You’re called in to photograph the 141 squad and you flirt your way through each and every one of them. Flirty tension.
John Price x female reader // NSFW // MDNI
A Helping Hand
Captain Price uses his deft fingers to help you take out your menstrual cup. Lots of teasing, fluff and tension.
In Another Life
Your flatmate is dating Soap and he’s everything you want. And then you meet his Captain. Full of angst, hurt and no comfort.
Model Behaviour
Your neighbour Captain Price is looking for a hobby, you suggest an art class. Little does he know you’re the nude model. Fluffy and romantic.
Panties and Parties
Captain Price makes you jealous. You make him pay by only letting him watch. Smutty and indulgent.
Dust to Dust
Your job is coordinating equipment and weaponry for the 141. You receive an order from Price that you know is for a man who isn’t coming back from the fight. Fluff, hurt and some smut, a drabble.
Yours Truly, A Hostage - part 1
Inspired by the Piccadilly mission cutscene, Captain Price saves you. Flirty and vulnerable.
Yours Truly, A Hostage - part 2
After rescuing you, the Captain takes you up on your invite. Naturally you make tea, scones and sexual tension. Smut and fluff.
Red Dead Redemption 2 // Coming soon
Arthur Morgan x female reader // NSFW // MDNI
The Cowboy and the Bellydancer
“You sure you got all your ribs, miss?” Arthur laughs.
C/W: MDNI, sex, smut, descriptions of male and female bodies, mentions of monthly cycle.
You were Nikolai’s First Officer, but he didn’t find you, Price did. Price saw your small planes pilots license and questionable history and took you in.
Price’s eyes roved during briefings, he condidered you both an asset to the team and a distraction. He also saw how well you and Nikolai worked together, like a well oiled machine.
But it was Price’s lips that found yours in Nikolai’s plane’s galley. He was loaded with his gear so you were pushed between him and the wall, his gloves hand grasping the back of your neck. Your hands found gaps where he wasn’t covered with gear; his biceps. You were enveloped by his scent and touch.
“I need you now.” Price insisted in a low tone, caressing your exposed hip.
“I know a place,” you breathed into his mouth as his gloved hand slipped past in your waistband.
“You’re both still on radio.” Nik’s voice rumbled knowingly into both your ears. A jolt of arousal went through you with the thought of Nik palming his erection through his trousers in response to the sounds you two were making. Price wouldn’t admit it but that same thought pulsed through him too. Price responded with a “sorry mate” and pulled the cable out of both of your radios.
You both bumped through the tight corridor and in to your tiny cabin, frantically taking off his fatigues and your flight suit.
—
Price trusted Nikolai with you but he did falter when he saw how you both got on. Neither of you labelled the relationship; Price’s work was his life and his life was on line frequently, so this was the set up on base.
You flew with Nikolai on missions with Price but it also meant a lot of waiting on stand by. Sexual frustration and limerence began to form.
Nik’s eyes would linger on yours over breakfast with both of you freshly showered, smelly florally and looking dewy with suggestively wet hair.
You sweating in your flight suit while removing the wheel blocks made Nikolai turgid. You’d huff and puff as you entered the cockpit, cleavage shining with sweat, hair plastered to your forehead.
You enjoyed the late night chats on the wing, they were almost romantic. Nikolai would regale you with his mother’s fables, you would tell him about your life.
You enjoyed him teasing you and teaching you phrases in his language.
“You keep teaching me swear words! What if I meet a handsome man and want to charm him?” You bark at him.
“Those words will work.” He would wink back, your core pulsing between your legs.
One particular day, there were incorrect readings on the flight instruments and a host of other mechanical issues. You and Nikolai both stalked through the plane grumpily trying to fix the myriad of issues.
You kept getting in each others way and sorry turned to excuse you which turned to fuck sakes to go fuck your self. To which you did, plunging your battery-dead vibrator into yourself furiously at the thought of Nik capably using a huge spanner to undo bolts the size of his fist. His tattooed forearms rippled with muscle. You thought of those rough hands holding your supple thighs to your chest while being mercilessly split apart on his cock. You imagine his thrusts being hard and fast, the toy isn’t nearly thick enough. You come hard but the itch still wasn’t scratched.
Without knowing, Nikolai was fisting his cock languidly at the imagined thought of you riding him and baring your tits to his hungry mouth.
Nik erupted onto his thatched chest, groaning in his mother tongue as rope after rope landed on him. He lay there for a while, letting his brain unfurl from the mental images of different positions he would put you in.
—
“Good of you to join us,” Nikolai says, not unkindly, holding onto his coffee.
“I’m not even late.” You snap back.
“I was not being sarcastic, y/n.”
You shoot him an apologetic look and tell him “I didn’t sleep so well.”
“Warm milk helps you sleep.” He says plainly.
“Is that what you do?” You chuckle.
“Not exactly.”
Soon, you complete the pre flight checks and are up in the air. You find yourself starting at his hands and arms before last night; rugged, scarred, big on the delicate dials, it was doing something to you. It made you think of his fingers finding your nipples and you let that fester until you were alone in your cabin, furiously rubbing your clit until you collapsed onto your back, panting as quietly as you could.
Later, you call Price.
“You called to ask permission?” Price rumbled over the satellite phone. “Is my doll having feelings for big ol’ Nik?” You ignore the throb in your clit and answer him.
Later, Nikolai answers Price’s call.
“Alright Nik?” Price says, “keep y/n primed for me, yeh?”
“Price?” Nikolai pauses.
“Good friends share.” Price ends the call.
Not long after he heard the call go dead, Nikolai stalked through the plane with intention, heavy foot steps on metal gang ways. He finds you in a galley. You don’t have to tell him you spoke to Price earlier because Nikolai looks famished. His eyes flick from your eyes to your mouth and before you know it, you’re in his arms, legs wrapped around his waist, groaning into his kiss.
Moments later, Nik may have been leaning over you, braced against the wall with his hands white knuckled, but he was at your mercy. Your mouth was hot and wet on his cock and you noisily bobbed back and forth, trying to get as much of his veined length into your throat. His cock was thicker and veinier than you imagined, you knew it was going to fill you up and then some. He began pumping his hips into your mouth, you felt the edges of your lips burning with the stretch.
He hummed in submission, you didn’t think it was possible for him to make a sound so soft and needy. You felt the girth as your jaw ached but you slipped your fingers to your clit, Nik felt and heard your moan.
“You must stop,” Nik pleads, “I want to finish inside you.” He abruptly stops, shame crept up to him, he had considered himself a selfless lover until now. He mentally slaps himself for moving so quickly, he had no idea if you wanted that, if you were on birth control, or if you even wanted to go all the way.
“We do as much as you want.” He looks straight down at where his body lewdly intersected with yours, your eyelashes are dewy and your eyes fucked out before any penetration.
You see the concern in his eyes, so you slowly take his cock out of your mouth, raise yourself up with your palms running along his burly stomach and chest. You find his worry endearing, you knew he was a big softie at heart. You tug at his hand and pull him into his cabin. It smells thick with his cologne and you feel like you’re breathing in liquid.
You sit Nik down in the edge of the bunk, his massive frame takes up most of the room. You strip off and climb onto his warm lap, find his cock and pump it a few times before running it along your sopping folks.
