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.
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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.
Babies learn language by being immersed in a context driven by that language, by imitating the mouth movements and the sounds they see and hear around them. They often reach for their parent's faces, touching cheeks, lips and throats to feel the movements and vibrations that come with every word. That creates the base for their pattern recognition to kick in, slowly creating mental rules for language and its combinations.
Which makes me think about Creature!Ghost, who finds any and every way to look at your face and specially your lips when you talk to him.
He leans closer and you think he might not hear your properly, so you enunciate your words a little more, making emphasis in the vocalisation. When he reaches a hand up —slow and careful, always mindful of not making you feel like it could be motivated by any aggression— and gingerly places it on your sternum you understand what's really going on.
So you rest your hand over his, pressing it closer to your chest so he can feel the vibrations caused by every word and repeat what you had been saying, eventually moving it to your throat so he can notice the physical difference between a silent and a sounded consonants.
It doesn’t surprise you that the next step is for him to mouth words, often without really using his voice, just trying to wrap his lips and mind around the syllables. You earn a smile when you encourage him, and he slowly builds up enough confidence that he starts to actually sound out new words instead of just mouthing them.
You're wiping down the dinner table, tidying up after just having finished eating, when it happens.
He shyly approaches you, slow steps, slightly unstable body as he hesitates. He looks down to something in his hands, and when he has finally gathered enough courage he hands it to you, "read book… for me?"
With having to tidy up all forgotten about, you give a nod, a smile pulling at your lips as you take the offered book. "Of course," you lead him to the small couch by the fireplace. You settle on the slightly beaten-down cushions and, before you have time to make space for him, he settles down on the floor, beside your legs, lightly leaning his weight against you.
He gives a shake of his head when you offer space beside you, a hand reaching over to open the book you're still holding. "I see words better here." So you just adjust a little closer, feeling the warmth of his body press into your side, and start to read the book, pausing whenever necessary so he can discover new sounds and rules of the language.
I'm always so amazed by the way you portray the boys so beautifully. I am warmed by your view of them and it always feels like home, so thank you 😭
Forgive me if you've been asked this before, but have you drawn Ghost's brother Tommy before? I wondered if perchance you had ideas for him and their relationship 😣
....... weeping about this... I TOO am amazed, as that is all I've ever wanted
I've never thought about him directly, but I've referenced him vaguely in this comic... I gotta imagine they were like most siblings: soulmates/nemeses/their only allies in life.. I can't imagine his brother WASN'T every reason Ghost's the kind of leader he is in the game
Have you ever heard of like the old tradition that executioners were sometimes allowed to pardon a female criminal if she agreed to become his wife since it was harder to get married as an executioner. I feel like you’d go crazy for that premise. Also I love you.
ive been brewing over this all daaayyy its plaguing meeeee
he's a quiet man. he does this solely because its a necessity. maybe he's heavily scarred under the mask, unable to hold any other job or wife-
so when you beg for your life, he gives you an out.
"it's death," he says quietly. "or a prison with me."
the ones who sentenced you fight, of course. they call you a witch, a monster-
but at the end of the day, his axe is clean and he calls you his wife.
I dont think you see his face for a while. he settles into bed after candlelight is out and leaves before the sun rises. he doesnt sleep next to you, asks you nothing, silently eats the food you make.
"If you're not going to treat me as a wife," you say. "Why even marry me?"
He moves his spoon in the glop you had made for dinner. You were never a perfect housemaker.
when you do see his face, its worse than you imagined. its scarred, teeth exposed through his cheek, skin pink and shiny. It's only for a moment and he moves quickly, snuffing the fire.
"Don't-" he warns in in the dark.
"Come to my bed tonight," you say. "Snow is coming and the house gets cold."
the first time you two have sex, almost no words are exchanged. you're awakened by his arm coming over your form, simply resting on your hip. Tonight hes pressed into your back, soft breaths tickling the back of your neck. hes a large man, thick and barrel chested, soft around the middle and softening still the longer he is married to you. his touch is innocent, but you dont want it to be.
you carefully guide his hand up, letting it cup your tit. For a moment, you think he's fully asleep and completely unaware, fingers still against you. then, he squeezes, gently, testing the feel of you under him. the beat of his breath grows warmer as he moves, breathing you in, touching you-
you pull up your own dress and push down his pants without ever turning to face him. His cock is burly, twitching and leaking against your inner thigh as you try to line him up with yourself.
