— ❥ [ requests / asks ] (for requests - john price related preferably - or to say hi! <3)
— ❥ [ my art ]
🌙 nsfw / contains smut
✨ sfw / no smut
— ❥ [ the only exception ]🌙 [5.8k words]
you and john host a christmas dinner for the team (but john really just wants you to himself)
— ❥ [ somewhere only we know ]🌙 [16k words]
john price takes you on a road trip through the english countryside - just the two of you, a few pieces of his past, and the unpredictable weather
— ❥ [ where you belong ]🌙 [3.6k words]
john price knew you'd always obey — no matter how hard he pushed — and that’s what undid him.
— ❥ [ heavy, dirty soul ]🌙 [3.7k words]
after a long mission, john is exhausted, bruised and distant. you take care of him.
— ❥ [ carve your name into my bones ]🌙 [7.1k words]
butcher john price carves through flesh and bone - he never expected a florist’s touch to cut the deepest
— ❥ [ chamomile ]🌙 [8.4k words]
after a painful divorce and unexpected reunion, you and john rediscover a love that never truly faded.
— ❥ [ bite marks ]🌙 [4.4k words]
you show john exactly who he belongs to when other women won't take a hint.
— ❥ [ hold me close and tell me that it's real ]🌙 [4.7k words]
a message to a wrong number turns out to be just perfectly right.
— ❥ [ skin on skin ]🌙 [1.4k words]
a surprise waits for john when he returns home earlier than you expected…
— ❥ [ you could be the death of me ]🌙 [3k words]
disobedience has consequences, especially when it comes to john price.
— ❥ [ coming home ]🌙 [3,5k words]
three weeks apart is three weeks too long for john.
— ❥ [ caught in the undertow ]🌙 [7k words]
john made the right call that day. it could have cost you your life, but it saved a dozen others - innocent men, women and children. he made the right decision. …did he?
john price is dragged to a fancy halloween party, where he finds himself captivated by the stunning and mysterious hostess, victoria di corvo. (vampire!AU / kinktober)
— ❥ [ floral misdelivery ] ✨ [2k words]
overwhelmed by the task of gifting his mother flowers, john makes a mistake that turns into a chance to show you, his assistant, what you really mean to him.
— ❥ [ mirror image ] 🌙 [3k words]
john comes home from a training mission with new recruits and desperately needs to feel to be back in control over something (hint: it’s you).
— ❥ [ family dinner ]🌙 [9k words]
john asks you to pretend to be his girlfriend for one night, to save himself from annoying questions from his family. turns out, you're actually who he really wants.
one day, captain john price brings his team home, a small house in a london suburb, after a mission that changed everything. you didn’t know that you would soon be back in the field again, chasing demons. if only you knew that sometimes, what you believed to be true wasn’t always as it seemed… (alternative ending fic)
— ❥ [ a private lesson ]🌙 [4k words]
your husband, captain john price, insists on teaching you how to shoot at the range. but you soon realize that his instructions involve a lot more than just handling a gun.
— ❥ [ a million miles apart ]🌙 [2k words]
it's the middle of the night, and the phone is ringing. it's john, and something is wrong... but it's a different kind of urgency. (phone sex)
— ❥ [ when lilacs bloom ]🌙 [5k words]
the aftermath of a mission leaves you shaken, and only john's presence can ground you as you face a new part of your life together. (shower sex, pregnancy)
— ❥ [ the fall of crowns ]🌙 [8k words]
as a sniper, you're not exactly known for close-quarters combat. john price wants to test your limits, and you both end up pushing each other beyond the point of no return. (consensual noncon!)
— ❥ [ the wolf and the nightingale ]🌙 [14k words]
witnessing something you shouldn't have, you're thrown into a world of shadows and danger, placing you in captain price's protective custody.
— ❥ [ champagne dreams ]🌙 [9k words]
task force 141 had taken on an unusual mission for a night: they were playing bodyguards for a retired general's daughter. captain john price expected it just to be a quick and well-paid gig - turns out, he and you weren’t seeing each other for the first time, though…
— ❥ [ they say don't open old wounds ]🌙 [3,7k words]
the mask hides more than just a face; it hides a shared past, a love lost, a ghost you thought long buried.
— ❥ [ requests / asks ] (for requests - john price related preferably - or to say hi! <3)
— ❥ [ my art ]
🌙 nsfw / contains smut
✨ sfw / no smut
— ❥ [ the only exception ]🌙 [5.8k words]
you and john host a christmas dinner for the team (but john really just wants you to himself)
— ❥ [ somewhere only we know ]🌙 [16k words]
john price takes you on a road trip through the english countryside - just the two of you, a few pieces of his past, and the unpredictable weather
— ❥ [ where you belong ]🌙 [3.6k words]
john price knew you'd always obey — no matter how hard he pushed — and that’s what undid him.
— ❥ [ heavy, dirty soul ]🌙 [3.7k words]
after a long mission, john is exhausted, bruised and distant. you take care of him.
— ❥ [ carve your name into my bones ]🌙 [7.1k words]
butcher john price carves through flesh and bone - he never expected a florist’s touch to cut the deepest
— ❥ [ chamomile ]🌙 [8.4k words]
after a painful divorce and unexpected reunion, you and john rediscover a love that never truly faded.
— ❥ [ bite marks ]🌙 [4.4k words]
you show john exactly who he belongs to when other women won't take a hint.
— ❥ [ hold me close and tell me that it's real ]🌙 [4.7k words]
a message to a wrong number turns out to be just perfectly right.
— ❥ [ skin on skin ]🌙 [1.4k words]
a surprise waits for john when he returns home earlier than you expected…
— ❥ [ you could be the death of me ]🌙 [3k words]
disobedience has consequences, especially when it comes to john price.
— ❥ [ coming home ]🌙 [3,5k words]
three weeks apart is three weeks too long for john.
— ❥ [ caught in the undertow ]🌙 [7k words]
john made the right call that day. it could have cost you your life, but it saved a dozen others - innocent men, women and children. he made the right decision. …did he?
john price is dragged to a fancy halloween party, where he finds himself captivated by the stunning and mysterious hostess, victoria di corvo. (vampire!AU / kinktober)
— ❥ [ floral misdelivery ] ✨ [2k words]
overwhelmed by the task of gifting his mother flowers, john makes a mistake that turns into a chance to show you, his assistant, what you really mean to him.
— ❥ [ mirror image ] 🌙 [3k words]
john comes home from a training mission with new recruits and desperately needs to feel to be back in control over something (hint: it’s you).
— ❥ [ family dinner ]🌙 [9k words]
john asks you to pretend to be his girlfriend for one night, to save himself from annoying questions from his family. turns out, you're actually who he really wants.
one day, captain john price brings his team home, a small house in a london suburb, after a mission that changed everything. you didn’t know that you would soon be back in the field again, chasing demons. if only you knew that sometimes, what you believed to be true wasn’t always as it seemed… (alternative ending fic)
— ❥ [ a private lesson ]🌙 [4k words]
your husband, captain john price, insists on teaching you how to shoot at the range. but you soon realize that his instructions involve a lot more than just handling a gun.
— ❥ [ a million miles apart ]🌙 [2k words]
it's the middle of the night, and the phone is ringing. it's john, and something is wrong... but it's a different kind of urgency. (phone sex)
— ❥ [ when lilacs bloom ]🌙 [5k words]
the aftermath of a mission leaves you shaken, and only john's presence can ground you as you face a new part of your life together. (shower sex, pregnancy)
— ❥ [ the fall of crowns ]🌙 [8k words]
as a sniper, you're not exactly known for close-quarters combat. john price wants to test your limits, and you both end up pushing each other beyond the point of no return. (consensual noncon!)
— ❥ [ the wolf and the nightingale ]🌙 [14k words]
witnessing something you shouldn't have, you're thrown into a world of shadows and danger, placing you in captain price's protective custody.
— ❥ [ champagne dreams ]🌙 [9k words]
task force 141 had taken on an unusual mission for a night: they were playing bodyguards for a retired general's daughter. captain john price expected it just to be a quick and well-paid gig - turns out, he and you weren’t seeing each other for the first time, though…
— ❥ [ they say don't open old wounds ]🌙 [3,7k words]
the mask hides more than just a face; it hides a shared past, a love lost, a ghost you thought long buried.
hihi!! i just wanna say i hope everything is going good. and if not i hope you’re at least able to find some small joys here and there! miss you and your writing on here <3 have a great day/night xd
hey! Sorry for the late reply, started a new job last year and I have been so busy since.
I’m alright and I miss writing fics so much. I hope I can get back to it soon! Looking into my ask has definitely given me some needed motivation ♥️
If you're not a twice (once) fan—please accept my deepest apologies (not a fan but I liked this song regardless 💖). I just thought that this is a nice song and thought about the many people who I admire and respect 💖. If this song isn't for you, I'm so sorry 😭 (it wasn't my intention to hurt your eardrums ╥﹏╥).
I also haven't said this before but I love your art and your fics so much!! 🤭💖
Aww thank you so much!! I will give that song a listen later when I can ♥️
【 AO3 Link (full tag list) || masterlist 】
✦ John Price x Reader
✦ You and John host a Christmas dinner for the team (but John really just wants you to himself).
✦ 5.8k words
✦ tags/cw: fluff, Christmas, Christmas party, smut: cunnilingus, piv sex, creampie, love confessions, aftercare
The house was a haven, a pocket of warmth and light that made it a comfortable sanctuary in the biting December cold. Outside, the wind howled across the frosted fields of the English countryside, but the only sounds within were the deep, contented crackle of logs John had fed into the hearth not long ago, and the low hum of a jazz Christmas tune from a small speaker on the mantelpiece. And, of course, the cheerful clatter of your work in the kitchen.
It smelled unmistakably like Christmas. Pine, sharp and clean, radiated from the absurdly oversized tree John had insisted on cutting down himself, so tall its tip brushed the dark wooden beams overhead. Cinnamon and clove from the mulled wine simmering on the stove curled through the air, tangled with rosemary-roasted potatoes and the sweet promise of apple crumble cooling on the counter.
It had always been John’s house. But over the last few years, it had become a home. Since you’d moved in, the place had grown softer somehow, warmer, fuller, like it had finally learned how to breathe. John would never say it out loud, but he knew it was because of you.
Humming along with the music, you checked on the turkey in the oven one last time before declaring it perfect. The counters bore the marks of happy labour, crowded with dishes waiting to be devoured. This whole celebration had been your idea. John had agreed with a grumble, muttering about the fuss, but the way he’d helped untangle fairy lights and hang ornaments, that quiet, private smile tugging at his mouth, had told you everything you needed to know.