His hand clasps your face and he pulls you in for a kiss. You line up his cock with your hole and lower yourself.
Nik groans into your mouth and you moan into his.
“Come inside me Nik,” you whisper, plunging down onto his cock.
“Fuck.” Nikolai grits out, his huge hands on your hips pull you up and then slam you down.
But then with a little effort and a crooked smile, Nik hoists you up and your head touches the ceiling.
“Allow me,” he smirks, he turns and gently lowers you onto the mattress and lifts your legs onto his wide shoulders. With one thrust, he plunges into you and your world becomes motion.
“Fuck, don’t stop,” you moan desperately. Nik continues the deep plunges, his cock kissing your G spot. You grasp his shoulders to steady yourself from the endless movement. You should never have doubted his stamina, he lumbers around like a bear but he moves viciously.
You cum hard and soak both your groins, you have no energy to comment (you weren’t about to apologise) and Nikolai beats you too it, praising you in another language with such reverence that you blush. Nik holds you through your orgasms and only puts you down after a few minutes of rocking back and forth.
Later you lie in your tiny bunk, folded together in a new intimacy, Nikolai runs hot and you’re embraced by his giant bicep and fuzzy chest.
“You called him.” Nikolai says, less as a question and more as a statement.
“And I take it he called you too,” you pout only slightly defensively.
“You make me curious.” Nikolai lifts his head to look at you. You soften at that.
__
The new arrangement suited you, Nikolai and Price even knew your monthly cycle, making sure to only gently tease your buds when they were sensitive.
One time, Price only said “I’m on channel 3.”
The rest of the squads were under shade in the hangar while Nikolai was frantically rutting into you on the plane, muttering how tight you felt.
To anyone else, it would have looked like Price was going through schematics for their next mission, fingers spread over a map, he had studied them more than enough. But only Price could hear the wet skin, clunking walls and both of your groans and grunts.
Your ear piece almost fell out as Nikolai pistoned into you as you faced the instrument panel in the cockpit, back arched deliciously so he hit the spots you needed to make the noises Price wanted.
“Where?” Nikolai’s guttural groan rang through the cockpit and down the radio.
“Wherever our princess wants.“ Price’s voice terse with unmet need. You can imagine his usually cool eyes darkening.
“Oh god, on my tits” you manage to breathe out after your orgasm swept through you.
Nik pulled his leaking cock out of you and you collapsed onto your haunches, you only noticed the emptiness in your core for a moment and then you found yourself holding onto his large hairy thighs as he covered your breasts in white hot streaks. Your cunt fluttered. Nikolai moaned and you gasped at the sensation of his cum falling between the valley of your cleavage.
The comms are silent for a while until Price quietly commanded, “send a pic, out.”
Nikolai waits for you to nod and instead you give him a fucked-out smile and push your tits together, squeezing the cum to form as a pile in the valley of your cleavage. Nik whistles and takes a picture on his phone, making sure to crop out your face. He runs a finger down your cheek and gets you up off the floor, your legs too gooey to walk back to your cabin. He carries you back, humming a tune as he goes.
“Lucky.” You mumble, half asleep in his arms.
“What’s that?”
“I’m lucky.” You smile up at him.
“I’m the lucky one,” he squeezes you tighter.
“Oi.” Price chimes into your ear.
“We are the lucky ones.” Nik chuckles heartily, you feel it reverberate through his chest.
He gently puts you down in his bunk and leaves the small room. When he comes back with tissue, you’re already asleep, his heart skips when he softly dabs at your chest and pulls the blanket over you.
“I take it that’s from both of us,” Price quietly mutters at Nik’s chaste kiss to your forehead.
“Definitely not.” Nik whispers back with a self-satisfied smile.
Not me being obsessed with being both Nikolai’s and Price’s doll.
You are Nikolai’s first officer and while Price was quick off the bat, Nikolai got to join in too. After all, Price is away a lot and he trusts Nikolai.
One time, Price is in the hangar, pretending to look over a briefing while you and Nik are on the plane.
Price mutters “I’m on channel 3” which is all you need to hear before you take off your flight suit and climb onto Nikolai’s lap which he had already unbuttoned in anticipation.
Price gives you both instructions which you follow obediently. Nikolai has you anchored on his lap with his girthy cock, grunting while he hauls you up and down his shaft with his calloused hands gripping your hips. You moan loudly into Nikolai’s shoulder and ear piece, wondering if anyone else in the hangar notices the tent in Price’s trousers. You can’t see it but Price is white knuckling his grip on the table while Nikolai’s move to your breasts. He mumbles something as he squeezes them, letting them bounce in his grasp.
“Where?” Nikolai’s strained groan comes through the radio.
Imagine the members of Taskforce 141 being auctioned off for an evening for charity.
“£300?! I’m a rare vintage model!” Price calls back to the auctioneer.
“The winning bid is £600!” Ghost looks smug.
“And thats £1000.” Gaz is brimming with laughter.
“SOLD for £1200! He does clean up!” Soap chuckles heartily.
The presenter calls the winners up to claim their prizes. The task force are confused when it’s only 1 person - you.
“Do you take cash or card?” You ask the presenter coyly, “and what am I going to do with you fellas?” You smile, turn and walk from the stage, the surprised 141 in tow behind you, grins on their faces.
You’re called in to do headshots of the 141 team and you flirt with every single one of them.
A/N: This is my first fic with all the squad - I hope I’ve captured their characters. Yes it would be super unprofessional but lets just pretend.
Pairings: Price / Soap / Gaz / Ghost x female!reader
CW: mature, descriptions of male and female bodies, smutty thoughts.
—
You’re called in to do headshots of the 141 team. Their faces would be blurred later but you had to admit you were pretty excited to meet some elite special forces operators.
Price
You are in a drafty warehouse on base, set up with small lights. You hold your camera in your lap with both hands draped on top.
Captain John Price walks in with intention and you stand to shake his hand. He’s broad shoulders and all legs, covering the distance quickly, purposefully.
“John Price, pleasure to meet you” the hand shake is firm, warm.
“Pleasure’s all mine, I’m y/n.”
He gestures to your seat, “please,” you notice how he has taken control of the situation.
“Thank you,” you smile too broadly at the realisation, “so you’re the man in charge.” You begin to sit up straighter and smile.
“Yes but not today, I’m at your whim.” He nods, his hands clasped behind his back making his large chest puff out. I wish you were in charge of me, you think.
“This will be a cake walk for you,” you say.
“I’m in your hands,” he smiles. You ignore the fizziness in your stomach.
You get a few shots in and say “I can see why they follow you,” you’re still looking through your viewfinder seeing a smile that lights up his entire face, you pop out from behind your camera and smile back.
“That’s telling. Hope I’m not too grey for your shots.” He says.
“Hardly, I love a man with experience.” You say as dryly as you can muster while you sweat a little more under the lights and under his gaze.
“So you like them older?” He drawls, looking at you through his eyelashes with a wry smile. You press the shutter. An unmistakeable blush forms on your face but you try and hide it behind your camera. You notice his legs are spread, fabric strained over heavy meaty thighs. You wipe your hands on your jeans.
Later, you move towards him, “would you mind if I?”
