comes, you’ve shifted so that he spoons you. He wakes before you and he can’t remember when you took off your shorts because he swore you had them on before he tucked you into bed, but his hand only finds your underwear when he traces your hip.
He’s still half asleep, and the little cocoon the two of you have made is so fucking warm and soft and it makes everything in his mind a little hazy. Especially when you’re pressed against him so close, smaller frame rising with each breath, and all he can feel is you, all he can smell is you.
It all goes straight to his cock and he has to tilt his hips back so you don’t wake up to something hard pressed against the curve of your ass.
He presses his forehead to your back, just to get a look, he promises it’ll just be a peek. He pulls your shirt over your hips slowly as to not wake you. They’re nothing fancy, nothing inherently sexy about them, just pink cotton, but he has to pinch the edges of his lips with his teeth to stop from groaning in appreciation.
It’s all quite domestic, you opting to sleep in comfy underwear instead of a little thong for him. It makes his cock twitch. Still, his hand reaches out, finger tucking under the band of the material and running it down until it meets the warmth of your core. He pulls away before he can touch it, just really wanted to appreciate the fat of your ass.
He’s not entirely sure why he slots his hips flush against your ass when he pulled away to not wake you in the first place. Not entirely sure why his lips press to the soft spot behind your ear or why he rolls his hips.
Just once.
You shift in your sleep and he can already feel your body start to wake, but it doesn’t stop the way his big palm slides over your hip and up your stomach. His clothed cock presses between your thighs, tip just brushing against the searing warmth of your cunt and he curses under his breath.
That wakes you then, and he should feel ashamed, embarrassed that he’s feeling you up in your sleep, but he just becomes bolder when your pretty lashes flutter open. His teeth graze the flesh of your neck, cupping your breast, and the first word you utter is his name all breathless and he swears he could get used to that.
“Yeah, baby.” His lips drag against your skin, “‘s just me.”
Your fingers immediately curl around his wrist under your shirt, hips rolling lazily to meet his in the middle, and he groans into your neck. You’ve got to be the most perfect thing he’s ever touched.
He pushes his sweats down so that all that separates the two of you is the thin material of his boxers and your cotton panties. Now he can really feel you, feel the wet patch at the center of your cunt.
He grinds against you, humping you like some dog, but you feel too good to stop. Thumb at your nipple brushing against the pert bead, sloppy kisses etched into your shoulder and neck. The bulb of his tip mashes against your clit with each slow drag of his hips and your breaths sound shallower and shallower each time.
He doesn’t stop until your panties are soaked through, staining his boxers with your arousal. Until you take a shaky breath every time he rolls your nipples between his fingers, thighs tightening with each slow stroke.
He has to peel your underwear to the side since they’ve molded to the shape of your pussy and your fingers tangle in the sheets when his cock grazes your bare pussy. He slips right in from how wet you are and you gasp, cunt clenching tight from shock.
Fuck.
You’re so fucking warm his eyes roll, forehead falling against your shoulder, hand moving to your hip to dimple hard into the flesh at your hip. You whine, maybe because his grip hurts the tender skin, maybe because his head presses right at your cervix and it’s too much from a first thrust.
He stays there, doesn’t move, just revels in the feeling of being buried in your cunt. There’s no rush, no urgency to fuck you with jealousy heavy in his chest or the realization of emotions when he’s got you here like this. When he woke up in your bed and you asked him to stay sober.
His fingers loosen, sliding lower so he can find your clit in apology. Slow, calculated circles that make you clench each time he comes back around.
“Feel good, yeah?”
You nod enthusiastically against the pillow, “Yeah, Si. So good.”
Your voice is already wrecked and he can’t help but smile into your neck. It’s not like he needed you to say it, he could tell it felt good from the way you’ve loosened significantly around him, just content to be split in two by his girth as long as he plays with your clit.
He rolls his hips once, still buried inside you, and you make a broken little sound that goes straight to his chest. He times each roll with the ministrations of his fingers and you’ve got this pretty little tinge to your brows, sweet pants spilling from the lips he’s realized he hasn’t even kissed once this morning.
You turn your neck as if on cue, like you thought the same, and the look you give him is enough to make a grown man fold. He kisses the corner of your lips first, two soft little pecks that seem to tip you over the edge. Heat in your belly snapping in two because you’ve got your fucking plug pressing the softest kisses against your lips.