A thundering knock at the front door disturbed the peace you two enjoyed. “Oi! Your favourite elves are here!“ You recognised the voice instantly and chuckled when you caught John rolling his eyes.
You laughed, wiping your hands on a towel as you headed for the hall. John beat you there, pulling open the heavy oak door to reveal Soap and Gaz, cheeks red from the cold, arms full of carrier bags and wrapped gifts. Ghost stood just behind them, a silent presence, his usual balaclava traded for a dark hoodie pulled low.
“Wipe your bloody feet,“ John grumbled, but he stepped aside, greeting each with a firm, heartfelt handshake.
“Smells unreal in here, love,“ Gaz said, grinning as he handed you a bottle of homemade cider. “From my mum. She says Merry Christmas and told me to eat properly.“
“That you will,“ you promised, hugging him. “Tell her thank you.”
Soap followed, his grin almost as wide as the arms he opened to embrace you. “Merry Christmas, lass.”
“It’s good to see you, Johnny.”
Ghost entered last, giving John a pat on the shoulder and a nod. To your surprise, he pulled back his hood and stepped towards you, enveloping you in a brief, almost hesitant hug that, coming from him, meant the world. He then retrieved a wrapped box from his jacket pocket and handed it to you. “For the host,“ he said, and before you could take it, he added, “Or should I add it to Johnny’s pile under the tree?”
Your eyes fell to where Soap was dumping presents from his bags beneath the tree. You chuckled. “That would be great, thanks. And you really shouldn’t have.”
He offered a little nod, his version of a smile, and turned to place the gift with the others.
As the boys settled, shedding coats and scarves, the cosy quiet was replaced by a more lively energy. Soap immediately began a detailed critique of John’s ornament placement, while Gaz made a beeline for the kitchen, sniffing the air like a bloodhound.
“Are those your famous roasties?” he called out. “The ones you make with the garlic and rosemary?”
“The very same,” you confirmed, returning to the kitchen with him in tow. “And if you try to sneak one before dinner, I will not be held responsible for my actions.”
Gaz held his hands up in mock surrender. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” He leaned against the counter, his eyes twinkling. “Seriously, though. Thanks for doing all this. It’s… nice.”
“Yeah… it is,” you agreed, nudging his shoulder gently.
In the living room, John poured them all a drink. He stood by the fire, a tumbler of whisky in hand, watching his men. He caught your eye over Gaz’s shoulder, a silent question in his gaze. You good?
You gave him a reassuring nod. More than good.
Something in his chest eased at that, the hard lines of him softening as the firelight danced across his face. He was still their captain, always would be, but here in his own home, surrounded by people he trusted with his life, he allowed himself this. The quiet satisfaction. The warmth.
The doorbell chimed a little while later, a more polite sound this time. Kate Laswell stood on the step beside her wife, Anya, both wrapped against the cold. Kate looked sharp even out of uniform, authority still clinging to her posture, though it softened in Anya’s presence.
“We brought dessert,” Anya announced cheerfully, handing John a beautifully constructed gingerbread house.
“Kate, Anya, good to see you,” John said, his voice a low rumble of welcome. “Good to have you both.”
Kate handed you a bottle of vintage port. “From both of us. Thank you for having us. This looks wonderful.”
“Thank you, Kate. It’s great to have you both here.” You inspected the gingerbread house with its carefully piped frosting details. “And this is incredibly beautiful.”
As John played bartender, Anya's gaze swept around the living room. Her eyes, full of genuine warmth, landed on the dining table set in the alcove overlooking the garden. You had laid out your best cream-coloured ceramic plates on a dark red linen tablecloth. Polished silverware was tied with twine and a sprig of rosemary at each setting. In the centre, a bed of pine boughs and holly held three thick cream candles, waiting patiently.
“Oh, my goodness,” Anya said, her voice full of sincere admiration as she walked over. “Look at this table, Kate. It's absolutely beautiful.” She reached out and gently touched one of the rosemary sprigs. “You've gone to so much effort. The whole house just… it feels so wonderfully festive. It feels like a warm hug.”
A pleasant warmth spread through your chest. “Thank you, Anya. I wanted it to be special.”
John returned, handing Anya a glass of wine. He glanced at the table, then at you, affection clear in his eyes despite his gruff tone. “She’s been at it for days,” he said. “Pottering about. Cinnamon everywhere. Pine needles in places I didn’t know existed. Don't know where she finds the energy.”
“It's called the Christmas spirit, John,” you retorted, nudging him. “You should try it sometime.”
He huffed, but he didn't move away, his arm brushing against yours in a way that was both casual and possessive.
“Please, take a seat,” you said, gesturing towards the table. As everyone settled, your phone buzzed in your pocket. A message from Alex.
Alex: Grounded in Paris. Snow. We’ll be late, but we WILL be there. Farah says she will fight everyone if there won’t be potatoes.
“There's been a slight change of plans,” you announced. The room quieted, everyone turning to you. “I just heard from Alex. They were grounded in Paris for a few hours because of the snow.”
A collective, good-natured groan went through the room.
“So they're not coming?” Kyle asked, his face falling slightly.
“No, no, they're coming,” you quickly reassured him. “They'll be late, but they'll be here. It just doesn’t feel right to start the big meal without them. I hope that's okay.”
“Of course, it's okay,“ Anya said immediately.
John nodded. “We wait.” It wasn't a suggestion; it was a simple statement of fact.
Soap slumped dramatically in his chair. “I’m going to starve. This is how I go.”
You rolled your eyes, but a smile touched your lips.
While you waited, the conversation flowed as freely as the drinks. Kate and John fell into a low conversation about books and politics. Anya, you discovered, was an incredible storyteller, captivating you and Kyle with a tale about a manuscript she was researching, her animated telling making the dusty archives of the British Library sound like the most exciting place on earth.
Johnny, meanwhile, was attempting to engage Simon in a debate about ranking Christmas films. “Right, so, number one is Die Hard, obviously,” he stated. “It's not up for debate. Number two, Muppet Christmas Carol. A cinematic masterpiece.”
Simon just stared at him, saying nothing, slowly sipping his whisky.
“Number three... this is where it gets tricky,” Johnny continued on. “It's a toss-up between Elf and Home Alone. What's your take?”
Simon set his glass down with a quiet clink. His gaze remained fixed on Johnny. “The original Black Christmas,” he said, his voice a low rasp.
Johnny blinked. “The 1974 slasher film?”
“Yes,” Simon confirmed.
An awkward silence fell. Gaz, overhearing, choked back a laugh into his beer.
“Right,” Johnny finally managed, clearing his throat. “Good... choice. Very festive.”
An hour bled into another in a comfortable haze. It was in this peaceful lull that the doorbell rang for the final time.
“About time,” John grunted, but he was already moving, a genuine smile finally breaking through his gruff exterior. You were right beside him as he pulled the heavy door open.
A blast of cold night air swept in, carrying a flurry of delicate snowflakes. Standing on the doorstep, looking utterly exhausted but happy, were Farah and Alex. They were dusted with snow, their faces pink from the chill.
“We made it,” Farah breathed, her dark eyes lighting up the moment she saw you.
“You're here!” You didn't hesitate, pulling her into a tight hug. She smelled of the cold night, airport coffee, and the sweet pastries she was carrying.
“Wouldn't miss it for the world,” she murmured into your ear.
Alex was enveloped in a brotherly embrace by John. “Sorry, we're late,” Alex said.
“Doesn’t matter,” John replied, clapping him on the shoulder. “Come in, get out of the cold. You're just in time.”
As they stepped inside, the house seemed to sigh in contentment, the circle now complete. They were greeted with a chorus of welcomes, Kyle and Johnny jumping up to help. Farah presented a box of delicate, honey-soaked Urzikstani sweets.
“I brought baklava,” she announced, “I’m honestly surprised it survived the journey in the suitcase.”
“Oh my god - yes,“ Johnny declared, his eyes wide.
They were quickly relieved of their coats and handed steaming mugs of mulled wine. As they settled in, recounting their travel troubles, you slipped back into the kitchen. The time had come.
“Right,” you called out a few minutes later, your voice cutting through the happy chatter. “The moment you've all been waiting for. Dinner is served!”
A cheer, led enthusiastically by Johnny, went up. Kyle was instantly on his feet. “What do you need? I can carry things.”
“You're a lifesaver, Kyle,” you said gratefully.
With his help, the feast was brought to the table. The magnificent roast turkey, the impossibly crispy golden potatoes sending up a cloud of garlic-scented steam, dishes of honey-glazed parsnips, Brussels sprouts with bacon, and cauliflower cheese bubbling under a golden crust.
Everyone found their places. John took his seat at the head, and you sat to his right, a position that felt as natural as breathing. The candles were lit, their soft flames casting a warm, intimate glow over the faces of your family.
“These potatoes are a gift from God,” Johnny declared through a full mouth, pointing his fork at you. “If you ever leave the 141, you could make a fortune as a personal chef. I’d be your first client.”
“Get in line,” Ghost’s voice rumbled unexpectedly from his corner of the table, startling a laugh out of Farah.
A pleasant blush rose to your cheeks. John’s knee was pressed firmly against yours under the table. He nudged you gently, a small, private gesture of approval that meant more than any compliment.
Eventually, a comfortable, food-induced lethargy settled over the group. The table was a scene of happy devastation.
“I think,” Johnny announced, leaning back in his chair with a groan of pure satisfaction, “that I may have reached my physical limit. I need to be craned out of this chair.”
“You say that every year,” Kyle smirked, “and every year you're first in line for dessert.”
“It's a separate stomach,” Johnny insisted, patting his belly. “The dessert stomach. It's science.”
That was your cue. You brought out Anya's magnificent gingerbread house, Farah's honey-soaked baklava, and your own traditional apple crumble. The group migrated to the living room, gravitating towards the comfortable sofas and the welcoming warmth of the fire.
After the last crumb had been consumed, Johnny rubbed his hands together, his food coma forgotten. “Right then,” he declared. “Time for the main event!”
The next hour was a blur of torn wrapping paper, laughter, and heartfelt thanks. Kyle gave Soap a high-end gaming headset. Johnny gave Kyle a framed, autographed photo of his favourite footballer. Farah and Alex presented Kate with a beautiful, hand-woven Urzikstani scarf, and Kate gifted them a set of top-of-the-line satellite phones, and Alex let out a low laugh like he couldn’t believe she’d actually done it.
Bit by bit, the pile under the tree dwindled, wrapping paper collecting like snowdrifts, and Soap, cheeks warm from drink and joy, turned an expectant look toward John, who was leaning back in his armchair with that quiet, satisfied watchfulness, whiskey in hand, looking like a man who would deny enjoying this while enjoying every second.