You got close and ran your fingers along his jaw to smoothen his beard, he was gorgeous up close.
“Perfect.” You breathe as you press the shutter.
You capture his slight blush on your camera. He looks away and chuckles, bulky crossed arms, crows feet etched into his skin.
“When are we doing my close up?” He asks cheekily.
“This evening when I get off.” You answer him haughtily, you got the look you wanted, not for the camera but for yourself.
———
Soap
“You must be Sergeant MacTavish,” is met with a loud, “call me Johnny! Is this your kit?” He shakes your hand and clasps your shoulder. He’s a human version of a golden retriever. He talks and walks over to the table with your equipment but doesn’t touch anything, a true professional.
He’s boyishly good looking and rugged at the same time, you didn’t think it was possible but the mess in your knickers told you different. Tactical gloves cover his hands but you wonder what they’d look like without them.
You take a few shots and he wants to see. You feel his body heat as he leans in to see your camera’s display. He was critical of himself despite looking like a Greek god.
“You look excellent, and don’t forget when you’re seated, it completely changes the silhouette,” you reassure him. You turn towards your equipment table.
“I’m just gonna take off my shirt, you okay with that?” You hear him say as you decide on another lens.
“Sure”. You think he’s kidding as you change the lens. You turn to face him. What you were going to say got stuck in your throat with the sight of Johnny topless.
His pecs bulged impossibly, you were looking at muscles you didn’t know existed. He had a thick layer of chest hair that petered out at his abs. His cheshire grin managed to tear your attention away from the perilous V of muscles leading into his fatigues.
“Cat got your tongue?” Soap says with his roguish accent.
“Curiosity killed it.” Your retort, laughing dry-mouthed. You accidentally wet your lips as you press the shutter. You immediately see his smile get even bigger and you chew your lip to concentrate and not let on how god damn turned on you are.
You got the shot you needed but that didn’t deter the Scotsman, soon you were up on his shoulder. The camera was on a tripod and on a timer.
“Don’t worry I’ve got you!” He says as he hoists you up on to his broad shoulder, he was right, his grip was steadfast, you didn’t move an inch.
“Alright let’s get a good one, yeh?” His voice rumbles under you, you can feel his heat and smell his aftershave, fighting for your life and praying your jeans are thick enough to hide the creamery that was in your panties.
When he puts you down, he jumps you off his shoulder, turns you around and some how has your waist in his hands.
“Cat really has got your tongue.” He says, big blue eyes boring into yours.
———
Gaz
You’re taken aback when Sergeant Garrick walks in, his smile disarms you immediately. He’s tall, lean and carried a carefree confidence. His hair was short, natural and styled, he took care of himself.
“I wasn’t aware the brief was men’s fashion!” You laugh. Gaz swaggers into your reach with a bright smile.
You shake hands and imagine him in adverts for men’s vogue, or on the cover of fitness magazines with his top off. You try not to run away with the idea.
“I’m loving that set up!” He says about your camera straps slung over your torso, “you just need a call sign and you can be in the team.”
“I didn’t know selection was that easy,” you lift your camera. He sits down.
“I could put in a word.” He says knowingly, leaning down to put his elbows on his knees. You flash a look at his chunky forearms through your viewfinder.
You get perfect shot after perfect shot until he had an idea.
He leaves for a while and you start editing what you already have. 20 minutes later, he is back in full dress uniform. The beret, medals and formal jacket. You’re speechless.
“I feel like I’m supposed to salute you or curtsy!” You laugh loudly, in awe at the fit and how the jacket accentuated his broad shoulders and narrow hips.
You come up as close as you can muster and put one finger on the fabric below his medal.
“What’s this one for?”
“It’s classified.” He says without skipping a beat. You smirk.
“This one?” You move across to another medal.
“Classified too.”
You move to the centre of his chest, no medal there. Before you can speak, he says “that’s for you.” And you both erupt into laughter, stammering around.
“You have to admit, I got you!” Gaz croons.
“I should get hazard pay with you!” You yell back, snapping a shot in the process. His youthfulness shines through the proper dignified exterior, get you a man who can do both, you think to yourself.
His stoic expression hid a smile, you liked seeing it appear after you put your camera down from your eyeline. It melted your heart how his eyes softened when he looked at you. Focus on the job, you remind yourself.
“What do you usually shoot?” He asks.
“People mostly, editorials, documentary, sometimes the odd celebrity. They’re the least fun.”
“Who’s the most fun?”
“You.” You say far too quickly, feeling wetness against your inner thigh.
“I can be a lot more than fun.” Gaz says.
“Well, you’ll have to show me,” you say, you press the shutter and capture his slight surprise and puffed out chest, he really was going to show you.
———
Ghost
The last man was Ghost, clad in a balaclava, imposing and tall.
You leave your camera on the table when he enters, you make sure the lens cap is on. His hand dwarfs yours but he’s gentle in his hand shake.
You introduce yourself, he says you can call him Ghost. His voice is gravely but pleasant. You explain how you’ll be editing the photos, he doesn’t look convinced from what you can see of his eyes. You’re able to pick up a lot from just his eyes, so you try to keep your wandering gaze from his chest and biceps.
“Let me show you,” you take the camera from your table and pass it to him. You show him the buttons and manage to fling the strap over his head and onto his neck, making the smallest contact with his clothed chest. The camera looks small in his hands.
You take a seat on the stool, getting into a casual position, even though your heart was racing.
“I’m all yours,” your say a little too eagerly, “point and shoot.”
Ghost snaps a few shots but then he realises he’s rather tall, so he crouches onto one knee. He clicks away. He’s surprising spry and quiet for such a large man, you enjoy watching as he moves, he’s precise and measured. Your eyes captures his slim waist and you momentarily imagine his hips pistoning into you. Massive hands pressed into the pillow either side of your head.
“Your hair, it’s in your face.” Ghost’s voice is like syrup and you snap to attention.
You push it back, “oh, better?” You look at him, accidentally doe-eyed. He’s enjoying this.
“Yeh.” You can hear his smile. He towers over you as he gives your camera back.
“Thank you,” you say as pick the stool up and bring it with you to the table, you plonk it down and pat it. When he sits down you’re touching shoulders. You put the SD card into the laptop.
“I’ll be editing them here and everything gets deleted. The tech team will be taking this laptop once I leave the building.” You reassure him.
Ghost just grunts, crossing his arms.
“I’ll show you.” You say, “these are great shots, you captured my very essence but now… you can’t see my face.” You say after doing a quick edit. He mulls it over for a moment.
“Alright,” he nods and walks over with the stool. He pulls off his balaclava and runs a hand over his cropped blonde hair. His shoulders are broad and curve down.
He looks at you. You look at him. A beat passes. You smile. He’s painfully rugged and handsome, sharp bone structure and alabaster skin mottled with scar tissue. You wanted to graze his delicate eyelashes with your fingertips. He had surprisingly soft lips set into a strong jaw with a smattering of blonde stubble. It gave his edges a glow. You were at his shrine and you wanted to pray, worship, devour. You clicked your tongue to pull you out of you’re day dream.
“Ghost, I’m going tweak the lighting.” You say before you approach him, his brown eyes follow you curiously.
“You can call me Simon.”