“There you go, baby.”
He smiles into your mouth the whole time your arch, thighs shaking as he works you through the orgasm because he hasn’t even fucked you properly yet and you’ve already come down for him.
He doesn’t let you ride it out for too long, his hips start to move right as you start to come down, and it notches you right back to reality. It’s the first time he slides out of your cunt for the whole morning and he immediately misses the warmth.
He turns you then, so you face him, hooking your leg over his hip, and slides back in. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, pressing your forehead against his. One hand holds you at your back, the other tucks under your knee to keep it in place, steadying you just before he thrusts into you.
You melt right into him with the pace he sets, real slow rolls of his hips that earn him a quiet noise each time he drags his length against the soft spot just a few inches deep. Your nose bumps his every time he thrusts up, so close your lashes almost touch, warm breath brushing his face when you whine out.
“Fucking missed her.” He drawls.
It’s lazy, sluggish drags between your drowsy eyes and morning breath. And everything about you is so fucking soft, even when your hand curls behind his neck and your nails dig harshly into his skin. Your leg hooks around him tighter, heel of your foot digging into the edge of his spine.
It draws him closer, breast pressed to his chest, and you kiss him, all messy and sleep drunk. It unravels him, hips stuttering and pace faltering as he finishes inside you, loud groan filling the space between you two.
“Good morning,” You giggle after a few moments of panting and shaking breaths.
Everything’s perfect after that. Everything should be perfect after that, but you’re panicking to your friends later that evening, pacing in front of your couch as they stare at you with wide eyes.
“You’ve been fucking Ghost?” One asks.
“That’s not the point!” You shriek, “He—He came over and we cuddled on the couch and then he spent the night! Which is fine, but then we woke up and had sex!”
“What’s wrong with that?” The other interjects.
“It wasn’t just sex! You don’t have morning sex with friends!” You move your hands exaggeratedly, “And it was all soft and slow and lazy!”
“So, you’re freaking out because you made love with your drug dealer?” One says, and the other bursts out laughing.
“Shut up!”
“Well, do you like him?” They ask in unison.
You pause because you’re not entirely sure you know the answer.
Simon Riley who’s been in a coma for the past 3 months but he does know your voice like the back of his hand.
It was a swift incident that lead him in the hospital, a sure accident from one of the men under him that Simon had to take care of, that lead him getting flown to the nearest country over. His conscious wasn’t fully awake but you, oh you and that honey sweet voice of yours, came to help him. A nurse, just working your night shift. Something about coma patients needing stimulation, be it working his muscles, or just hearing someone’s voice. You weren’t all that confident about this shit, you told him letting out an exasperated laugh, “I’ll try my best though. Maybe it’ll be good for the both ‘f us, yeah honey?”
You were always telling him the latest gossip at the nurses station downstairs, that someone was fucking the doctors husband. Or that Regina McKnight, tall with the pole on the side of her lip, was having a fifth kid, her fifth! And you just couldn’t believe it when her husband came for a vasectomy not too long ago. Or you’re talking about the things you like, the music you’ve been into, even played him a couple songs. How life in your twenties isn’t what you expected it to be. It’s all confusing and you don’t know if it’ll get any less confusing, but you’re living it out. You’ll go on about how the weather is starting to chance, the snow is melting, bare trees slowly starting to grow green leaves, that the flowers are starting to sprout. That you can’t wait till all the pretty flowers are there instead of the cloudy and dreary weather.
Oh! There a plant you’d brought from home compliments the cards he’s gotten from his teammates. You’d made the little pot yourself— well it was a mug but it’s cute, a maroon and soft turquoise around the edges. Absolutely sure Simon would like to see it when he woke up.
When Simon Riley wakes up, you’re in the chair next to him humming some jazz song, coloring in some page with the crayons that were at the bedside table. And, bloody hell, you’re a sight for sore eyes. Very literally. Curls into two buns, with stray curls in the front of your face, the soft but warm hue of the light on your skin, long lashes fluttering everytime you blink, in your almond green scrubs, chipped nail polish. You inspect the page, turning it to him for him to see, a skull with flowers around it. A sign— “I’m thinking blue for some of these, what’d’you think?”
