Imagine sitting on the couch, just in your panties and Alejandro’s oversized t-shirt, your body completely drowning in it as you play one of your favourite tactical games. The world around you doesn’t exist as your character is hidden somewhere between the bushes, sniper rifle in hands and you concentrate on shooting down pixelated hostiles, too entranced in the mission to hear the jingle of the keys, clang of the lock being opened and the sound of the door opening and closing. You have no idea Alejandro is back home until you catch the sight of him entering the living room in your peripheral vision.
He doesn’t even greet you, his mind focused on one thing and one thing only and he closes the distant between you two in just a few long strides and falls on his knees right in front of you, right in between your open legs, eyes on your clothed pussy, mouth salivating, hands already trembling, more than ready to worship you like a deity you are. You’re silent and he’s as well. You just shift a little, correcting your pose, both legs resting upon Alejandro’s shoulders, as you give him a perfect access to his favourite place in the universe.
He likes it slow, sensual, messy and lasting hours upon hours. He starts just by gathering the spit in his mouth and letting it slowly drip down on your panties, immediately pressing his fingers down and spreading the saliva all over the material. He does it again and again and again, until you’re thoroughly soaked, his spit mixing with your slick that is slowly oozing out of you as you get more and more aroused by each passing second. He plays with you; snapping the band of your underwear against your skin, pinching harshly your already swollen clit, teasing your greedy little hole through the material with just a tip of his finger.
You just let out a little frustrated sigh at that. You miss the target on the screen, but it doesn’t matter, not like it mattered just fifteen minutes ago, not anymore, as now you’re way more focused on what’s going on in between your legs than the fake world of the game; because this is real. Real and powerful and oh so good, so fucking good, always good, because Alejandro knows exactly what to do to make you lose your goddamn mind.
He pushes your panties aside, greedy tongue finally finding its in between your folds, lapping at them like it’s his favourite meal. And it is, in a way. You melt into the couch, your hand resting on top of Alejandro’s head, fingers brushing through his hair; controller and a game suddenly forgotten somewhere in the background as you finally admit defeat, your focus now entirely on your pussy drunk partner.
a/n: rahhhhh, my first call of duty fic!!!! this is more of a drabble tbh, but I needed to get this out of my drafts! I don't even remember what inspired this, but I clearly enjoyed myself lollll. feel free to drop more thoughts about the modern warfare trilogy, aka the only military men i’ll ever tolerate, in my inbox. beta’d by my favorite enabler @brattylyricist 🫶🏾
You weren’t sure how Simon did it. How he kept his composure in the face of mind numbing pleasure, of euphoria offered by the hands and mouths of his two favorite people. He never faltered, never gave in to the desire to take more because he was on a mission. Laser focus was required to bring his two mutts to heel, and that was more important than his pleasure. I’ll get mine anyway, he thought to himself. I always do.
Your and Soap’s pleasure, on the other hand, was entirely at Simon’s mercy. And after your behavior, he wasn’t feeling too forgiving.
You blamed Soap, too rowdy and horny to think of the consequences past getting his dick wet. He had practically pounced on you when Simon left for the grocery run. He pawed at your breasts, licked at your nipples, all while goading you on when you whined about getting in trouble. “C’mon, bonnie,” he’d whispered in your ear, “Si doesn’t ‘ave tae know.”
You were no innocent party either. Sure, you warned him you’d both get in trouble, but you made no attempt to get away from his advances. In fact, you leaned into them, cupping his cock through his gray nylon gym shorts as he swore against your lips. You agreed by the end and fucked Johnny in the lounge chair of the home office. You were practically begging him for a third round when Simon walked through the door ten minutes ago, brown eyes darkened with lust and disappointment.
The same look he’s giving you both now, sitting back in that same lounge chair, legs wide, as you kneel in front of him.
“Can’t run one errand without the two of you fuckin’ about, can I?” Simon’s voice was low and rough, watching the shame mingle with arousal as you and Johnny both squirmed under his watchful eye. He pondered, “What to do with two sluts who ‘ave no self control.”
You both already knew the answer — you’d deduced as much when Simon said nothing as he stood in the doorway. He only moved to the shoe rack in the corner and grabbed the pair of boots you both recognized so well. Boots that were never worn outside and kept meticulously clean for moments just like this. A fairly recent addition to Simon’s arsenal, he had never used them before, but perhaps they’d be useful this time.