“Thank you, Simon, I did quite like calling you Ghost.” You quip, you feel awkward, you realise you want him to like you.
“You can call me whatever you like, love.” He said.
“Don’t tempt me.” You mutter, your heart thrummed as you walked back to your shooting spot.
“What do you like to be called?” Ghost asks.
“I’d like to be called later.” You say with your back to him, biting down your smile, knowing that when you turn around, you’ll get your answer in the form of a cocky grin and a nod.
For those OG Price fans, (lmao, I know y’all are out there. And I know he’s an old man, but he’s our old man.) Spoilers for the OG Modern Warfare 3. The fic’s title is the name of the last mission in the game, it’s iconic and the music is everything.
Pairing: OG Price x female reader, can be read as reboot Price x female reader if your heart desires
CW: descriptions of female body, fluff, PIV, smut, character deaths.
Your job is coordinating equipment and weaponry for the 141. You receive an order from Price that you know is for a man who isn’t coming back from the fight.
Price first came down to your office in the basement to thank you for procuring specific weapon parts. Captains never came down to the basement. He had a look in his eyes like he’d discovered something in you that no one else had.
Soon you shared evening walks around base, talking until night. He found he could unravel his thoughts with you. When he was deployed, he would recall your face in his mind lit with moonlight. Eventually he stole a kiss from you, you thought you even saw the mighty man blush.
He was hesitant what with being a commanding officer and a good few years older than you. He loved your comparative youthfulness but it also worried him, but in the end his need for you was absolute.
Later, you spent time off base at his house, being pressed into his mattress at night and grinding on top of him on the rare lazy mornings he had. You made dinner together and sat in the garden where he pointed out constellations. When he wasn’t deployed, he was a phone call away when you had a bad day. When he returned from deployment, he would tuck you into a hug under his chin. It was a domestic slice of life; a beautiful pact between two cogs in a violent machine.
You found his initial reluctance to get physical endearing and thrilling because you enjoyed pushing his buttons. He was surprised by how forward you were, caressing this thigh and opening buttons on your blouse while he drove you to a hiking spot.
“We won’t get there in one piece if you carry on like that, love.” He’d drawl in his sharp accent, one hand on the wheel, the other changing gear. His icy blue eyes were on yours for a moment, then flitting over your body before settling back on the road. You can see a smirk behind his grey beard. Luckily for you the car had spacious back seats.
You learned quickly that ‘muppet’ was his term of endearment, not necessarily just for you, but those in his inner circle. Calling you ‘sweetheart’ and ‘love’ in his cockney accent was a soothing balm, reserved only for you.
You didn’t see much of him and the squad for a few months with constant missions, debriefings and the looming threat of WW3. When you’d heard about Soap being KIA, it took all of your restraint to not go upstairs and burst through Price’s door. The Captain didn’t need you running into his office, he was an astute professional when he wasn’t pushing into you with a strong grip on your hips.
When you finally saw him, he was crestfallen, greyer, tired. He allowed himself a minimal show of emotion, squeezed your arm and walked away into an urgent briefing. You watched him with a hole burning in your head and heart, knowing he needed space to process the grief.
Days later, a message comes through, you look through the list twice.
Soldiers didn’t come back with this weaponry and equipment, this was a suicide mission. They would be a part of the explosion radius.
You pick up the phone.
“Captain, can I confirm this? It’s-“
“It’s all there, Lieutenant.” His accent sharp enough to cut glass.
You know how much Soap meant to him. And Ghost. And Gaz. Losing them to one man was incomprehensible. Their losses were heavy on his shoulders.
“I’ll have it ready ASAP, sir.” You say, your voice even and professional.
The line goes dead.
2 LMGs fit for taking down helicopters.
2 juggernaut suits that will hold up to infantry fire - but not helicopters.
You notice your hands shaking. You add another few plates of armour that he can slot into the suit but you know he won’t use them. He will need speed for what he’s doing and any more weight would compromise his mission.
Hours later, a note appears on your desk with a set of house keys.
DON’T FINISH ALL MY WHISKEY. JOHN X
With a heart as heavy as the lead you were processing, you sent Price into hell with his death warrant and no way back.
Dust to Dust.
——
Taglist (never thought I’d have a taglist, thank you so much!)
In Another Life just broke me. I went through such emotions I cannot even describe. It was like all the past rejections and feeling of helplessness came rushing back. Also pinning after your friend’s guy, excuse me, I have been there and it fucking hurts.
You are an amazing writer and it was so flawlessly written. Would there be another part? Maybe a happy ending? Even if there isn’t one, this was one of the best fic I have read! ❤️
Oh thank you so much for your message, I am so incredibly touched 🙏🏾 I wrote it based on things that happened to me and writing about it was a cocktail of catharsis and hurt, not quite happy hour! I hope it gave you a safe space to process those emotions, or helped you feel understood and seen 🖤
I didn’t have another part in mind but I feel like the next part to this fic is another fic where reader gets the guy. So this is almost the prologue of hurt before they meet the person of their dreams after all the turmoil they have been through. Hope that makes sense! Super grateful - onwards and upwards friend 🖤
Hurt, no comfort, angst, I’m ready to break my own heart.
Your flatmate is dating Soap and he’s everything you want.
Pairing: Soap x your female flatmate, one sided female reader x Soap, Captain Price x reader.
CW: MDNI! low self esteem, character death (spoiler, not explicit), catcalling, voyeurism, masturbation, PIV sex.
A/n: I hella projected lol. Reader is broken.
——
Soap is dating your flatmate.
Most men that your flatmate brought home were wet wipes, but this guy was some kind of special forces. His eyes were electric blue and he had the thickest eyelashes, he went by Johnny but he also went by Soap, you never learned why. You had to mentally pinch yourself while staring at him, he was everything you wanted in a partner. You hated the creamy mess in your underwear when you were in his company.
He was muscled and shaped like an upside down triangle, you had to look away when he would pop out from their room in the night. Muttering “sorry ‘scuse me” as you squeeze past the narrow corridor, ignoring the rumble of his “no no, I’m taking up all the room, lass.”
You caught his thighs and bulge in his compression shorts when he left for a run in the morning. Later, your flatmate traipsed into the kitchen muttering “I can hardly walk after last night, let alone run!”
You laugh and slap her arm playfully as you leave the room. You’re an expert at that now. That’s not to say you were never happy for her, but your phone was currently not blowing up with your latest dating app matches.
——
On the off chance Soap arrived when you were coming out of the shower, he only ever looked at your eyes and quickly got out of your way. He only had eyes for your flatmate. You got to your room and stood in front of the mirror and wondered what your flatmate and other women had that you didn’t.
——
Soap was full of energy, ready for a laugh but very protective. You would listen from your room when he dropped her off late at night after a raucous night out on the town.
“Call me tomorrow, alright?” His voice is muffled.
“I’ll be fine.”
“Just call me when you wake up. You look like you need a lie in tomorrow. I’ll bring you breakfast.”
Tomorrow morning comes and Soap is early with a bag of food from a brunch spot nearby, he even brought you a coffee too. You thank him too much, maybe it wasn’t the coffee you were thanking him for.
——
Your flatmate and Soap came home late one night absolutely drunk out of their minds, they wobbled through the front door trying to dance to a song playing on his phone. They see you and it’s like they have heart eyes.