And you shoot up when you catch his eyes on you, whiskey brown, and the ends of his eyes crinkling. Practically laughing at you as you panic and mumble curse up a storm, pushing the emergency button for a doctor and head nurse to come assist you. It’s you, it’s you, it’s you.
The brute of a man can’t help but blush red when you interact with him now, heart rate spiking on the monitor. It makes you huff, because it only happens when you’re there, “If I run ‘nd show someone else they’ll say I’m fibbing, but what if somethings actually wrong with your heart? Atleast be consistent with me man.” You’re what’s wrong with his heart. You’ve started averting your eyes in embarrassment for all the things you must’ve said. You pray he didn’t really listen to you blabbing on and on.
He catches you one day, after the long days of speech and physical therapy, 3 am check in. The tv’s playing low, and you’re just checking his chart, “How are you today Mr. Riley? Feelin alright? Know it’s late.”
He contemplates your words for a moment, “Still… still listenin t’ The Smiths?”
You bite back a smile but heat radiates under your cheeks, nodding, “Uh- yeah, yeah. Them ‘nd the Foo Fighters.” You rock on your heels of your feet.
“And… m, ‘SZA’, is it? ‘Men I Trust’—“
“—Oh my god, I’m talkin too much!” You interject, smack your hand over your face, giggling. “I’m sorry, fuck- I mean not ‘fuck’- but- darn!”
And you’ve managed to pull a chuckles right from his gut, “‘s alright, ‘ve heard worse.”
You wince, “but I’ve just gone ‘nd on and on in here. Should’ve stopped me.” You joke.
“I wouldn’t’ve. Even now, I wouldn’t. You’ve been…absolutely perfect to me love.” And it’s such a shift in energy, his words shooting right though you like cupids arrow hitting its target. Your lips part slightly sucking in a breath as you almost get lost in his eyes, his handsomely scared face. Muscles in his gown.
Before you retreat out of the room to collect yourself, he catches you, “Mind helpin me out with a favor?”
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
“I hear smoking helps warm people up.”
“Honestly, I shouldn’t even have you out here. You’re still recovering Mr.Riley!”
“This’ll ‘elp me doll, trust me.”
Simon managed to get you to take him to the hospital courtyard. It’s where a lot of the patients or workers take a smoke break, others to take a breath of fresh air or to mourn the loss of a loved one. The older bastard can’t help himself, when’s the last time he had a good cigarette? And you’re his good little nurse. Headstrong but caring. Especially for him. Every second with you he can’t get enough.
Even when you had your eyebrows knitted together and pouting, helping him into the wheelchair after snagging the pack he liked the most from the corner store a block away.
Your hands are stuffed in your coat pocket, bouncing slightly trying your best to warm yourself up. Simons used to it, even if he hasn’t been in the best shape, how many nights had he been in the middle of now here during a winter storm, his skin has grown thick. Bruised and shot up, but there— alive.
You’re different. Slightly calloused hands from the job, but being outside in the cold, it’s just not your forte.
“If you come ‘ere, I can help warm y’ up y’know.” Simon suggests. It’s the ever shimmer of mischief in your eye, one that you’ve seen countless times with patients, but it’s different— tender, tantalizing. One that’s got goosebumps shooting up your arms.
You bite the inside of your lip, watching him bring the nicotine to his lips once more, “How so?”
“In my lap of course.” Simon snickers, watching the way you groan in annoyance. Eyes rolling.
You lick your lips, watching your breath create fog in the air and mix with the smoke Simon is blowing out, “I can’t do that, you’re a patient of this hospital.”
“And when ‘m not a patient?”
Youre eyes wander for a moment, to the street as cars pass, the other end of the hospital building, feet moving on their own just until you’re right in front of the military man. Your knees knocking against his. “Then maybe.”
And god you’re gorgeous, to the point he almost drops his cigarette, looking up at you like you’re some goddess from heaven in the moon and street lights. That doe look in your pretty brown eyes.
He lets out another laugh, exhaling, “You’re a bloody good teaser aren’t you.”
“How am I teasing?”
And the small smoke break gets him your number, you telling him only to call once he’s been discharged, drawing any word he can before you have to finish your rounds. More than mystified with the thought of you.