Soap opened his mouth, ready to heckle.
John took a slow sip, then set the glass down with a click.
“I’m not giving out presents,” he announced.
A beat of confused silence fell before you broke it, already rising to your feet. “But I am,” you said brightly, already rising, shooting John a look that said nice try, and his eyes crinkled like he was failing spectacularly at pretending he wasn’t in on it.
You went to Soap first. “Johnny. For the man who loves a big bang.” You handed him a heavy, rectangular box. He tore it open to reveal the state-of-the-art, custom demolitions toolkit he'd been drooling over in a catalogue months ago. He ran a hand over the matte black casing as if it were a holy relic. “Bloody hell… how did you even get this?”
“I have my sources,” you said, winking.
Next was Gaz. “Kyle. For the strategist.” You gave him a smaller package containing the rare, first-edition translation of ‘The Art of War’ he’d once mentioned. He was speechless, tracing the gold leaf on the cover with reverence. “I... I don't know what to say. Thank you.”
“Kate. For the woman who watches over us from the heavens.” You presented her with the stunning, antique celestial map from the 17th century. It was a nod to her callsign, 'Watcher', the eye-in-the-sky who guided all of you through danger, and a tribute to her sharp intellect and love of history. Her eyes widened with pure academic delight. “Good Lord. This is… museum quality.”
Anya made a sound that was half laughter, half astonishment, leaning in to look, already talking about dates and cartography like her brain had lit up.
For Farah and Alex, you presented a single, large, flat gift. They unwrapped it to reveal a heavy, dark-wood frame holding a collage: the sun-drenched group photo from Urzikstan, surrounded by smaller, candid shots John had taken on his phone when he thought no one was looking: Farah teaching children a clapping game, Alex patiently fixing a water pump. Farah’s eyes glistened as she clutched it to her chest. “This is perfect,” she said softly.
Finally, you approached the fireplace. “Simon.” You held out a long, slender box.
Ghost took it, his fingers brushing yours. Inside, nestled in black velvet, was a set of three perfectly balanced, custom-forged throwing knives, made by a master blacksmith to his exact specifications. You remembered him complaining after a training exercise that his standard-issue blades were poorly weighted, the balance all wrong for a clean throw.
He didn’t say a word. He just picked one up, testing its perfect, deadly balance. He looked from the knife to you, held your gaze for a long, unreadable moment, then gave a single, sharp nod. It was more praise than most people ever got from him.
Soap finally found his voice. “I don’t understand. This gear, these books… this is specialist stuff. How did you…?”
You smiled, turning to the man trying to look nonchalant in his chair. “Like I said. I had some help. And our Captain has a very particular set of skills and maybe a very long list of contacts who owe him favours.“
John huffed like he’d been inconvenienced by being acknowledged, a faint blush creeping up from the collar of his sweater.
“Just pulled a few strings,” he muttered. But the smile he couldn’t quite hide was proud, fond, caught out, and completely unbothered by it. He was caught, and he didn't mind one bit.
The night slowed after that, like the house itself was winding down, conversation softer and more fragmented, people admiring gifts, hands turning things over thoughtfully, the fire burning lower, the music quieter, the tree lights blinking patiently.
John stayed in his chair, silent and watchful, and you moved through the room, topping up drinks and collecting stray bits of wrapping paper, feeling his eyes on you like a private thread, steady and constant, even when he wasn’t touching you.
Eventually, the clock ticked past midnight, and the first yawns began. Kate and Anya were the first to leave, departures drawn out the way they always were when people didn’t want the warmth to end, coats pulled on slowly, hugs held a second longer than necessary, promises made with sincerity.
As Anya stepped toward the door, she squeezed your hand. “You’ve made a real home here,” she said quietly.
The words hit you in the chest. She meant it because she could feel it. After all, it was true.
Farah and Alex were next, their faces full of a peace that hadn't been there when they arrived. Farah pulled you into another fierce, grateful hug. “Thank you for this,“ she whispered. “For waiting for us. For all of it.”
Alex clapped John on the shoulder. “It was worth the trip. Thank you, John.”
“Get to the hotel safely,” John said, his voice a low rumble.
“Text me, and we will help clean tomorrow,“ Farah insisted, pulling you in again. “I insist.”
“I will,“ you promised, laughing softly. “Thank you.”
That left the original trio. Kyle finally nudged a very merry Johnny towards the door. “Come on, you big lump. Time to let these two get some rest.”
Johnny crushed you in a hug that made you wheeze. “Best Christmas ever,” he declared into your shoulder. “Don’t tell my mum I said that, she’ll kill me.”
Kyle smiled at you over Johnny’s shoulder. “He’s right, you know.”
Ghost was the last one out, as always.
He paused in the open doorway, cold air curling in around him, and turned back, gaze moving from you to John, who had his hand resting on the small of your back in a way that was casual and possessive all at once.
“Thank you,“ Ghost said.
Two words, enormous weight.
Then he was gone, and the door clicked shut.
The silence that settled afterwards wasn't really empty, but rather saturated, full of the lingering warmth and laughter of people you loved, like the house was still holding the echo of them.
You stood there for a moment just breathing it in, a contented smile tugging at your mouth as you looked at the mess, the half-finished glasses, the wrapping paper, the aftermath that meant it had been real.
Your eyes caught on a small box on the mantelpiece. Simon’s gift.
Curiosity tugged you over. The black paper was folded with crisp, precise edges, immaculate, like Ghost had wrapped it with a ruler. You unwrapped it carefully and found the box inside, then peeled back the black tissue.
Tactical gloves.
Soft, durable dark grey material, reinforced carbon fibre knuckles, specialised grip pads along the palms and fingers, the kind of gloves that looked custom-made, built to protect and to perform.
You laughed quietly, because of course.
Weeks ago, after a rough training exercise, you’d complained in passing that your gloves were wearing thin at the fingertips, that it was messing with your grip and trigger sensitivity, a minor gripe you’d forgotten almost immediately.
Ghost hadn’t.
It was the most Ghost gift imaginable: practical, protective, and thoughtful.
You exhaled, long and pleased, then bent to pick up a stray piece of wrapping paper.
A large warm hand covered yours, stopping the motion. “Leave it,“ John rumbled, voice right beside your ear.
You straightened and turned, and the firelight carved him into shadow and gold, exhaustion etched around his eyes, but it was the good kind, the satisfied weariness of a man who’d gotten exactly what he didn’t know he needed.
“It was a good night,” you said softly.
“It was perfect,” he corrected immediately, and his hands came up to frame your face, calloused thumbs stroking your cheekbones with tenderness that made your breath catch. “You were perfect. You gave all of them exactly what they needed.”
“You helped,” you whispered, leaning into his touch.
“Logistics,” he murmured, dismissive as ever, but his gaze was intense, walls lowered, leaving only John. “You’ve been running around all day, taking care of everyone.”
His forehead rested against yours, breath warm against your lips. “Now let me take care of you.”
The words, so simple, so loaded, sent a jolt of pure heat through you. Every ounce of exhaustion vanished, replaced by a sharp, tingling awareness of him, of the quiet house, of the promise hanging in the air.
A slow, deeply mischievous smile spread across your lips. You tilted your head, your eyes meeting his in the warm, dim light. “Oh?” you purred, your voice a playful whisper that was for him and him alone. “I thought you weren’t giving out presents this year, Captain.”
A low sound vibrated in his chest, half laugh, half warning, his eyes sharpening into something hungry and focused that stole your breath.
“This one,” he murmured, mouth brushing your skin, “is the only exception. Just for you.”
His words were a lit match to the kindling of a desire you’d kept banked all evening. The kiss that followed was the inevitable inferno. It wasn't a tentative exploration but a firm, possessive claiming. His mouth was hot and sure against yours, moving with confidence that left no room for thought, only feeling. He tasted of his whiskey, wood smoke, and the unique, inimitable flavour of John Price.
Your hands slid upwards, tangling in the thick, silver-dusted hair at the nape of his neck. You pulled him closer, a silent plea for more, and he answered with a low growl that vibrated from his chest into yours. His arms tightened, one hand splayed against the small of your back, arching you into him until there was no space left between you.
He broke the kiss only to trail his mouth along your jaw, his beard-scruff a delightful abrasion against your sensitive skin. “All night,” he rasped, “Watching you. Being the heart of this whole damn house. Holding it all together.” He pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the frantic pulse point on your neck. “So bloody hot. Had to wait 'til everyone was gone before I could even touch you properly.”
A shudder wracked your frame. “John,“ you breathed.
Without breaking his devastating assault on your neck, he hooked an arm under your legs and lifted you as if you weighed nothing at all. Your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, your arms tightening around his neck. He kicked the bedroom door shut with his foot, the quiet click sealing you in your own private world. Moonlight filtered through the window, painting silver stripes across the heavy duvet. He laid you gently on the bed, leaning over you, caging you with his powerful arms. His eyes, dark pools in the dim light, were stripped of all pretence, filled with a raw hunger focused entirely on you.
“You with me?” he asked, his voice a low gravel. It wasn't a question of consent - he already had that - but a grounding reassurance.
“Completely,” you breathed, your voice trembling slightly.
That was all he needed. He undressed you with a slow, painstaking pace, as if he were unwrapping the most precious gift he'd ever received. When you were almost bare beneath his gaze, bathed in the cool moonlight, any flicker of vulnerability was extinguished by the sheer adoration in his eyes. He wasn't looking at you like a conquest; he was looking at you like you were a masterpiece.
“Perfect,” he rasped, his voice thick with awe.
The promise to take care of you was not an empty one. He started with a kiss, deep and consuming, then trailed his mouth down your throat, over your collarbones, his beard-scruff sending shivers across your skin. His hands roamed, mapping every curve, before one settled on your breast, his thumb stroking your nipple into a tight, aching peak through the delicate lace of your bra. He lowered his head, taking the peak into his mouth, fabric and all, suckling hard until you gasped, your back arching off the bed.
He moved lower, his lips tracing a hot path over your ribs, your stomach. He nudged your thighs apart with his head, kissing the soft, sensitive skin of your inner thighs, moving agonisingly slowly towards the heat between your legs. His fingers found the damp fabric of your underwear and hooked into the sides, peeling them down your legs and tossing them aside.
And then his mouth was on you.