“Y/n, it’s y/n, THE GOAT!” Your roommate yells.
“The GOAT!” Soap hollers.
They both flop into the sofa either side of you. They’re too drunk to notice your teary eyes. You pushed the soggy tissue into your sleeve.
A dance tune starts up and before you can even recognise it, Soap bounces up with hands held out towards you both.
Your roommate grabs one hand.
You’re next.
You take Soap’s hand and you arc off the sofa, he’s strong.
You’re pressed up against his side. He’s hard, large and warm, you try not to enjoy the bodily contact as you all boogie to the song. You start to smile until you remember he isn’t yours.
——
“It’s only 2 days but I’m so excited,” she talks about her friend’s wedding in the south of France, “I’m wearing this dress” she flicks through her phone gallery “and Johnny is going to wear a kilt!” Muscled calves, big smile and rugged hands clasped at his front, Johnny looked like a million bucks.
“I love it, you’ll match!” You managed to squeeze out. You imagine the memories they’ll make and photos they’ll take. That night you have a 2nd date, you are excited by the fact he has asked you out again. It filled you with something resembling happiness.
You are meant to meet at a station out of town but you couldn’t find him at the small station and the path towards the car park was unlit and dodgy. When your date found you, he was annoyed that he had to pay for parking. He kept throwing red flags at you.
But still you slept with him because you wanted to feel touched and desired. You regretted it and then you had to take the train home later that night because he “had an early start to work tomorrow.” You wrapped your jacket around yourself to keep out some of the cold, trying not to be annoyed that he didn’t even attempt to make you orgasm or show any aftercare. You delete his number from your phone.
Later that weekend, the duo arrived home.
“We bought you back some chocolate!” Your flatmate says, Johnny swings his bag off his back, he passes it to you with 2 hands like it's a bar of gold. It could have been, with the way you looked at it.
“Aww guys you didn’t have to.” Your mouth is dry.
“Johnny found it, I didn’t know you were a sea salt and caramel fan!”
You put the chocolate in a drawer because you didn’t want to get used to tastes you couldn’t indulge in.
——
“He’s a prick, forget about him.” Your flatmate says pointedly about a new guy you were dating.
“Oi who’s a prick?” Soap walks into the kitchen, taking your flatmate’s waist in his hand.
“No one-” you turn away.
“A fuck boy that y/n isn’t seeing any more.” Your flat mate sounds proud by what wasn’t her decision.
“He isn’t a fuck boy.” You know you’ll regret clarifying the point, “we didn’t fuck, so he’s not. He’s just a prick.” You end the conversation. Soap whistles.
Later that night when you’re washing the dishes, Soap approaches you.
“Listen, forget about that guy,” he says low, you’d follow that voice anywhere.
“Thanks.” You squeak quietly.
“You will find what you're looking for, keep pushing and you’ll look back on this shite with a smile, maybe a misty eye, ey?” He bends forward to catch your eyes as you were trying to avoid them.
He smiles, you smile. He leaves, you remain.
The suds disappear and you turn off the tap, left in silence.
That night, they have muted sex, you hear their attempts at muffling moans and stifling strained grunts. You hear the bed frame squeak on the last hardest thrusts, then silence for a while. You imagine they feel warm, tingly and flushed, chests heaving. Eventually you hear footsteps come and go from the bathroom, the toilet flush going and the door shuts again. You wait for your heart rate to stabilise and your heart ache to subside.
——
“We’re going to the pub, wanna join us? Johnny’s friends are going to be there.” Your flatmate asks you.
You wonder if they’re as hot, funny and protective. You tell yourself you’re just going along for a chat, but part of you hopes it leads to something more; you put the hopeless in hopeless romantic. Put yourself out there, that’s what everyone says.
You wear a nice outfit that makes you feel pretty, your confidence isn’t abundant but you’re feeling yourself.
You arrive at the pub, you meet them, you chat, you drink, you leave.
Nothing about the evening was bad, his team were really nice, all huge and charming in their own ways. Their Captain was a greyhound with an intense gaze that seemed to follow you. Gaz’s girlfriend arrived and you thought you heard some rumblings about Ghost being pushed to date.
The Captain was receptive to you, leaning in to listen, you thought you saw him glance at your lips and legs. He helped you off the tall stool you were sitting on, taking you by your waist to help you down. You know not to push, men hated when women pushed. Well, they hated when you pushed. And you didn’t want to make anything awkward between you and your flatmate. So you left without asking for his phone number or a date, but he hugged you tightly and held your gaze for longer than you thought usual.
When all three of you got home, your flatmate shouted at the top of her lungs “you and the Captain huh?! Practically undressing each other with your eyes!” You laugh and immediately feel your ears going red. You were stoked that someone else noticed because you thought it was all in your head, as it usually was.
You didn’t notice Soap put a hand out to stop her.
“Babe. Babe-” he says “don’t go there.”
Your heart tightens. Your flatmate puts her hands on her hips, confused and a little offended as if to say ‘I know what I saw.’
“It ain’t like that, the Captain is… Price is… Look, he’s married to the job.” Brows knitted, the jovial spirit replaced with seriousness, “we don’t sit around and talk about it but he ain’t the type to mess around.”
You play it off “we were just talking, it’s not a big deal.”
It hurts when Soap says “good, because he’s a lifer.”
You close the door to your bedroom and mull Soap’s words in your tormented mind. The fuzziness you felt replaced by emptiness.
Part of you willed it to be wrong, that you were the woman to pull the Captain out of his self fulfilling and self imposed prophecy. You almost laughed at your audacity.
“I can’t even get a text back, why would he be interested?” You stare at the ceiling, the alcohol left your system and the room was uncomfortably still.
——
“You like tha’, lass?” you hear Soap rasp, you’re not sure if he’s taking her from behind or if he’s on top of her. The faint slaps, skin on skin, indicate it’s either doggy or the standing position your flatmate had once whispered about. The loud moans indicate it’s good.
You don’t breathe. You just listen.
“Oh god, Johnny please!” Your flatmate whines, the force of his thrusts evident in her stuttering voice.
You close your eyes and see yourself with Soap under you, knees folded under his bulging arms, hips pistoning into you with ferocious need. You argue with yourself but then you quickly surrender and slip your hand into your knickers. You draw tight circles on your clit while your eyes burn with tears unfallen. Undiluted shame and need fills you. You breathe sharply through your nose and then hold your breath, staying as quiet as possible. Both of your hearts raced, thumping against your ribs.
“Tha’s it,” you hear his muffled voice grunt. You imagine his massive hand grasping your breast, your hand follows. Their bed frame groans but yours is silent. Your flatmate’s voice gets higher in pitch and she comes loudly, he grunts, swears, the mattress squeaks. You push two fingers into yourself and quickly find your spongy spot, electricity rolls through you.
You come undone shakily and silently, tears springing immediately from your eyes as you ride the wave of your orgasm. Your hand clasps across your mouth as you try to stem the noise of your sobs. You feel disgusted and disgusting. You wipe your eyes with your sleeves. You check your phone, no text from him. You manage to fall into a restless sleep.
——
One night, you and your flatmate encountered an asshole at the station.