“Forward.” He ordered gruffly. “One on each boot.”
You and Soap scrambled to follow his instructions, settling yourselves on the boots, cool, smooth leather pressed to your already overstimulated cores. With you on the left and Johnny on the right, your upper bodies pressed against Simon’s legs, you were already on the verge of apologizing. Johnny was the first to squirm, the firm toe of the boot pressing against his balls that he had yet to empty inside you before Simon arrived. Simon was quick to reprimand him, one hand in his mohawk giving a sharp tug, “Quit movin’.”
Then, he leaned back in the chair and got himself comfortable. Simon shifted his hips a bit, and your eyes were drawn to the bulge in his black sweatpants. He was already hard; you could even see it pulse if you looked hard enough, a single bob against the fabric before resting once again on the meat of his thigh. Your hips began a subtle push and pull of their own, grinding your wet pussy ever so slightly across the top of his boot.
You hadn’t even noticed you were staring until Simon snapped his fingers, drawing your attention back to his eyes. “Can’t even focus on anythin’ other than cock, huh?”
“‘m sorry.” You mumbled guiltily, hoping he’d show some lenience.
“No you’re not.” He replied coolly, resting one large hand on the bulge in his pants. He squeezed just enough for a soft groan to rumble through his chest. “But you will be. Go on, then. Both of you, since you’re so desperate for attention, grind on my boots.”
You and Johnny exchange hesitant glances before following instructions, letting out little mewls and whines as you push yourselves against his boots. It was demeaning, humiliating, yet neither of you could stop from grabbing into his legs for more stability. Finally, Simon lowered his sweatpants just enough to fish his cock out. He stroked it slowly, teasingly, much slower than the speed you and Johnny moved against him.
You weren’t sure how long you’d been dragging your cunt back and forth across the now-warmed leather and rough laces of Simon’s boots before you chanced a look down at Johnny’s dick. And the sight that laid before you forced a loud whine from your throat. Surely, it couldn’t have been as pleasurable for him as it was for you, your clit pushing squarely against the leather with every thrust forward, but that didn’t stop Johnny from trying. You watched with bated breath as his cock stood at attention, red angry tip dripping with precome. Each thrust of his hips forward nudged the head of his cock out of the foreskin, all the more sensitive as it dragged along Simon’s clothed shin.
No longer was there any rhythm to his movements. Johnny squirmed and shifted until he found the perfect position to grind the head of his cock on Simon’s leg, his balls dragging back and forth across the coarse laces. He let out a groan as he rested his cheek on Simon’s knee and watched your tits bounce while you rode his boot. He even drooled a little, wishing he could suck on your nipples until you cried out beneath him.
It was all too much and not enough, the euphoria building and building alongside a cacophony of moans and groans that even the dirtiest porno couldn’t rival. As you both got closer and closer to that edge, Simon couldn’t help but smirk to himself. Two desperate, disobedient pups at his feet, and they really thought they'd be allowed to get off so easily.
Not on his watch.
“This all it takes to get you both riled up?” He asked, condescension clear in his voice even as he stroked his hard, thick cock. “So desperate that you’ll just hump the first thing I tell you to.”
Johnny’s the first to speak. The words come out in gasps as he stares up at Simon with big, blue eyes. “Si- Simon, please I’m gonnae come!”
“Did I say either of you could come?”
You both paused, mouths agape. Johnny began to complain, “That’s no—”
“Didn’t say you could stop either, did I?”
“But—”
“You wanna be disobedient little sluts? Fuck each other soon as I step outside the fuckin’ door? Then, you can keep goin’ and goin’ and goin’ until I say you’ve had enough. You come before then, and I swear, you’ll regret it.”
summary: the one where price is real fed up with your shit.
“you want daddy to keep cleanin up your messes? then maybe it’s time you’re dealt with like the brat you fuckin are.”
cw: solider reader afab. jail inaccuracies. slight dubious themes. mean dom price. ooc imo. john price is a weapon. mentions violence. slight daddy kink. authority kink. dirty talk. slight degradation.
—————-
you’ve been pacing the width of the cell for fifteen minutes.
it’s small - metal bench, metal toilet, metal everything - one flickering light overhead and a draft that stinks like mildew and piss. theres a guy in the corner tweaking out, scratching at his neck, muttering about shadow people that won’t stop following him. another lying flat on the floor, staring up at you like he’s imagining what your insides taste like. hasn’t blinked once. and the third, well, he’s asleep - except when he jolts awake every two minutes screaming bloody murder before dropping back into whatever nightmare he’s clawing his way through.
it’s not an exaggeration to say you’re losing your fucking mind.