He parted your slick folds with his thumbs, exposing the most sensitive parts of you to the cool night air for a heartbeat before his hot, wet tongue swept over you. You cried out, your hips bucking instinctively. He merely grunted, a sound of satisfaction, and settled in. He licked and lapped at you with a focused intensity, tracing the length of you before zeroing in on your clit. He teased it with the tip of his tongue, circling it, driving you mad, before finally drawing the tight little bud into his mouth and sucking gently. The pleasure was so sharp, so overwhelming, it was almost painful. He used every ounce of his immense control to focus entirely on your pleasure, bringing you to the very brink of orgasm again and again, only to pull back at the last second, letting you tremble and ache for release.
“Please, John,” you finally begged, your voice a raw, broken thing, your fingers tangled tightly in his hair. “I need you. Now.”
He lifted his head, his eyes burning into yours. “Open your eyes,” he commanded softly. “I want you to look at me.”
You obeyed, your gaze locking with his as he positioned himself between your legs. You felt the blunt, heavy head of his cock press against your slick entrance, thick and hot and demanding. He entered you in one slow, deliberate, impossibly deep thrust. You both cried out at the connection. He filled you completely, stretching your wet heat around him, sheathing every thick inch of him. He stayed still for a long moment, letting you both adjust to the sheer intensity of the feeling, his forehead pressed to yours.
Then he began to move. His rhythm was powerful and steady, a relentless pace that was all about your pleasure. Each deep, driving thrust was a calculated assault on your senses. His hands gripped your hips, tilting you just so, angling his cock to grind against you just right. The slick sound of your bodies meeting filled the quiet room, a primal rhythm punctuated by his low grunts and your answering moans. In his eyes, you saw it all: the protectiveness, the love, and a raw, untamed lust that was all for you.
The world narrowed to the glorious friction between your bodies. The pressure inside you built, coiling tighter and tighter until you were shaking, your muscles clenching around him.
“That's it, love,” he encouraged, his voice a low, rough purr against your ear. “Come apart for me. Let go.”
His words, combined with one last, impossibly deep thrust, were all it took. The world exploded behind your eyelids in a blinding flash of white. Your scream was muffled against his shoulder as your climax ripped through you, a tidal wave of sensation that left you shattered and boneless, your inner muscles convulsing violently around his cock.
The feeling of you clenching around him, milking him with your orgasm, was his undoing. A raw, guttural groan was torn from the very depths of his soul, a sound of pure, unrestrained release. His eyes were shut, his jaw tight as he fought for a final shred of control that was already gone. He thrust into you one last time, burying himself to the hilt as his own release tore through him. You felt the powerful, rhythmic pulses of his cock deep inside you as he emptied himself. His body went rigid, every muscle locked and straining, his back arching as he poured every last drop of his pleasure into you. He shuddered violently, his head thrown back, a final, ragged breath escaping his lips as the last wave of his orgasm crested and finally crashed.
With all strength and tension finally gone, he collapsed onto you, his full, heavy weight a comfort pinning you to the mattress. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breathing harsh and ragged in your ear, his sweat-slicked skin clinging to yours. For a long time afterwards, neither of you moved. The only sound in the room was the ragged sound of your breathing slowly returning to normal. He gently brushed the hair from your forehead, his lips pressing a soft, lingering kiss there.
He eventually rolled onto his side, pulling you with him so you were curled against his chest, your leg thrown over his hip. He tugged the heavy duvet over you both, cocooning you in a bubble of warmth. You rested your head in the hollow of his shoulder, listening to the steady, slowing thump of his heart.
“Best present I ever got, you know,” you murmured. “You.”
He let out a low chuckle, the sound a warm vibration against your ear. His arm tightened around you. “Feeling’s mutual, love,” he rumbled. His voice grew softer, thick with a sincerity that made your heart clench. “Nothing can top this. Having you. That's the only gift I'll ever need.”
The raw emotion in his voice was almost overwhelming. You pressed a light kiss to his chest, then looked up at him. “Drank a little too much tonight?” you teased gently. “Or why are we suddenly being so sentimental?”
He shifted, propping himself up on one elbow to look down at you properly. His other hand came up to cup your cheek. “No,” he said, his voice a near-whisper. “I just bloody love you. Feel like I never know how to tell you enough.“
You smiled, a real, unguarded smile, and leaned in to kiss him again, sealing his promise in the soft, quiet dark.
As you settled back against him, you felt him shift. “Hang on,” he murmured.
You opened your eyes to see him reaching over to the nightstand. His fingers closed around a small, dark velvet box. He turned back, the box resting in his large palm, and held it out.
A giddy, breathless laugh escaped you. “What, asking me to marry you again?” you joked, your voice light and full of love. “Because it's always a yes.”
A soft, fond smile touched his mouth. He nudged the box closer. “Come on. Open it.”
With trembling fingers, you lifted the lid. A sharp, audible gasp was torn from your lungs. Your heart stopped for a full second before restarting.
There, nestled on the black velvet, was your grandmother's necklace.
The delicate golden chain, the tiger's eye droplet - it was the token of strength, love, and bravery she had given you the day you enrolled, the very one you had lost on that disastrous op in Al-Mazrah six months ago.
“How?” you whispered, your voice thick with unshed tears.
“I went back for it,” John said simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “After we'd cleared the area. Found the chain in the dust. The original stone was shattered, I'm sorry.” His voice was gentle. “Took me months to find a jeweller who could source a stone to match the cut and pattern from the photos you had. It's… not exactly the same, but it's close.”
Close? It was perfect. You looked from the necklace to his face. He had gone back. Into a still-hot zone, for a broken piece of jewellery. He had spent months painstakingly having it restored. He hadn't just given you a gift; he had given you back a piece of your heart.
Tears finally welled and spilled over. You lifted the necklace from the box, its familiar weight settling in your palm. “John…” you started, but no other words would come.
He took it from you gently. “Turn around,” he murmured.
You shifted, turning your back to him. You swept your hair aside and felt the cool metal of the chain as he draped it around your neck. His fingers, usually so steady, were impossibly tender as they worked the tiny clasp. You heard the soft click as it fastened.
You turned back to him, your hand immediately going to the tiger's eye droplet, already warming against your skin. It felt like it had come home. You looked at him, at this incredible, stubborn, thoughtful man, the love you felt for him a physical ache in your chest.
“You are…“ you began, shaking your head, unable to find a word big enough to encompass everything he was.
You lunged forward to embrace him so tightly you might have struggled to breathe. “Just wanted my girl to have her good luck charm back,“ he whispered against your ear.
“Thank you,” you whispered into his skin, placing a small, delicate kiss on his shoulder.
Hi Cali! Whenever you are finished with Kinktober, would you be willing to take a lil fic request?
I was hoping for insecure!reader x secretadmirer!price, where reader is constantly shy and self-deprecating even though everyone at the 141 really likes her. Price notices she's going through a tough time, but if he actually tried to get her flowers or give a compliment to cheer her up, he knows she would shut down. So he starts doing the secret admirer thing - leaving little notes tucked into her paperwork, ordering an ostentatious gift that gets delivered in front of her colleagues, her favorite coffee left on her desk, etc.
Everything else, I leave to your creative license! You could make it G-rated fluff or XXX smut, I'm down for either =D Also, bonus points if reader is plus-size, but not a requirement.
Thanks so much for considering! I love reading your work, as always <3
I am most certainly not finished with Kinktober, but I couldn't wait. I also couldn't fit it into just one chapter 🤦♀️ so forgive me for the double-tap on this!! 🩷🩷 thank you so much for the ask!
Chapter One || Chapter Two
Whip Stitch
(Price/FemReader) MDNI
Your serger punched through the kevlar straps with ease as you mended your fourth gear pack of the morning. Whatever these men were doing out there didn’t look like much fun. Bullets had ripped through the edges of your prior seaming, despite using expensive thread. But now, nothing was going to get through your work. This kevlar thread and reinforced stitching would outlive any fire fight.
Of course, you knew who these packs belonged to. The 141 were the leaders of your entire base, and they were the sole purpose of your operations. If they needed a new helo, they got one. If they needed dogs trained to sniff out specific chemical compounds, they had them. And when they needed a seamstress with a specialty in weapon resistant fabrics, you were shipped in for the job.
You couldn’t complain much, really. The pay was excellent, and they had housed you in the lower level of the fabrication building. Your office door was unmarked, and practically no one even knew you were down here most of the time. Ever since you were a child - the youngest of seven - you knew how to stay out of the way. It wasn’t that you were shy, per se, but being around too many strangers muted you for some reason. You were never one for crowds.
You also were blessedly cursed with the kind of plump, pneumatic figure that made you invisible to most men. Almost everyone you worked with was a man, and they all seemed to have the same taste. You had seen the way their eyes would track a tall, slender, ethereal example of your gender, their gaze locked onto her like moths to a flame. Hell, yours did, too. No one’s gaze had ever been locked onto you, and you liked it that way.
To be fair, no one had been unkind. They had all treated you like a professional, when they needed to treat you like anything at all. In fact, one of the sergeants from the 141 had even held a door for you, once. Pretty smile. Not your type, but still. He seemed nice. You were just keenly aware of your civilian status. You weren’t going to be doing any pullups anytime soon, not unless it meant trying to retrieve your extra spools from the top shelf. Bench pressing a plate, yes. You were strong and capable. You worked for the RAF, after all. But, would you be admiring your visible abs in the mirror? No. Maybe you’d be caught taking selfies of your thick ass, but that was your own business.
There. Finished. You took a close look at your work. It was pretty damn good, if you did say so yourself. With a pat on the back and a quick blast with the high powered steamer, your gear packs were ready for another leap into the fray. You put them into their container and looked around for the inter-office mailing address.
“Where do you belong?” You whispered to yourself, digging through what few stacks of papers you had on your desk.
You let out a long sigh. This was no good. Now, you’d have to make your way up to the main office to ship these to the correct squad without a label.
You pulled on your jacket and made your way to the door of your office. Stepping into the quiet, empty hall, you weaved your way down the stairs and out through the back loading dock. It was quicker to go through the front, but - you told yourself - you just liked to avoid the crowds.
Oh, yeah. The throng of people in the nearly-abandoned facilities building. Riiight… Your mind teased you, taunting you with your own insecurity.
You tried not to let the voices get you down. You would make this delivery, and then you could come back and hide - no, not hide. You could… practice quiet contemplation and work independently - in your office once again.
There were people in the main office. You could see them through the glass in the door.
You pushed the handle and stepped inside. The woman you needed to speak with was already engaged in conversation with none other than Captain John Price of the 141. He had led the task force in the recent ULF skirmish, he was responsible for the success of the Aqtabi mission, and he had single-handedly taken out Vladimir Makarov, the world’s most notorious terrorist. Now, he was heading a new mission, hunting down a splinter cell that had infiltrated the top ranks of your own government. You didn’t know if there could be a better man for the job.