“Nice bit of skirt, that.” He leers at your flatmate.
“Fuck off, you prick!” You shout back without breaking stride, not caring he was bigger than you. This confidence was new to you. Or was it anger?
When you arrived at the music venue, your flatmate told Soap what happened, you couldn’t hear them as the music was loud and you were at the bar. You could see the look of concern and regret on his face. He stormed over to you and he pulled you into a bear hug.
“Thanks for taking care of her,” he says to your temple. He releases you but keeps his arm around your shoulder as you wait at the bar, his weight is comforting and protective. He then helps you carry the drinks over.
He adds “I’m sorry Gaz and Cap couldn’t make it, paperwork.” You’d heard that one before but this time you gave yourself the benefit of believing it.
During the gig was a slow acoustic song that hit a little too close to home so you snuck out to the toilet to wait it out.
But you could still hear the music as you leaned against the stall and picked at your nails, doing breathing exercises you’d read about, through your tears.
——
You began to feel like the only man in your life. You even treated yourself to a massage because the touch deprivation reached a fever pitch.
You scroll through the website trying to find an available masseuse. Their headshots were small but you were on the lookout for a man with a thick neck and prominent traps, you knew the silhouette you were looking for. Your masseuse didn’t have a Mohawk but he was close enough that when you closed your eyes, his hands, his pressure and weight became Johnny’s.
——
You were invited again to a party with the squad, moods were good but there were hints of them being away for an extended mission. While you heeded what Soap said about Price, you wanted to know it from the horse's mouth. You bantered with the Captain, and he bantered back, at first. It turned to flirting and you playfully slapped his bicep, joking that you could drink him under the table, knowing well enough that you couldn’t. You ignored the looks from Gaz and Ghost - it’s like they knew something you didn’t. And they did.
You found yourself outside with Price. He’d asked only you to come outside, you felt giddy at the prospect of him wanting to be alone with you. He was smoking a cigar, you stared at the lit end, hoping it revealed some kind of secret you could finally be privy to.
It was cold outside, bitterly cold.
“You’re a lovely girl, y/n, you’re smart, pretty, ballsy,” he says, almost to himself. You’re immediately familiar with the tone. What came next would hurt. Your breathing quickens and there’s a pit in your stomach.
“I’m not in a place where I can give you what you want, what you deserve, darlin’.”
The alcohol seemed to dissipate from your system. Rejection was one hell of a way to sober up. You look down at your shoes and chew your lip to stop it from trembling.
You knew better than to beg, to make compromises, to ask for a chance. Nothing would convince him. Maybe another woman could. But not me. So you turned to humour because it was safer than being vulnerable.
With wet eyes and a wobbly voice that you couldn’t hide, you say “so you think I’m pretty?”
He hits you with a look that you’ll never forget.
“In another life-“ he quietly began.
You cut him off, agreeing, “in another life.”
You both went indoors and you summoned a smile from the deepest recesses of your being. You left early that night.
——
It was with bated breath that you left your room ready for your date. You were in a beautiful outfit that did wonders for your confidence. You spun around a few times in the mirror.
Johnny was at the foot of the stairs and he looked at you with his big blue eyes, you’re sure you saw his pupils grow. Your phone buzzed but you ignored it because you enjoyed being under his gaze.
“Look at you! He’s a lucky lad!”
“Wait, let me see!” Your flatmate's voice came from the kitchen.
Your phone buzzed again. You pull it out to see a stream of texts from your date.
“Oh you look gorgeous, girl!” You barely hear your flatmate. Blood rushes to your ears.
You read out the text message.
“Sorry can’t make it, hungover lol.” You sound distant, as if it wasn’t related to you.
“Fucking prick.” Soap says with no hesitation.
“Y/n…. Babe.” Your flatmate pulls you into a hug but you’re limp and embarrassed.
“Fuck it, I’m going out anyway!” You exclaim, pretending to be okay you practically rush out of the door.
The door shuts behind you. You want to cry but you squeeze your eyes shut and start to walk towards the station. You don’t last long, your vision is wet and nose runny. You end up at a riverside cafe, watching the world go by without you. What a shitty year, you tell yourself.
——
You hear a hushed conversation a week before Soap is due to leave for a few weeks. You kept your headphones on and nodded at them when you walked past, giving them privacy.
You wish you could be in someone’s inner circle, but instead you were grateful you could float around theirs. You put a mental reminder in to take your flatmate to dinner while Soap was away and to keep her from watching the news.
——
“Turn it down!” You yell at your flatmate while you go to answer the door, the radio is on blast while you both cook.
Through the peephole you see the unmistakable beard of Captain Price.
“Oh John, hi!” You can’t hide that you’re happy to see him. But then you notice his grave expression.
“Hi love, sorry to come by unannounced,” he’s standing straighter and his smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Is your flatmate around?”
“Yeh, come in.” Your stomach drops. You didn’t need to call out, your flatmate is already by the door.
“No,” she recognises the look.
“I’m so sorry, love.” Price says quietly.
“Oh god no!” She cries out and sobs, her entire body shakes.
You put your arms around her but your eyes are on Price, wet and unflinching, waiting for the confirmation of the news.
His blue eyes are overcast and tired, he nods and looks down.
“We’ll have to take you onto base if you wish to go through matters,” Price says quietly. You helped your flatmate get her coat on, understanding that you couldn’t go with her.
Price dropped her home later that night, you plated up some food for her but she couldn’t eat. You hugged each other on the sofa until one of you fell asleep first.
It felt like Soap would be bursting through the door with his infectious energy at any moment, but the silence was deafening.
——
You weren’t invited to the funeral as it was behind closed doors. You didn’t know what to do with yourself, you went from crying to intense panic attacks to bouts of guilt. You missed him, you missed his presence. You thought about the way his eyes would light up when you suggested shots at the pub, how he’d walked you both home and how safe you felt. Sure he wasn’t holding your hand but for a moment, you felt wanted, taken care of and significant. You felt terrible for mourning someone else’s partner so deeply and intimately.
Price came by a few times in the next few months, sometimes you were home, sometimes you weren’t. When your flatmate finally came out of her room, her eyes red and complexion weak, she would walk around the house like an apparition.
“I can’t do this without him!” She would plead, “I miss him so much.” You rubbed her back, silently wiping your tears, telling her you were sorry, over and over.
“John came by today, he sends his best.” She says.
“Bless him,” you say quietly, trying not to read too much into it, because all the meaning you longed for wouldn’t come.
“You never told me what happened with you both that night.” She asks, brows knitted in concern for you while her heart was shattered.
“Soap was right about him.” You said, “and that’s okay.” You breathed, hoping the more you said it the more you would believe it.
——
‘What cannot be said will be wept’ you read the quote over and over, you’d seen it online and it immediately brought Price into your mind.
His visits became less frequent, but he came by again to check in with your flatmate. He looked like he was carrying the world on his shoulders and you wanted nothing more than to pull him into an embrace and comfort him.
“Come in, she just got in the shower, want a tea while you wait?”
It had been 6 months since the news.
“How are you holding up?” Price asked.
“M’okay, trying to be there for her as best I can.”
“I know it isn’t easy for you either.” He said, “you’re doing good by her, you’re a good friend.”