“let me the fuck out of here,” you hiss through the bars. “point proven. lesson learned. whatever.”
despite your efforts, the cop at the desk doesn’t even flinch. just hums. sips his shit coffee like he’s sitting pretty behind a desk job that means no one ever swings at him.
“not a chance,” he says, smiling like a smug little prick.
you imagine cracking his mug over his head. watching it shatter down his uniform. he’s the one who cuffed you and tossed you in without so much as reading your rights. called you a wildcard. told you to sit with it. left the restraints on like he thought it’d teach you a lesson.
well, you’ve been sitting, alright.
sitting and stewing and thinking - thinking about how that stupid bastard at the bar should’ve lost a hand for grabbing your ass like that. thinking about how he’ll wake up tomorrow with only a headache and some stitches, while you rot in a cage surrounded by the worst fucking breed of humanity - your wrists bruised and your mouth dry from clenching it too long.
not to mention the split lip. or the other injuries that the unfortunate souls nearby suffered.
collateral damage. they’ll be fine.
“atleast give me a phone call,” you growl back.
“you get one when shift changes.” he leans back like it’s funny. “hour or so.”
you take a step forward before your brain catches up, pressing your forehead against cool metal.
“you fucking serious?” you hiss. “you know this is bullshit, right?”
he doesn’t even blink. “i’ll make it two hours if you don’t shut up.”
you sit again. eventually.
shoulders tight, pulse still pounding. adrenaline leaking slow through your system just steadily enough to keep your leg bouncing and your thoughts loud. you can feel it under your skin - that itch. that flicker of want.
so of course, that’s when corner-guy pipes up.
“you one’a them military types?” he rasps, still scratching at his skin like something’s crawling beneath it. “start fights for fun, uh? get bored of killin people?”
you don’t answer.
“now look at ya.” he stands. “bet you cried like a bitch when they cuffed you.”
and that, well. that makes you grin. slow and sharp and just crooked enough to mean yes, i’m gonna hurt you. and no, i won’t regret it.
“not as hard as the asshole who touched me cried,” you purr. “want a demonstration?”
and he laughs, it’s shrill and too fucking loud. none of the cops even blink.
so you stand too.
you remember you’re cuffed - doesn’t matter. you’ve fought in worse shape - half-conscious, bleeding out with your boot sole melted to concrete. so you square up. lean forward just enough to bait him.
he smiles, opens his mouth to say something else-
then stops when the door buzzes.
the whole building changes in an instant. energy snaps and then cracks still. desk cop sits up straight, the officers guarding the cell block blanche. someone mutters something behind the glass and even the fuckers half dead in the room with you shift where they’re sitting.
you follow the ripple of tension to the front - and that’s when you see him.
captain john price.
“uh, hey there, sir,” the desk cop starts, voice cracking like he’s going through puberty. “i assume you’re-“
price lifts a hand, and nods toward your cell.
“…oh, fuck.” you exhale.
and as if he heard you, he gifts you a look that cuts clean through the bars.
a look that says oh fuck is right.
the officer who hauled you in doesn’t wait for orders, which is probably the smartest move he’s made all night. he’s already at the cell, fumbling the keys, unlocking the door like he’s disarming a bomb. he marches over to where you’re glued and grabs you, grip on your bicep tight - tight enough to leave a bruise, but not on purpose. you guess it’s just the only way he can steady his hands.
you’re pulled out of the cell, jacket torn, blood drying stiff down your jaw. you look like a stray dog they had to chase into traffic and pout like one too as he drops you right in front of captain like you’re his to claim. you take him in and your stomach twists tighter than the cuffs. he’s got rain in his beard, a storm in his eyes, gloves still on, and that hat casting shadows like war paint across his face.
he just stares at you.
and fuck, it’s worse than yelling.
“uh…hey, cap.”
you go for light. maybe even playful. you fail.
“this one’s a real peach.” the asshole behind you mutters. you mentally give him the finger.
price ignores it and exhales, slow and heavy, like your name tastes like a goddamn mistake in his mouth.
then he looks past you, to the officer behind.