Had to get his little nurse into his life.
a/n: shite end I’m sorry. Was gonna make this into two parts but just pushed them into one.
i’ve just had a thought and i believe it is a good one.
major major cw: drugs, alcohol, sa, abuse, very poor mental health, hurt/comfort, angst, smut (kind of), afab sort of feminine reader.
the cw’s might not all be in this part, but will definitely be in the second, please let me know if you want me to add another cw.
please don’t read this if you are currently in a bad headspace, reach out to someone. youre loved.
It all started when Simon was at the bar with Soap. Just sitting there at the bar, having a few drinks, talking, having a nice time. a couple walks in, seems to be on a date. Neither Johnny nor Simon pay much attention to them, they are just a side conversation that you can sort of hear. The lady excuses herself to the loo, the man ‘adjusts’ her drink. Johnny spots it, bless him. he points it out to Simon.
By the time they come up with a plan to beat the douche’s ass, you had already taken a sip of that drink. Johnny indulges in conversation with the two of you. Seeming friendly, the couple talks back. It isn’t until your body starts feeling weird that the man says he should take you home.
Johnny grabs his wrist, glaring him down with those stunning eyes. Ghost approaches you, who’s acting like a drunk. You stumble up, he supports you. “w..where’s he go..in’?” you manage to slur out, pointing to your date. “he’ll be back, let’s get you to the car yeah?” he responds gruffly, guiding you out.
As you get seated in the back of Soap’s truck, Soap is out the back with the idiot. He punches him, slamming him against the wall. The man tries to defend himself before getting the wind knocked out of him. “druggin’ a poor lassie? pathetic arsehole” Soap mocks, adding some scottish swears not the finest translator could understand. After a few more bruises and cuts, Johnny spits on him and walks out to the front where he see’s Simon buckling you in.
“She’s alright?” Soap asks, in which Ghost nods. “we takin’ ‘er back to the loft or hotel, or try ta find ‘er home?” Simon asks, hopping in the front. “Loft, i say. she migh’ go bollocks when she sobers though” Soap decides, getting in the passenger seat.
The drive is silent, you’re passed out in the back, drooling a bit, the boys are both deep in thought.
When they reach the complex, Ghost carries you to their shared place. A rather plain area, they both don’t spend much time there. He lays you down on the closest bed,taking off your shoes and tucking you in while Soap watches.
They both fall asleep not long after on the couch.
there will be a part 2 soon trust. also half of this was being translated and half of this was written itself in english, so have mercy.
something something simon coming home late at night and earlier than expected from a deployment and waking you up. all you hear is the sound of heavy boots and grunts of a man. so you grab the gun simon keeps in the safe in your room. you try your best to remember everything he told you.
check your corners first. walk soft but steady. keep the gun up. but when you finally get to the source of sound, there’s no one there. you sigh and drop your hands to side. you turn around, about to walk back to your room when you see simon leaning against the wall.
you scream and jump backwards before realizing it’s him.
“FUCK SIMON!” you bring your non gun holding hand to chest and take a deep breath. he just laughs and starts walking towards you.
“if i was a killer, you’d be dead dove.” he takes the gun from your hands, his other hand grabbing your chin and tilting it up. you finally get a good look at him. his brown eyes filled with love, though he’s smirking like the bastard he is.
“ugh simon you scared me!”
“we’ll have to work on that, lovie.” he leans down and kisses you soft. one peck. another. one more. then he drops the gun on the table, grabbing your face and kissing you properly.
“some other time though, hmm?” his voice rumbling low against your chest. you only nod, dazed in a way only his kisses make you.
he just chuckles before kissing you again, lifting you up and walking back to the bedroom.
roommate!simon riley who keeps to himself usually, gone for months on end. he pays his rent, keeps his space tidy, and cooks for you when you get hungry. you talk to him on occasion, his words always sweet and tone always loving. he doesn't bother you ever.
except late at night, when he needs you to milk his cock.
it started late at night, when he heard your desperate whimpers and moans, his name hitting his straining ears through the wall. and now whenever you get needy, you send him a little text and within minutes, he's in your room.
you bounce on him feverishly, wet plaps filling the room— almost louder than your moans. heavy hands dig into the plump flesh of your hips as simon guides your movements. the headboard of your ridiculously small bed, how simon fits on it you're not sure, rattles against the wall but you're too fucked out to care.
"simon, simon, simon!" is all that's heard from you, his tip hitting that spongey spot deep in you.
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