Guilt and shame rushes through your system, you didn’t feel like a good friend.
“He was so good to her-” you start to sob, hands across your mouth, willing it to stay inside so you never have to confront how you really felt about him.
You’re surprised to be suddenly in his embrace. John consumes you, you’re completely surrounded by him. You grip his jacket, afraid to let go. His right hand rubbed your shoulder blades and his left hand held onto your waist tightly.
“I’m sorry love,” he whispered, “and I’m sorry I wasn’t good to you.”
“You don’t have to apologise for anything John, you haven’t done anything wrong.” You sounded throaty.
“I made you believe in something I couldn’t give you.” His voice is quiet, you feel it against his chest.
“In another life,” you manage to sob his phrase back to him, he can feel you inhaling hard, trying to catch your breath.
“Another life.” He says back, kissing your head.
“Take care of yourself, John” you say with a ragged voice looking straight into his eyes. You grab your bag and push past him out of the door. You can still see his sad eyes in your mind.
Immediately you regret leaving while he was still available and present. But then you think if he wanted to say more he’d have done so. Life is choices, he made his choice. And I wasn’t one of them. Your legs take you away from him, into the bitter cold.
Captain Price uses his deft fingers to help you take out your menstrual cup.
Pairing: Captain Price x Female Reader
CW: descriptions of female anatomy, digital penetration, fluff, swearing. MDNI.
Words: 2.7k
—
You didn't mean to swear so loudly in the toilet cubicle but you were sweating, your hands were hurting and your thighs were burning.
You could not, for the life of you, take out your menstrual cup.
After a gruelling CQC training session, your hands were cramped and now slick with blood. You surprised yourself at how far you could fit your fingers inside yourself without even reaching the inch long handle of the cup.
"Sergeant?" A gruff voice called through the door.
"Fuck." you whisper, "yes sir?" You call back, sitting back down on the toilet in defeat, staring at the tiled floor.
"Everything alright in there?" Captain Price is closer to the door now. Of all the people! You thought of him in his far-too-fitted top tucked into his far-too-snug combat trousers, all pressed and neat. Earlier in the day he had patted your shoulder for a job well done and you hated how you could still feel his eyes on you after you walked away.
“Yes captain, all good here." Ending it abruptly, you wait for him to leave.
Getting back into a squat position, you try again. You swear again.
Another knock at the door.
"Sergeant. Do I need to call someone for you?" Concern laced his gruff voice.
Something in you falters. You think it's stupidity, you think it's the opposite of courage, you consider it vulnerability. Either way, your mouth and mind move in different directions as you pull your trousers up, wash your hands and walk the short way to the door.
“Have you seen a period cup before?" you say quietly through a small gap in the doorway, looking past your Captain at passers by, looking anywhere but at his deep-set blue eyes.
He looks at you with knitted brows and answers "no. But I'm guessing it's not coming out." He enunciated ‘out’ with his trademark back stretch.
"Precisely." You get redder and try to quell it. He knocked, he asked, maybe someone else could help me, a female medic, but the thought of gloved hands felt clinical and made you tense. The pause was palpable.
"Right, let's get you to your quarters," he steps back from the door, straight as a board, and you slip out past his hulking frame.
Filling what you thought was an awkward silence you said you had training with Simon and “it's not usually this difficult, usually it pops out easily." Accidentally making eye contact on the “pop.”
"Right." Price says and you think you saw him swallow a smile. You arrive at your quarters and open the door.
"A nurse once told me I had a high cervix, so who knows where it's gone." You turn to close the door behind Price and you're surprised to see him chuckling, the movement in his broad shoulders and the crows feet around his eyes make you feel a way you know you shouldn't.
"Give it another go, I'll get a tea brewing," he strides past you into your tiny kitchen, knocking around your cupboards for teabags.
You avoid your gaze in the bathroom mirror as you wash your hands again and pull your trousers down, rooting around for the damned silicone cup. You were naturally more dilated as you were on your period, but pushing down with your pelvic floor muscles still didn’t get it within reach of your fingers.
You can hear the kettle going, you imagine him leaning against the counter, muscled legs crossed at his calves, calloused hands on the fake marble top.
John asks himself unanswerable questions, the exact kind of questions he hates. Why am I here? He has an inkling of the answer but it’s not absolute. He can’t deny you’re electric, an excellent squad mate and charming to boot. The chemistry is palpable between you and he knows exactly what he’s doing when he banters with you at post-mission briefings and winks at you when handing you a drink at the pub. He indulges in the flashes of recognition when he sees you around base, especially when you’re in civilian clothing.
Minutes later you're back in your kitchen, which Price manages to dwarf.
"No luck?" He says as he passes you the steaming cup, handle first. How polite.
"No luck.”
“No problem." Price says in his husky voice, taking a seat on your small sofa. He's taken his hat off, he's basically naked now. You join him on the furthest end, you're both turned half towards each other, your crossed legs are mighty close to touching his.
"Sorry, this is really awkward."
“Nothing awkward, relax yeh." He sips his tea.
"You make a shit tea." You say absolutely unprompted, staring into your cup seriously.
Price doesn't respond and you look up expectedly.
“Funny that, I couldn't find a good cup." He says with his usual dry gruff.
A beat.
You both burst into laughter, almost spilling your tea. You end up having to put it onto the table, calling him a prick in the process.
"Fuck sakes sir!"
"I had to." He continues drinking his tea, too cool for school as you settle yourself.
You decide to regale him as a way to fill the silence again, "so the cup has a stick at the end but I can't grip it, I can barely reach it. It's silicone and around an inch long." you instinctively measure it out with your thumb and index finger.
"Right."
He's killing you. You remember he's a gentleman, a professional, helping you feel more relaxed and less tense.
“It’s more than just grabbing and pulling it though-”
"So I'm going to have to break the suction first." He finally says, a mercy.
You did a double take and accidentally looked at his gloved hand. It hangs over his knee. You know they are heavily veined and strong, you want to evaporate at the thought of them touching you in such an intimate place.
"It doesn't take much.” You say dry mouthed.
"I can get someone else." Is quickly followed by you breathing "I'd rather you didn't."
Next thing you know, you're standing in your shower with only a towel wrapped around your lower half. Your captain was seated on the rim of the bathtub. It was as if you had a tipple of whiskey instead of tea, you felt drunk, giddy, nervous. There was an undeniable pulse in your clit you were trying to ignore. Price thoroughly washes his hands and you make an effort to not watch his sinewy forearms flexing.
“Are you sure you don’t wanna be laying down?” Price asks earnestly.
“No it would feel too clinical. And we need gravity on our side.” You say absentmindedly, he nods an affirmative.
“Understood.“
"I'm going to look like Winnie the fucking Pooh.” You sigh.
"Ey?" blue eyes flicker at your eyes.
"He doesn't wear any trousers. He just wears a top."
"Stop being a muppet." He dries his hands.
“Okay so you'll have to use a thumb and finger." You say, feeling flushed as you place your feet further apart, they were wet with the residual water from your shower earlier in the day.
"I’ll be gentle." He puts the hand towel under your feet for grip. You almost place your hand on his shoulder to balance yourself but you're too afraid to let go of the towel.