And damn fine, too. Pipe down, brain. Not now.
But, you conceded, he was damn fine. He was enormous, first of all, which was one of the more attractive things a man could be. His shoulders looked like they would struggle to fit through the damn door, and his hands stretched out as wide as a dinner plate. He had such a wonderful smile, but the intensity of his eyes was what drew you in the most. That stark, frozen blue captivated you when he met your view, and you struggled not to get lost in them.
“I'm sorry, love,” Captain Price apologized to you, “Bit of a shipping mix up. You wouldn't happen to have some mended gear bags in that crate, would you?”
“Oh! I do,” you handed over the crate immediately, no questions asked.
“Tha’s sound. Fast delivery.” He popped open the lid and began to inspect your work. But, he seemed satisfied, and you were fresh out of ideas on what to say next.
So, you shuffled a bit, watching him marvel at the new stitches. Then, as if you were cosplaying as Lot’s wife, you turned your back on him and made an immediate bee-line for the door, desperate to make your escape. There was some commotion over your shoulder, but unlike Mrs. Lot, you were excellent at following directions, and anything behind you was suddenly no longer your business.
You were already on the steps before you felt a warm hand wrap itself around your forearm, gently turning you back.
“Wait jus’ a mo’, love,” Captain Price raised his voice a bit to get your attention.
You stopped dead in your tracks and looked down at where his hand was in contact with your bare skin. Then, when he removed it, you trained your gaze up at him, waiting for whatever happened next.
“Sorry,” he smiled with closed lips, “I just don't see the wire weave that I ordered. We need it to –”
“Oh, right. That's my fault. Sorry about that. It's on the third layer. Visible wire weave would snag and compromise the garment,” you informed him as directly as you could, not wanting to add to his confusion, showing him the layers of the gear as you spoke, “But, I added two sets and crosshatched them. It will be a little heavier, but the added protection will be… uh–” for the first time, you looked up at him and saw the way he was staring at you. His blue eyes were boring into your soul as you spoke. You tried to find your nerves, but they were somewhere between you and John Price’s striking gaze, “Um… I mean, it'll be, um… I hope it'll be better...” The corner of his mouth twisted up into a rakish grin, and any hope of recovery was off the table. You scrambled to take the box back from him, jostling it in your arms and not making much headway, “I can… um, I mean, if you want me to, I can redo it. It's fine. I'll just–”
“Easy, love. It's alright,” John did not release the crate back into your custody, “Bet you did a bang up job. Seriously, thanks.”
“Oh… I dunno about that. If it's not any good just… uh, you can send it back, and I'll –”
“Hey,” Price lowered his voice at you, and he covered your tiny hands with his immense palms, stopping you from trying in vain to overpower him and take the box back. “I said it's alright, darlin’. No harm done.”
You released the edge of the crate and stepped down another stair, turning your body away from him as you tried to put some space between you and the most gorgeous, rugged man you'd ever seen, “Well, okay. That's good… um, alright. Bye.”
This time, you did look back. Even if it meant that you'd turn into a pillar of who knows what spice, you had to see his expression. Was he angry with you? How could you have been so stupid as to layer wire weave? No one does that! You knew it caused problems in the fabric stability but maybe it was that way for a reason and you were just an idiot for thinking you were innovating something here. You were sure that he was going to look so disappointed in your work, but the moment you turned around, you saw him staring not at your stitching but at you. He was watching you, unmoving, that same curling smile stuck to his lips, his eyes wide with wonder.
8888888888
Watching her walk away was painful, but holy fuck was it satisfying. The sway of her wide hips and the spread of that beautiful rump made his blood hot, and he could feel himself sweating beneath his uniform despite the crisp breeze outside of the mail room.
John clutched his box of mended gear packs a little tighter before turning around and returning to the office. He caught the admin’s attention and asked her,
“Do you know her name?”
“Huh? Sorry, sir. Who?” The woman was typing something on her computer, distracted before she turned her attention to him.
“The woman who delivered this package. Who is she?” He tried not to sound too eager, but he needed a name.
“Oh, she's new. Um…” More typing, “Her office is in Facilities B2. Last name… hmm… Guess they haven't uploaded her file yet. Sorry, Captain.”
“Alright,” he rubbed his face, trying to bottle up his frustration, “Uh, her supervisor, then.”
The keyboard clicked and clacked as she searched up the information. She furrowed her brow,
“Looks like Commander Hughes.”
“Great, thanks.”
Price left the mail room again, and although every bone in his body, including the figurative one between his legs, wanted to follow her back to her office, he stopped himself. She obviously didn't enjoy confrontation, and while she had been helpful and knowledgeable about her products, he didn't want to scare her off. So, he would do what he did best: gather intel and wait until the the time was right before making his move.
He made his way back to the barracks, popping into the gear locker to store his mended packs before the briefing. Ghost was in there already, cleaning his sidearm.
“Hey, Simon,” Price nodded to him.
“Those the new packs?” Ghost asked, looking down into the box.
“Not new. She mended the old ones for us,” the captain handed one to him for inspection.
Ghost scoffed a bit, but when he had a chance to look at her work, he fixed his face.
“Not bad,” he conceded, but Price knew that he was secretly impressed.
“Better, even. Rip stop. Double mesh. Kevlar thread. The works.”
“Really?” Simon looked even closer at the pack, his thumb pulling at the tight edge, feeling its tension. “Should have her take a look at the fuckin’ TAC-V. Those gun cases have seen better days.”
“Mm,” Price took the pack back from his lieutenant and nodded, “Yeah, might do.”
The captain rolled the idea over in his mind, happy to find any excuse to place another order from his pretty little seamstress. The possessive streak inside of him was hot like an iron, but the logical part of his brain tried like hell to reign him in. Maybe she has a husband, someone waiting for her at home, some bastard who gets to enjoy the feeling of those endless curves pressed against him every goddamn night…
The briefing was too long. Laswell was on the video call, and she seemed to want another round of intel before she would give them the go ahead to infil the Aqtabi stronghold. Price thought they had enough, but he couldn't go against her wishes. So, he agreed to her orders.
Later that night, instead of following those orders, though, he was looking up anything he could find on Hughes’ new recruit. She was like a ghost. There was nothing online. No files in their records. No trace.
He would kill for a picture. Even just a RAF ID photo would do. Just to see those soft cheeks, the swell of that pouty mouth, the shining look of her eyes. She was breathtaking in a way that he'd never experienced before, and now, he wanted her for himself.
You know you’re the very best right? Had a thought, I’m sure you’re on Kinktober, no rush as always, ummm. Completely unhinged. Price in his most badass state. But you, no fucks given. You have the sexiest lingerie, and you have wanted him for so so long. He might have moved on to a new girl, but you don’t care. You get him back of course, and have him begging! Of course I’ve added a song. No rush as always!! Sending love, hugs, and the best vibes!! Miss you!! 💜
This was SO FUN to write. God, I needed this Price back in my life. Thank you so much for the ask!! 🩷🩷 Hope you like it.
Nighthawks
(Price/FemReader) MDNI
His apartment was dark, and yet you moved through the rooms like a ghost, knowing exactly where to step so that you would remain silent, undetected.
Picking his lock had been much too easy. You really needed to upgrade his home security system. But, you figured, a man like John Price didn’t have anything to be afraid of. After all, he was the monster under the bed. He was the evil that evil feared. Perhaps the lock was just there to tease you, to check and see if you really wanted to come in.
You explored in the shadows, smelling his cologne, peeking inside of his shower to see if there was another woman’s shampoo where yours used to be.
So what if there was? He wasn’t your man. Not anymore.
But here you were. Waiting. Hunting him like prey. The reality was that you couldn’t get him out of your mind. You’d played aloof, telling him you needed to go your own way. You wouldn’t be waiting, doe-eyed for him to turn up when he felt like it, smelling like sand and blood and mistakes. You didn’t need to be constantly reminded of a mission gone bad, spoiled and stinking until you could smell it rotting in between the silences between your clipped dialogue. A fresh grave.
No. You had a life to live. Adventures of your own. You needed more. At least… that’s what you said.
For months, you had convinced yourself of this truth. You had tried your best to replace him with a bigger, better, younger model. And another. And another. But, none of them quite lived up to your expectations. You wanted them to have a tighter grip. A bigger cock. A meaner bite. They were all too soft. Too weak. You were sick of dealing with these lesser demons; you needed your devil back for more reasons than one.
You heard the door turn. He hadn’t even tried the lock. He knew you were here.
Good, you thought. Better be ready for me, John.
You creeped around the corner of the hall, watching him move through the kitchen, flipping on the lights and moving around mountains of his mail. He was dressed in his uniform, and you could smell his scent from here. It was everything you hated. It was petrol and steel, sand and gunpowder. You wanted to put your nose in his armpit. You wanted his sweat. You wanted to smell the cigars and whisky on his breath. You wanted to bury your face in his crotch and let his pheromones coat your senses until you were drunk on him, to have his hands pawing at your skin, his fingertips digging into your fat deep enough to touch bone.
He tossed his keys on the countertop in a clatter and spoke to you over his shoulder,
“I’ll give you one chance to get the fuck out of my house,” John snarled, pulling his pistol from the back of his belt, “I’ll even count to three. One… Two…”
“Three,” you spoke over him, emerging from the dark corner of the room, stepping with a tight certainty on his hardwood floors, secretly hoping your stilettos were leaving ruts in the grain.
He locked onto you, watching as you materialized in his den, his eyes raking up your legs as they stepped through the slit in your black trenchcoat. You let the collar of it fall open, revealing your nearly bare chest and shoulders, showing off your skin in the blue dark of the room. You let your lips curl into a soft smile, stained red and pouting, turning your chin up at him in challenge.
“Charlie…” He sighed, but he didn’t disengage his weapon just yet, “What are you doin’ here, love?”
“Same thing I always do, baby,” you furrowed your brow as if you were confused by his question.
“And what’s that?” He kept his eyes trained on you, watching your every move as you crossed the room.
“Whatever…” You pulled off one of your leather gloves and let it fall to the floor with a soft pop, “... the fuck…” Then, the other glove, “... I want.”
“I just got back from Sakhra. I don’t have time for your games, Charlie,” his voice was edged with exhaustion, but he was all bark no bite. And you needed the bite.
“You know that’s not my name, John,” you purred as you stepped into his space, reaching out with your bare hand and running it across his mountainous chest, then down his arm, reaching for the hand that was clutched around his gun, “Not anymore.”
He disengaged the pistol as you moved your body closer to him, and you heard the slide lock click softly into place as he pushed it back, flipping his thumb over the safety. You wrapped your hands around his huge paw, dipping your finger across his trigger finger, tracing his knuckles as you mirrored his grip.