"It's slippery, like oil-" he mumbles into your hair. "I've never-"
It doesn't surprise you that he's a virgin. When would he have ever? You just presses back into you until your body gives and the monstrous head of his cock pops inside you.
John Price has been on leave so long this time his jaw aches with the desire to taste you by the time he makes it back to the airport.
You’re on your toes, scanning the crowd at arrivals, and he’s just cleared security; bag over his shoulder, civvies on, tired from travel and smelling like recycled air and smoke. And it hits him all at once: weeks of not having your mouth. Weeks of nicotine instead of kisses. Weeks of tasting nothing but paper cigarettes when what he wanted was you.
His jaw tightens. He speeds up.
“John-”
You don’t get the rest out. He drops the bag, one arm hooking around your waist, the other coming up to the back of your head, and drags you in. Kisses you right there in the middle of the bloody airport like a man who’s done being patient.
It’s filthy. It’s hungry. He doesn’t start gentle- he can’t. He goes in deep, wet, like he’s trying to make up for every morning he didn’t get to kiss you. You taste airport coffee on his tongue and smoke under it, sharp and bitter and him. He groans into your mouth, low and desperate, like, there you are.
A kid somewhere says, “Ew.” Someone else chuckles. You do not care.
He cages you in, chest to yours, fingers in your hair, tilting your head to kiss you properly. His beard rasps your chin; his mouth slants over yours again and again, never satisfied. Every time he pulls back an inch to breathe, he chases right back in like he can’t stand being that far from you.
“Missed you,” he gets out, lips still on yours. “Missed this… fuck, sweetheart-” another kiss, deeper, tongue pushing past your lips like he’s claiming the territory. “Been dying.”
You feel how wired he is. How tight his shoulders are. How he’s vibrating with a need that no leave, no pint, no smoke could touch. Like his mouth has been empty for weeks and finally has something worth doing.
“Car,” you murmur against him, breathless, trying to rein him in. “John, car.”
He makes an aggravated sound. “You’re cruel.”
“You can maul me in the car.”
“Oh, I will.”
He scoops up his bag with one hand and keeps the other on you, arm around your shoulders, mouth still stealing quick, messy kisses as you walk. Every ten steps he hauls you in to kiss you again. At the elevator. In the hallway. Just outside the sliding doors where you probably shouldn’t be snogging, but he’s got your bottom lip between his teeth and he is not stopping.
“Smoked like a chimney,” he mutters, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Wasn’t the same. Wanted this.” Kiss. “Wanted you.” Kiss, deeper, enough to make you grab his shirt. “Kept thinking about your mouth.”
You make it to the car and he barely lets you get the door unlocked before he presses you into it.
Metal against your back, his body crowding yours, his mouth crashing into yours all over again. This kiss is rawer, wetter, like the pretense of public decency finally snapped now that you’re half hidden by vehicles. His thigh wedges between yours so he can grind, just a slow, helpless roll of his hips because he’s hard and he’s missed you and he wants to feel you.
He kisses you until your lips are swollen, until you’re both breathing through your noses, until there’s a faint shine on his beard. He pulls back to look at you flushed and kiss-bruised and groans like it hurts.
“Could take you right here,” he says, voice ruined. “Door up, skirt round your hips.”
“Drive,” you whisper, touching his face. “Home.”
He swears under his breath but obeys, because he wants the real privacy and because he knows once he’s got you home he can keep you for hours. Still, the drive is excruciating.
He can’t stop touching you. One hand on the wheel, the other on your thigh, big and warm, sliding higher at every red light. He keeps glancing at your mouth like it’s a drink he left in another room. At one point he just leans over at a stop sign and kisses you again, quick and messy, like he’ll die if he doesn’t.
The second you’re parked, he’s out. Around the car. Passenger door yanked open. You step out and he’s already on you, one arm around your waist, the other braced on the car roof as he tilts your head back and devours you.
No preamble. No “we’re home now.” Just mouth. His mouth. Taking, sucking your tongue into his, kissing you so hard your knees go a bit weak. He tastes like airport and nicotine and you, now, and he moans into it, shameless.
“God, I missed tasting you,” he breathes, licking into your mouth like it’s dessert. “Kept thinkin’ about this. Every night.”