"Better?" He asks. You nod. His back straightens, he's in serious mode, “if it hurts at any point, say and I'II stop immediately." And he waits for your affirmative and more disgustingly, your eye contact.
"Yes sir. I will.” You nod, blink and then look away.
A pause. Silence.
You're still holding the towel over yourself. You feel like a lost lamb and you even start to hate yourself for feeling so shy. You wonder how Price is so calm and collected, you’re trying to see from his perspective but you can’t fathom how he’s so blase and annoyingly professional.
In a measured movement you remove the towel and swing it over the curtain rail. Everything feels red, you feel a flash of anger at yourself for existing. You look up past him. Blood rushes to your face and ears. Cool air hits your legs and butt. John carries on with acute focus, mentally noting you had incredible legs. He wished he was still wearing his hat so you couldn’t see the sweat bead on his forehead.
“Put your hands on my shoulders." He says, “and relax." He drawls, admittedly more to himself. “Alright I'm going to make-"
"Don't say make entry, for fuck sakes." Your voice sounds distant with the acoustics of the tiled bathroom.
"I was going to say make contact, sergeant." His tone is clipped but his eyes smile. You sheepishly look away.
“I’ve tried a few times, it’s quite… elastic, so don’t be worried if you go past the knuckles.” You chew your lips.
“I’ll be gentle.” He reiterates. You assume he knows his way around things, a fleeting thought of him with other women floats through your mind.
John knew you trusted him which is why he was here. He was very aware of what he was helping with and felt it was beyond his duty of care, kind of like how he has to decide who lives and who dies when they’re attached to a bomb vest with 8 seconds left. It was discretionary. He put it out of his mind and considered this a ‘removal of foreign body’. But with no need to staunch the bleeding. And no need to report it in the injuries log. The only thing he was staunching were any feelings towards you. Tucking them deep away like a professional, or like a pressure cooker. There was a reason he was the captain, he was measured and controlled.
With the softest touch, you feel his index finger and middle finger part your folds and fall into the valley of your hole. His fingers deftly dodged your hardened clit and he slipped in gently until he’s fully inside of you. His finger runs along your gummy walls, they are much thicker than your own digits. You scrunch your eyebrows. He’s warm and tentative. Your face is flushed red, but not entirely from embarrassment, it’s that familiar feeling you get when you’re filled. Heat rises from you. Your breathing is shallow and quick.
His left hand leaves the tub edge and holds your calf softly. You feel safety in his touch, you feel like he's entering with trepidation. You've fought on battlefields together, traversed through tight streets in war torn villages and travelled for days in cramped trucks, you trusted him with your life and by extension your body. It was as if it was all to culminate in your bathroom. You find yourself wishing you had just asked him for a coffee a week ago when you weren't on your period.
"Is that okay? Ready for the-"
"Yes sir." He pushes his thumb in gently too. You feel it breach your cunt and against your spongy walls. You can’t tell but John’s heart is hammering against his chest, but it doesn’t betray his breathing.
"You don't have to call me sir.” He mumbles.
"Yes sir.” You hold his broad shoulders and lean over him, looking straight ahead at the cheap wooden door. His fingers gently move up into you, he’s warm and you’re hot, you try to stay still and not squeeze your walls around his fingers.
You hear his breathing, it’s even. You want to look down at his lap but your line of sight is obscured by his arm, you know what you want to see and you swallow. His fingers move, you can feel the pressure but you can only guess at the direction. You feel the large knuckle of his thumb press against your innermost folds. His ring and little finger push into the underside of your butt cheek, you realise you did the same thing to yourself when you were trying earlier. There was no where else those fingers could go without being in the way.
John tries to ignore how your body feels around his fingers and focuses on pushing in with the least resistance, he has big hands so there was no doubt he’d be able to find it but he didn’t want to hurt you. Sweat forms along the back of his neck. Steady now.
"Try to relax. I know this isn’t ideal, I'll go slowly" He says, you can smell his cologne, his musk, you hold your breath but he feels that too.
"Breathe and bear down." You daren't comment about how he knows about "bearing down" but you push down with your pelvic muscles.
"I’ve got it, gonna go further to grip it." You dare to look at his face and you're surprised to see he's not looking at your mound, he's staring at your rucked up top, just above your belly button; he's concentrating. He looks adorable, mouth a little open.
"It’s a slippery bastard." He chuckles and then reels the laugh in.
"I'm so sorry about the blood." You whisper above him. He just grunts.
"Nothing we haven't dealt with before, ey?" His eyes crinkle into a smile. “Can I go further?" He says, you look at each other and you nod. You feel pressure and friction, you try to breathe and it comes shakily. You clear your throat.
"It's not hurting is it?" He stops.
"No, it doesn't hurt, it's just this entire situation-"
"Look, I know you'd do the same for me." He meets your eyes and you snort, trying not to laugh. You instead lean your forehead down to the top of his head for a moment, he can see your stomach move and your breathing change as you laugh silently. It’s strangely intimate.
John swallows.
"I got it." You feel pressure push upwards into you and then the suction disappears. With a pull and a slick pop, the cup comes out. Your body feels doubly empty. Price holds it steady with one hand, he marvels at the amount and viscosity of the blood. He then brings his other hand up to cradle it. You add both your hands around his to stop it spilling.
"Y'alright?" He carefully lets go of the cup. His left hand is on your arm, his intense blue eyes boring into yours for what feels like way too long.
"Yes." You smile.
"Right, I'II let you get that sorted.” He smiles, squeezes your arm and turns to use the faucet.
With his broad back turned, you look down at your naked lower body and bloody chalice. You see that he doesn't turn to look back at you. Such a gentleman. You cheers him silently with the cup and get to sorting yourself out.
When John leaves the room, he exhales hard. Needing something to do, he immediately walks into your kitchen. He hates that he’s clammy and not from exertion. He pushes your warmth and wetness from his mind, but he knows he’ll be summoning the memory soon, when he’s alone.
When you step out of the shower, you're in a daze. You don't know what to say when you get dressed and return to your living room. Thanks and sorry? Sorry and sorry? Let's never speak of this, but can we talk about your unwavering eye contact and those touches? You pull on your knickers and cargo trousers and wrestle with a sanitary pad.
You return to see him washing the tea cups, his gloves tucked into his back pocket, his narrow waist fanning into a broad back.
You jog into the kitchen and grab the tea towel he's hung over his shoulder.
“I got it - thank you,” you say, quickly adding “John.” As if to point out the power dynamic was left at the door. You dry the cups. You feel longing, you don't know what possesses you, you didn't want those fleeting touches, gentle words of affirmation and smouldering eye contact to evaporate into nothing. Like they usually do.
“Don’t mention it.” He says, heading for the door.
“Not even to my girl friends?” You snap back, shrugging the tea towel over your shoulder.
“Wind your neck in!” He laughs loudly from the chest.
“Consider it wound in, sir.”
“The lengths you go for my attention.” He retorts with his trademark grin, turning to face you with his hand on the door handle.
“The lengths are apparently 3 or 4 inches, sir, give or take.” You laugh back knowingly.
John pauses.
“Between us, that’s only the half of it.” He says with a wink. And with that, he leaves. Your laugh gets caught in your throat, you’re left with a feeling your next one-to-one with your captain would be a little different moving forward.