“I know,” John snarled quietly as he looked down at you. Even in your heels, you were no match for his towering height, “And I know that the last time you were in my bloody kitchen, you were packin’ your bags. Had somewhere better to be. Said…” He used his free hand to dip into the open collar of your trench, pulling it open to reveal more of what lay beneath, “Said you were done.”
You helped him undress you, pulling the belt away and undoing the knot with a quick tug, letting the coat flutter open, showing off your lacy lingerie underneath. You were wearing black on black on black. Your heels, your fishnets, your negligee; all of it was expensive and new and just for him. It was exactly what he wanted: something pretty to rip to shreds. Something soft to sink his teeth into.
“I lied,” you confessed, watching the way his eyes razed over you like a fire to a field, inspecting you, studying you like a memory he’d forgotten, “I don’t know how to be done with you.”
It was a rare moment of vulnerability for you. You didn’t even know if he would hear the truth in your timbre or if he would assume it was just another line as usual. The fearful side of your soul hoped it was the latter, but your man was smart. He saw through your act.
“Where did you go?” John whispered, reaching out slowly with his huge hand to cup your breast through the black lace.
You didn’t answer him, choosing instead to get lost in his touch. The heat of his forefinger and thumb against your tight nipple made your breath catch in your throat. Then, his pale eyes darted back up to your face, locking you in place with his cruel stare, and he twisted his hand, pinching you ruthlessly, hard enough for you to reach up and grab his wrist as he crafted pain from your pleasure. He spoke with all of his sharp, straight teeth flashing as he raised his voice at you, keeping his sinister grasp on your sensitive breast,
“Where? Who were you with?” He backed you up into the counter. Your trench fell off of your shoulders and into the crook of your elbow, trapping your arms, “You left me here after that bloody mission… All this time, I thought… Thought you blamed me… That I was –” He eased up on his grip, making you sigh in relief.
“It wasn't your fault, John,” you grabbed him by his scruffy chin and forced him to meet your eyes, “I never blamed you. Not once.”
He pulled his face from your hands and took a step back. The dim light from his stove hood cast an ethereal, shadowless glow over his skin. He was bathed in a soft, golden wash of neither light nor darkness, just bright enough for you to witness him remembering your shared past, for the scenes to play out behind his eyes.
You were in Haditha, running point for Charlie Team as the CIA liaison for counter intelligence, trying your damnedest to stop a nuclear war before it started. You had been in talks for days and days, desperate to bring the Urzikstani Liberation Force to the negotiation table. But, after Bravo Team began to apply pressure to Makarov, he made sure the ULF had no reason to seek peace. Your once-productive discussions turned ugly, and you were back to square one. By the time Kate told you to pull out, it was too late.
Captain John Price had ties to the ULF leader, Farah Karim, and his decisions to work with her meant that all of your hard work turned into a bloodbath. He'd come out victorious, but you'd lost everything. You'd even lost good men in the battle. Seeing their families’ faces when you were forced to deliver the news wasn't something that you would ever forget.
At the time, he claimed that he didn't know about your mission, but how could he not? Price knew if Makarov breathed too deeply. He knew everything. You were just another pawn in his game – and in Kate’s. That's what you'd told yourself that night that you left. If you hadn't, you wouldn't have ever found the nerve.
But, you knew in the very bottom of your heart that he'd never betray you like that. It wasn't his fault. It was war, and war takes no sides. It hurts everyone equally.
So, no, you didn't blame him. You blamed yourself. You should've taken precautions. You should've known when you were in over your head, but you'd always been too proud. Too sure of your own strength.
“Where'd you go, love?” His voice was softer this time. John watched you chase down old memories with him, stepping into your space again, hunting for answers to questions he didn't know how to ask.
“Bucharest,” you said quietly, “Took a few undercover jobs for Laswell. You know her. Fingers in every pie… Then, Moscow. Aqtabi. Damascus.”
“And why…” John took a moment to pull the rumpled coat from the back of your shoulders, tugging it off of you and letting it sag to the floor, “Did you come back?”
“Finished the job. Four weeks mandatory leave. You know the drill,” you rubbed your hands across his belly, fidgeting with his belt buckle, trying to distract him from his interrogation.
John caught your hands, gripping them none too gently, and he demanded your full attention, squeezing your smallest bones until they hurt. His voice resonated inside of his chest, like a dragon deciding if you would be his next meal or not,
“No. Why did you come back here? To me…”
His mouth was close enough to your nose for you to smell the musk of his breath and the heady tobacco of his favorite cigars. You lifted your chin to kiss him, pressing your lips to his for a connection that he wasn't ready for. His mouth hung open, slack and unprepared for your affection. He pulled back, denying you, and he grabbed you by the nape of your neck, scruffing you like a naughty pup.
“Cut the bullshit,” his cheeks flushed pink in frustration or lust or both; you really weren't sure, “Tell me why. Why are you here…” John yanked you back, forcing you to elevate your chest to keep your balance, giving him an unimpeded view of your plump breasts as they lay trapped behind the lace, “... in my fuckin’ kitchen… dressed like this…” He pulled down the top of the negligee, breaking its straps to reveal your nipples to the cool air of the room, “Haunting me like a goddamn ghost? It’s been months, Char–”
“I already told you once, John…” You interrupted him. Then, you lifted your leg, rubbing your shin and calf against his trouser leg until you reached his warm crotch, nudging his obviously growing length with your thick thigh, “That's not my fucking name.”
A sick smile spread across his face, and he laughed. Nothing was funny. And yet, he did it anyway. That low, rolling chuckle had the same effect on you as the sound of a singing pin being pulled from a grenade.
“I gave you a bloody chance, baby,” John snarled, using both of his hands to turn you around so that your back was pressed against his chest, shoving you into the worktop, “Gave you the option to tell me on your own…” His fingers traced their way up your bare back until he reached your neck, and then he squeezed hard enough to make you cry out, “But now, I’ll have to pull it from you myself.”
A hot, heavy palm came down hard on your asscheek, making you jump and squeal from the sudden pain.
John leaned forward, rolling his forehead across your shoulder, thrusting his clothed cock against you from behind,
“Fuck… Always so sensitive. Missed that.”
Another slap. This time, you bit back your reaction, reticent to give him the satisfaction of your noises.
“Oh, c’mon, love. Don’t play hard to get,” he goaded you.
His hand returned to the same spot over and over, four… five… six times, until your throat made a gutteral, desperate groan against your will.
“Mm,” John hummed in a gratified way, leaving little kisses along your trap muscle, “Much better.”
Now, he moved his attention to the backs of your thighs, giving you steady, flat-handed smacks on each one until you thought you might bruise. Your breath burned in your chest, and your teeth clenched together from trying in vain to keep yourself from making a sound.
“Missed this, too…” John purred, his fingers suddenly tracing their way up and over the curve of your ass and dipping between your legs, finding your warm core covered in lacy nothings.
You couldn’t help but take in a shuddering gasp when you felt his hand on you, teasing your sensitive lips through the mesh. With just the slightest pull from his hand, he could have touched you without a scrap of fabric between you. He could pull the fragile gusset to the side and touch your heated skin. But, he didn’t. John simply continued to rub and fondle your pussy through your lingerie, making your head spin, forcing you to question his motives.
“Did you come all this way just to be my filthy little slag?” John’s gentle fingers turned cruel as he squeezed the hardening body of your clit, pinching you just enough to make you twist out of his grasp.
You looked at him over your shoulder, smiling with a mask of sincerity in place,
“Yeah, John…” You shoved your ass back against his crotch, rubbing his cock with your curves, “No one else does it like you, baby.”
“Brat,” he growled, shoving himself fully on top of you. He was so heavy; his weight and strength pushed you flat against the wooden bench, and you were finding it hard to take a breath. Your ribs and belly were being crushed by his force, and there was nowhere for your lungs to expand.
“J–” You tried to protest, but he wrapped his enormous paw around your throat and stopped your words in their tracks.
“Shh, shh, shh,” he taunted you with an animalistic timbre, “You had your turn. Now, you can shut your fuckin’ mouth and do as you’re told.”
His hand moved quickly from your neck to your mouth, shoving two of his fingers inside and pressing into your tongue. Meanwhile, he fumbled behind you, plucking at the buttons of his crotch, dragging his heavy prick out to punish you with it.
You writhed your tongue against the prison of his hand, teasing him even though you were now mostly subdued. But, you were happy enough with your lot. Feeling his warm musculature working above you, leaning on you and needing you; that was a reward in and of itself.
“Tha’s it…” He praised you, “Suck on them, love. Jus’ like that.”
Your mouth worked against his hand, drooling on his fingers and slurping with lewd noises as you licked and sucked his callused flesh.
Then, he pulled them out of your mouth and brought them between your legs, tugging away at your costume so that he could press them roughly into your body. In doing so, he also revealed your best kept secret.
“Oh, fuck,” he groaned, his finger tracing over the thin bar of your anal plug, “Wha’s this, baby? Holy shit, you are such a needy girl. Mmmf–fuckkk…” He dragged his fingers along the soft, pliant entrance of your pussy, and when he plunged two of them inside of you, he angled them backwards to play with your plug from the other side of your thin walls. “There it is…”
The sensation of being invaded by such a strong hand was foreign to you. So many partners had treated you like you were some breakable, delicate thing. They would touch with one finger, slowly working you up until they gave you a second one, and never a third. Not John. He knew exactly what your body was capable of, and he was not a patient man. He knew how you liked to be handled, and he never held back.
You could only take in shallow gasps of air, and your cries of pleasure were tinged with a bit of pain, low and whining with each and every thrust of his hand. Through the thin lace, you felt the hot body of his cock as it lolled against you, waiting its turn, pulsing eagerly every time his fingertips brushed over the bulbous plug inside of your ass.
Over and over, he stretched his fingers into you, each one of them bigger than what some men were sporting in their trousers. He stuffed you full, pressing against your toy, his knuckles bending into your most sensitive spot, teasing both holes at once. You felt your wet bliss building up inside of you, and so did he. With the same, steady rhythm, he worked it out of you, making you come on his fingers. The sound of it filled the kitchen, along with your choked-back moans. You tried so hard to stop him from hearing you fall apart, but it didn’t matter. Your trembling legs gave you away, as did the sticky slick that he was now pulling out of you and rubbing over your clit.
“In my house…” John’s voice was fractured and panting, soaking with his need, “Wrapped up like a fuckin’ present… Plugged like a whore… Comin’ on my hand like you missed me… Goddamnit, love,” you felt him lean his brow against the back of your head, his breath warming the nape of your neck as he spoke, “Why are you doin’ this to me?”