You somehow get to the front door. He walks you towards it while still kissing you, big hands on your hips, turning you so your back hits the door. Keys clatter to the porch. He doesn’t care. His mouth is on yours, on your jaw, on your throat, beard scraping everywhere his lips aren’t.
“Price-” you gasp.
“Inside,” he growls, words dragged out of him, not said. “Now.”
You fumble for the keys and then the handle blind, still kissing him, teeth clicking. The door finally gives and you both fall over the threshold, not graceful, just desperate. It swings shut on the back of his boot and he turns with you, crowding you into the little patch of wall by the entryway like the rest of the flat doesn’t even exist.
He kisses messy. Wet, deep, hand fisted in your hair to tilt your head just so. He’s already hard against your belly, already breathing like he’s run a flight of stairs, already muttering, “Missed you- missed this- bloody hell,” between kisses.
You reach for his belt and he catches your wrist to nudge your leg up, hitching it on his hip so he can slot himself closer. The angle drags a groan out of him. He chases your mouth again, tongue hot and claiming.
“Bed,” you manage, dizzy.
“Can’t,” he says, already dropping.
One second he’s towering over you, the next he’s on his knees on the entryway rug, shoulders broad enough to block the door, hands already at the waistband of your panties. He yanks your underwear down in one ruthless drag, eyes gone dark and happy.
“Price- Jesus-“
“Been thinkin’ about this since I got on the bloody plane to go back to base,” he says, voice wrecked with want, thumb pushing your knee wider. “Lift up, love. That’s it.”
You throw a hand back to the wall to steady yourself. He hooks your leg over his shoulder, opening you right there in the doorway, coat rack to your left, shoes in a heap, keys on the floor where you dropped them. He noses in, breath hot on your thighs, beard scratching in the best way, and then he dives.
No teasing tonight. No slow warmup. Just mouth to you like he’s finally home.
You gasp loud and unpretty. He groans right back, deep and satisfied, like the taste of you knocked him sideways. One arm bands around your thigh to keep you exactly where he wants you; the other splays over your hip, holding you to the wall when your knees go soft.
“Fuck, John- ” You tilt your head back, hit plaster.
“That’s it,” he murmurs against you, and then flattens his tongue and pulls. Your hips jerk. He chases, wide, greedy licks up the whole length of your slit, then zeroes in, sucking your clit into his mouth like he’s trying to bruise it.
It’s filthy. Wet, hungry sounds echoing in the little entryway. His beard is getting slick. His shoulders flex as he adjusts, pushing closer, deeper, grinding his face into you. You can hear how much he missed this, how much he needed it; little grunts of satisfaction, breath breaking when you roll your hips for him.
You try to close your legs on his head- too much, too good- and he just laughs into you, low and delighted, prying you back open with his free hand. “No, no. Let me have it.”
Your heel slides; he catches it, hikes you higher on his shoulder so he can get a better angle. Now he’s got you tipped down toward his mouth, body bowed, nowhere to go. He licks you the way he smokes; slow drags, expert, patient in intention but not in hunger. Every time you gasp, he does it again.
“Bedroom- ” you try, already gone.
“Later,” he says, mouth full of you. “After.”
He gets sloppy with it because he can. Because he’s on his knees for you in the bloody hallway and you’re right here and he doesn’t have to pretend to be anything but a man who adores your cunt. He spits, he sucks it back in, he shakes his head a little to grind his mouth over you, beard burning your thighs sweet. It’s dizzying. The entryway tilts.
Your hand finds his hair- pulling, holding- and he groans like praise, like you just told him he’s perfect. “That’s it. Hold on to me.”
You do. You ride his face right there against the wall, leg over his shoulder, panties around your ankle, door still half open behind him. He eats you through it, relentless until you’re shaking and babbling, until you come with your head knocking the wall and his name bitten between your teeth.
He doesn’t stop the second you peak; he gentles it, easing you down, tongue softer now, kisses pressed into the mess he made. When he finally pulls back, his beard is shiny, his mouth is swollen, and he looks up at you like you’re the best meal he’s had in months.
“Now,” he says, thumb stroking your thigh, pleased and smug, “we can go to bed.”
You look at him on his knees, hands on you, mouth wrecked; and laugh, breathless. “You’re carrying me.”
“Gladly,” he says, and stands like you weigh nothing at all.
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