“I missed you, John,” you whispered, arching your back for him, pulling his wrist around to your front, dragging his hand over your breasts.
He spun you around to face him, his face twisted between want and fury,
“That’s not enough.”
“Don’t you want me, baby?” You began to stroke his cock in long, sweeping pulls, listening as his precome began to smear down his shaft, making each pump silky and slick for you. “I know you missed me, too…”
Your negligee was still raked to one side, so you set his cockhead against your soft folds and began to jerk him off against your clit. Each twist of your hand pressed him through your swollen lips, teasing your already-sensitive nerves. The way his eyes rolled back in your head amplified your pleasure. Knowing you could tame such a beast gave you a thrill.
John only put up with your teasing for so long. Only a few minutes had passed until he was tucking your legs over his arms and hoisting you up on the kitchen island, knocking his own plates into the sink.
He hunched over you, his mouth dragging hot kisses across your tummy. Then, he lay his face between your legs and began to suck against your lips, licking at your quim with the flat of his strong tongue. His fingers returned to your pussy, stretching your hole, and you knew that he was preparing you for his prick.
John had never been able to fit without effort. You’d found that out the hard way in your shared tent one night in Khandor, and after that, he’d made sure that he had you nice and ready for him, weakening your tight slip with his mouth and his hands until you could take him with ease. You would be fuck drunk, stimulated nearly out of your mind, but he could finally bottom out inside of you, and that was all that he wanted.
His other hand was gripping your thigh so tightly that you were sure he was bruising you, and you could see the shadowed divots of his fingers as they pressed into your flesh.
“John,” you moaned with a high whine on the end of it, “Please…”
“Mm,” he pulled his mouth off of your pussy with a wet pop, smiling up at you from his sticky feast, “Another? If you say so, darlin’.”
He twisted a third finger into your hole and – between that and your plug – you thought you might not be able to handle him. But, as he began to eat you again, curling his fingers and knuckles inside of you, you couldn’t find the words to deny him. Your mind went blank, and your body stopped listening to reason. Your limbs fell, weakened in your joyous state, and your walls began to tighten, hoping to milk a cock that wasn’t even inside of you yet. A little more speed and he yanked another orgasm from you, pushing you beyond your edge, using his fingers like a baker, kneading you until you were ready to rise for him, bubbling happily to the top, proving yourself worthy of his work.
As you came, he used his tongue to taste your silky cream, and you could hear him swallowing the taste of you down his throat. When he came up for air, towering over you still fully clothed, his fingers still fondling you aimlessly, his smile shone with your pleasure painted right across his shaved chin.
John raked off his shirt and undershirt in one swift motion, pulling them from his back and over his head, letting you ogle his monstrous shoulders and wide chest in the process. Then, he began to crawl up onto the island with you, prowling over your limp body, shadowing you from what little light there was in the room. He bent himself to kiss your breasts, sucking on each nipple for a few moments, having trouble choosing between them.
As he kissed you, John was crawling over you on his hands and knees, not giving a single shit about his surroundings. The bottle of soap that was perched precariously on the edge of the sink tumbled into the well, clattering onto the washed dishes. His keys and wallet both rattled to the floor, kicked off by his boot, and without much fanfare, he pulled his sidearm out of his belt and tossed it in the sink as well, breaking whatever was unfortunate enough to be in there. His mouth kept returning to your breasts, nipping and suckling from you with absolute abandon.
His watch was next, hurriedly unlatched and slung onto the rug in his den, banging against the hardwoods. Finally, he licked over your left nipple and groaned with satisfaction, rubbing his fat cock against your folds. His shining ID tags jingled as they fell against your skin, and when he pressed himself into a missionary position, they dangled in front of your face, chiming gently as he fisted his shaft in his hands, prodding at your abused hole.
John sank himself inside of you until his crown was fully engulfed in your suede warmth, the foreskin surrounding him pulling back, unable to withstand your tight pressure. His sigh rumbled in his chest, and you used your hands to touch him, petting through his fur, teasing his nipples in return, stroking his big, heaving belly.
He turned to look down at you, and when he saw his tags were in your face, he pulled them over his head. Then, he grabbed you by the back of your skull, gripping your nape, and snarling at you with a twisted smile,
“Open up. Show me that tongue.”
You obliged him, moaning from the feeling of being stretched out over his cockhead.
“Hold onto these for me, would’ya?” John placed the tags in your mouth and looped the steel necklace around your head, letting the round cord fall across each of your cheeks like a horse’s bit. “Good girl.”
You tasted the metallic tang of the round cuts of steel, but you couldn’t help but enjoy having something against your tongue. To add to your experience, he pressed his mouth to yours, forcing his tongue inside, touching the tags himself, fucking your mouth with his writhing muscle as his strong phallus began to bully its way into your quim.
John pulled away from you and peered down into the dark valley between your bodies, staring at your coupling, watching himself contort your body to fit his need. He dragged his head back out, almost falling from you, and then slid it back inside, each time getting deeper and deeper with his shameless thrusting.
For you, it felt like he was entering you for the very first time, iteratively. You felt the terrible loss of his heat and his pressure, and in the next breath, he was back again, making you gasp from the sensation, sucking cold air through your teeth. You felt the metal cord of his necklace against your molars, and you let your hands roam his hairy body, dragging your nails across his belly and his back, petting him like a big bear. Being up here together on the kitchen island made you feel like you were on display. Some sexual ritual, something lurid and mystic. Uncivilized. Wild.
He was still in his trousers, and the canvas was rough against your legs, the belt he was wearing made a rhythmic jangle with each grind of his hips. But, he didn’t seem to give a fuck about any of that. He just wanted to fill you up.
Frustrated, he pulled himself out and used his hands to flip you onto your belly. The worktop was cold, and you tried to raise yourself onto your hands and knees, but his heavy palm shoved you back down. You craned your head back to see what his plan was for you, feeling every bit like a bunny caught in the claws of a hungry hawk.
Using his knees, he forced your legs apart, moving you like a ragdoll to get you into his desired shape, a pretty little puppet for his own amusement. With one hand glued to your ass to steady himself, he used the other to guide his length back inside. You watched as his face revealed his pleasure to you, twisting and contorting into delicious shapes as he felt your pussy consume him into her heat.
You let the tags fall out of your mouth to complain,
“Oh, fuck. You’re too big, John…” A groan resonated from deep in your chest as he sank the rest of the way inside.
“Fuck me,” he cursed, “And you’re too bloody tight. Fuck!” He snatched you by the hair and yanked you back so he could snarl into your ear, “Didn’t you let anyone else inside of this pretty cunt while you were gone? Hm? How many men had a fuckin’ taste of you, baby?”
“Plenty,” you lied through your wide smile, taunting him with a word he didn’t want to hear. There had been a few, but certainly not plenty.
John Price let out a noise that you thought couldn’t possibly come from a human being, yet it did. He fucked himself into you until his pubic bone was crushed against your bobbing anal plug, humping himself shamelessly forward, grinding as deep as he could go, bringing literal tears to your eyes.
With messy, frantic movements, he reached around to find his fallen tags and shoved them cruelly back inside of your mouth, gathering the steel chain from your neck and pulling back on it like reins. The necklace cut into the corners of your mouth, pressing into your cheeks and leaving two red lines from where it framed your face.
“This…” John slammed himself into you, thrusting hard and steady, pulling himself all the way out before hurtling himself back through you, “... This is my fuckin’ pussy. Always will be. I don’t give a damn,” he slapped your asscheek as hard as he could to punctuate his point, “How many bastards have had you, baby. You. Are. Mine.”
You couldn’t speak, but you could laugh. Even though you were shaking like a leaf from the overwhelming urge to come on his cock, you goaded him with your soft chuckling laughter. Through your ruined mascara and smeared lipstick, you let your mouth hang open against the chain in a simulated Glasgow smile, hoping he could feel your pussy squeezing the life out of him as you let yourself get lost in the feeling.
John fell on top of you, closing you in on all sides, pressing his cheek against your cheek as he began to rut into you faster and faster, building on your growing orgasm, growing your heat within your belly like a gleaming flame, sparking it into a roaring blaze. You could hear him whispering to you as he lost himself in your coupling,
“Think I’m funny, love? Think I can’t find you if I’m lookin’? I saw you in Syria. Knew you were in too deep, as usual…” Every few words were met with a blissful groan or a breath as he worked himself up to a froth, his body sliding against yours, his belt buckle clattering against the worktop, “You think Omar Al-Yassin died from a bloody heart attack?” Dark laughter rolled from his mouth like smoldering brimstone, “The moment he put a target on your back, he was a dead man.”
Of course. You knew it was too good to be true. You hadn’t thought that John had been the one to pull the trigger, but you suspected that the 141 had been sniffing around your operation in Damascus. It had their scent all over it. Sanctioned? Absolutely not. But John didn’t need someone to sign off on his business. Kate was lucky if she even got a phone call, much less a debrief these days. After Shepherd’s betrayal, John was one bad day away from landing on the wrong side of the line, and he didn’t seem to care.
“Fuckin’ hell, love,” he grunted, biting down on your neck for a moment, kissing you the next, “I can feel that plug in you. Every time that… I push inside… Makes me wanna come so bloody quick.”
The idea that he had murdered a man in cold blood for you, and that he wanted to spill himself inside of you, collided in your mind, bursting inside of your head like a bomb. Your body froze, the only thing that it cared about was spooling a coiling, snapping orgasm within your core, wrapping pleasure around you like a writhing snake. All the while, your poor, stretched quim tried her best to grab onto his length, tugging him further in, begging for his thick cream to fill you up.
“Yes, fuck!” John moaned, “Come for me, love. Takin’ me… So fuckin’ good. This pussy is mine… Has to be. Such a perfect fit. Perfect… Mmnghh… Mmn–fffuck!”
You felt how hot his come was as soon as he shot his load inside of you. It flooded your hole, and you came so hard around him that your plug slipped inside of you, making you feel like you were being fucked in your ass and your pussy at the same damn time.
He was groaning in desperate shouts, loud enough to shock you. You were making your own pathetic noises, but you weren’t worried about that. You just wanted to keep him inside of you. Fucking John Price had its perks, and that was your favorite one. He loved to stay inside after he was done, soaking himself inside of your warmth until he couldn’t hold it there any longer. You placed your hand on the back of his neck, letting his tags fall from your mouth once more, turning him so that you could kiss him. It was languid and aimless, but it was nice to feel his tongue on yours, tasting of your pussy. Both of you were trying and failing to make out, your orgasms ruining your kisses in favor of crafting wanton whorish moans inside of your throats.
“So good for me,” John gasped, kissing your lips and cheek and chin, “Such a good girl.”
“Stay…” You begged, “Stay inside of me, John… Don’t go.”
He breathed out through his nose, indignant, but he didn’t pull out,
“I should leave you empty, love,” he muttered, “Just like you fuckin’ left me.”
You searched his face, looking at his eyes to see his true feelings, and you frowned,
“I never meant to leave you alone. I just… I didn’t know who I was anymore.”
John pulled his cock from you, and you thought - for a moment - that you were being punished. But when he lifted you up from the island and carried you in his arms to his bed, you knew that he wasn’t cross. Not anymore. He followed you into the sheets and sat up with you, lotus style, guiding himself back inside even though his length had begun to soften. He gasped from the overstimulation, but when he found you warm and waiting for him, he let himself melt into you again, kissing your breasts and neck and mouth, enjoying you for just a little while longer.
He leaned back into the headboard and reached into his nightstand, pulling out a cigar stub. The match lit up the whole room for a moment, making him look every bit like the devil you remembered, and his first puffs of smoke hit you with a heady dose of nostalgia. He took a long drag and breathed it out all over you, letting his cloud dance across your belly and breasts, drawing little spirals as his breath dissipated around you.
Finally, he asked you,
“Did you find yourself, then?”
He came forward and kissed you, tasting like sex and smoke.
“Yeah,” you nodded, letting his kiss interrupt your answer, “I think so.”
“Why did you come here tonight, love?” It was the last time he would ask you. You could hear the finality in his tone.
He still held you in his arms; he still pressed his body against yours. John was still here. He had never left. But… you couldn’t look him in the eyes when you told him the truth,
“There’s a shipment coming into Haditha next week. Uranium. You have to take me back.”
It was his turn to study you, checking your eyes for any deceit. When he saw that you were telling the truth, he let out a ragged sigh,
“No.”
“John, please,” you immediately protested, reaching up to touch his cheek with your hand, making him look at you, “I need to make this right. If I can just–”
“I can’t do it, love,” he let the cigar linger in his mouth, and he moved his hands over you, fondling you, touching you like you would disappear again, “Can’t lose you. Hell, I don’t even know if I’ll see you again after tonight, and it’s fuckin’ killin’ me.”
John offered you the cigar. You reached out and took it, enjoying his softening cock as it began to weaken inside of you, teasing your sensitive hole. You smoked for a moment, studying him, letting your hands feel his incredible musculature. Wondering at him like he was some sort of treasure.
“I still have it, you know,” you shrugged.
“What?” He asked, genuinely lost.
“The ring,” you whispered, not trusting your own voice.
John didn’t speak.
You handed him back his cigar stick, and you watched him take it. He studied it for a moment before he decided to take a short puff, and then another, keeping the smoke in his mouth before blowing it away.
“Don’t play with me, love.”
“I wouldn’t. Not with this. You know that.”
“I’m serious. The chapel is open tomorrow. Don’t fuckin’ run your mouth at–”
“John,” you interrupted him, and he breathed heavily, his heart pounding against your fingers as you touched his chest, trying to center him, “If you still want me, you can have me. I knew I didn’t want to do this without you. Never should’ve left. I regret it every damn day. Please, John,” you hoped he could hear your earnestness. You needed him to hear you. This was your one chance to set things right.
I swear I haven’t disappeared and I am working on WIPs and your asks. Life has been rough lately but I desperately want to focus on writing again, and I might have something to post later this week 😌
Update on this: I’m still around, life still kinda sucks but I’m still working on those fics! I promise! I can’t wait to share everything that’s been on my mind. ♥️
I swear I haven’t disappeared and I am working on WIPs and your asks. Life has been rough lately but I desperately want to focus on writing again, and I might have something to post later this week 😌
— ❥ [ requests / asks ] (for requests - john price related preferably - or to say hi! <3)
— ❥ [ my art ]
🌙 nsfw / contains smut
✨ sfw / no smut
— ❥ [ somewhere only we know ]🌙 [16k words]
john price takes you on a road trip through the english countryside - just the two of you, a few pieces of his past, and the unpredictable weather
— ❥ [ where you belong ]🌙 [3.6k words]
john price knew you'd always obey — no matter how hard he pushed — and that’s what undid him.
— ❥ [ heavy, dirty soul ]🌙 [3.7k words]
after a long mission, john is exhausted, bruised and distant. you take care of him.
— ❥ [ carve your name into my bones ]🌙 [7.1k words]
butcher john price carves through flesh and bone - he never expected a florist’s touch to cut the deepest
— ❥ [ chamomile ]🌙 [8.4k words]
after a painful divorce and unexpected reunion, you and john rediscover a love that never truly faded.
— ❥ [ bite marks ]🌙 [4.4k words]
you show john exactly who he belongs to when other women won't take a hint.
— ❥ [ hold me close and tell me that it's real ]🌙 [4.7k words]
a message to a wrong number turns out to be just perfectly right.
— ❥ [ skin on skin ]🌙 [1.4k words]
a surprise waits for john when he returns home earlier than you expected…
— ❥ [ you could be the death of me ]🌙 [3k words]
disobedience has consequences, especially when it comes to john price.
— ❥ [ coming home ]🌙 [3,5k words]
three weeks apart is three weeks too long for john.
— ❥ [ caught in the undertow ]🌙 [7k words]
john made the right call that day. it could have cost you your life, but it saved a dozen others - innocent men, women and children. he made the right decision. …did he?
john price is dragged to a fancy halloween party, where he finds himself captivated by the stunning and mysterious hostess, victoria di corvo. (vampire!AU / kinktober)
— ❥ [ floral misdelivery ] ✨ [2k words]
overwhelmed by the task of gifting his mother flowers, john makes a mistake that turns into a chance to show you, his assistant, what you really mean to him.
— ❥ [ mirror image ] 🌙 [3k words]
john comes home from a training mission with new recruits and desperately needs to feel to be back in control over something (hint: it’s you).
— ❥ [ family dinner ]🌙 [9k words]
john asks you to pretend to be his girlfriend for one night, to save himself from annoying questions from his family. turns out, you're actually who he really wants.
one day, captain john price brings his team home, a small house in a london suburb, after a mission that changed everything. you didn’t know that you would soon be back in the field again, chasing demons. if only you knew that sometimes, what you believed to be true wasn’t always as it seemed… (alternative ending fic)
— ❥ [ a private lesson ]🌙 [4k words]
your husband, captain john price, insists on teaching you how to shoot at the range. but you soon realize that his instructions involve a lot more than just handling a gun.
— ❥ [ a million miles apart ]🌙 [2k words]
it's the middle of the night, and the phone is ringing. it's john, and something is wrong... but it's a different kind of urgency. (phone sex)
— ❥ [ when lilacs bloom ]🌙 [5k words]
the aftermath of a mission leaves you shaken, and only john's presence can ground you as you face a new part of your life together. (shower sex, pregnancy)
— ❥ [ the fall of crowns ]🌙 [8k words]
as a sniper, you're not exactly known for close-quarters combat. john price wants to test your limits, and you both end up pushing each other beyond the point of no return. (consensual noncon!)
— ❥ [ the wolf and the nightingale ]🌙 [14k words]
witnessing something you shouldn't have, you're thrown into a world of shadows and danger, placing you in captain price's protective custody.
— ❥ [ champagne dreams ]🌙 [9k words]
task force 141 had taken on an unusual mission for a night: they were playing bodyguards for a retired general's daughter. captain john price expected it just to be a quick and well-paid gig - turns out, he and you weren’t seeing each other for the first time, though…
— ❥ [ they say don't open old wounds ]🌙 [3,7k words]
the mask hides more than just a face; it hides a shared past, a love lost, a ghost you thought long buried.
When he arrived at the entrance of the cave, it was still dark. Close to 0300 if his internal clock was right. John moved as quietly as he could through the entryway, snaking his way through the rocks in his human form, stepping as lightly as he could. As he reached the door to the main den, he touched the handle, and it gave just enough to allow him to inch inside. If the others were awake, they would’ve heard him, but as long as they were sound asleep, he might’ve gotten away with it.
He paused, listening to their breaths. Then, he set his eyes on his prize: Doc.
She was buried in his nest, human and naked, her body only halfway covered by a folded pelt. Her plump arse was on full display, and she was laying face-down, her little stuffed bear just out of reach of her outstretched hand.
John loved how she was such a wild sleeper. She would always tumble into him in the night, all arms and legs and flesh. He would open his arm and let her in, watching her bury her face into his ribs, her warm breaths skating across his skin and making him hungry for her.
He was hungry, now. But, she wouldn’t want the others to hear their lovemaking. So, he crept up, crawling on the bed on all fours, slowly and carefully as he could. Still, she dozed deeply. John reached for the fur that covered her back and started to pull it off of her, inch by inch, slipping it around her shoulders until her backside was fully exposed to the night air.
Indulgently, he bent over her to study her face. She was gorgeous. Those soft lips, parted just enough to show her teeth, her round cheek, aching to be touched, the smart arch of her brow. She was perfection.
Like a bullet, John’s hand shot out and covered her nose and mouth while the other wrapped around her shoulders, crushing her body to his. Immediately, she writhed in fear, her eyes flying wide open. So, he quieted her with his mind.
Be still.
She immediately fell limp in his grasp in a delightful, pliant sort of way.
Joy filled his mind, pouring out of her like an endless font. Her love for him still took his breath from his throat, even after all of their time together, making him revel in her sincerity. He took a sharp sniff at the base of her neck, right next to his mark, scenting her as his cock began to rush with warmth, filling with blood from the root.
“Open for me,” he whispered in a low tone, keeping his hand over her mouth, but making sure she could still breathe.
hi i’m leaving this here because tumblr does not allow me to make any comments at ALL for some fking reason even after i contacted them a month ago.
i just read your piece “carve your name into my bones” with butcher!johnprice and florist!reader and i just had to tell you this;
the way you write is just so unique. i’ve never read someone’s writing where i felt like it was something I wanted to write too because of how good it was and how much it just spoke to me.
it was so captivating, the way you worded john’s world with his life of witnessing death and murder and blood (by his own hands sometimes which you made very clear in a way i adored) and the raw intimacy between john and the reader was just… wow, truly you’ve outdone yourself.
TLDR: good job author, there is seriously so much more i want to say but i don’t know how to, and idk where to start even. i’m all over the place. <33 ily
I’m so sorry I’m responding so late - I literally just saw this in my inbox and omg? Thank you so much!! It makes me so happy that you enjoyed it. Words like are so motivating and make it so worth it!