“take the cuffs off.” he grits.
the officer hesitates. “sir, we need to-“
price takes a step. only one. “take. the cuffs. off.”
you shudder. can’t even help it. it’s just that voice - steel in the vowels, grave-dirt deep - the one you’ve heard a million times before under worse circumstances, the one that makes everyone question if the devils name was really lucifer or if maybe it was actually his.
the officer springs into action, fumbling to do as price says without any further provocation.
you bristle as he gets a little too touchy. “watch your hands, asshole.”
the key clinks and then your arms fall forward. your wrists burn like hell, but you don’t rub them. you don’t even move. you just stand there tense and buzzing - face hot and skin crawling because you know what comes next. you’re in trouble, but not law type trouble. not anymore.
his kind of trouble.
“daddy to the rescue.” the cop whispers in your ear before he steps back and nods to captain. “she’s clear to go.”
and you know price heard it - the first part. can tell by the way his jaw ticks, even when he only nods in response.
the cop walks away. goes back behind the desk.
and still, captain hasn’t blinked. he’s just staring at you, ocean fury cutting across your face - taking in the wreckage you’ve made of yourself on one of your only nights off in weeks. you’re too stubborn to look away, too smart to not be scared, yet too fucking desperate to break the tension to keep your mouth shut.
“i can expl-“
“don’t.” he flatlines. your pulse does too, for a moment. especially when he steps closer. “you open your mouth before we’re alone again i swear to god i’ll find the nearest closet just to remind you how we do discipline in the field.”
well fuck.
“am i understood?” he mutters.
you nod.
and then he moves - grabbing your arm and dragging you toward the door. past the stunned officers averting their eyes, away from all the leering inmates and drunken idiots detained to sleep it off. through the threshold of the door and out into the cold of the night.
he drags you down the precinct steps without sparing you a glance. ‘m so fucking sick of your shit written in every step of his gait. premeditated murder aura stoked in every breath. he’s unshaken even when you misstep, your boot sliding slightly on the wet concrete - just yanks you forward harder, like walking beside him is a privilege he’s letting you keep out of patience, not mercy.
the night is quiet - it bites as you look up to see the truck at the curb. engine still ticking warm.
his silence makes your ears ring.
and so you try again. technically, you’re alone now. technically. “look, captain, i—”
he stops.
stops so abruptly your lungs punch the back of your ribs. you nearly crash into him, barely catching yourself as he turns - slow - and stares down at you like you’re some classified intel that got half the team killed.
“what is it bout silence that makes you uncomfortable?” he breathes, eyes raking your face. then he squints, and your blood runs cold. “you enjoy makin my life hell? that it?”
it’s not even a question. it’s a diagnosis.
you chew your cheek. “define hell, sir.”
wrong answer, a voice screams in your head the second after you say it. the way price levels you with a look says he must agree.
“third time in two months we’ve done this.” he says, voice deeper and darker than the night sky. “m’ startin to wonder if this is a game to you. being reckless like you know i’ll always come running when you fuck up - cause that’s what daddy does, yeah?”
and stupidly - idiotically - you snort. you shouldn’t, but you do because it bursts out of you without warning. it’s reflex. defence. a fucking tic.
he’s not your daddy. but also, fuck you? yeah he fuckin is.
you clear your throat. “uhm. no, sir?”
price blinks. the wind cuts between you. ruffles his coat. stirs the hair at your forehead.
and then he inhales - so sharp and disarming you don’t even notice as his hand shoots up until suddenly he’s spinning you and shoving you hard into the side of the truck. your shoulder knocks the door. your breath catches in your throat.
“one night off,” he growls, “and you use it to start a fuckin bar fight. sixteen injured. three officers involved. two concussions.”
he leans in. his lips brush your ear, not even close to gentle.
“you’ve got five seconds to convince me you haven’t lost the last working part of your fucking brain.”
you blink. “he touched my ass-“
“and you broke a pint over his head. fair.” he cuts you off, doesn’t miss a beat. “but you didn’t stop there. saw red and decided it was open fuckin season, yeah?”
yeah. pretty much.
“i’m sorry.” you breathe.
“you’re not.” he grits. “you’re addicted to pissin me off.”
and maybe it’s the cold - maybe it’s the adrenaline still humming through your blood. or maybe it’s just him - the gravel of his voice, the smell of smoke and rain soaked into his coat - but you smile.
not a real one. not a sorry one - a stupid, bloody, smug little thing.
his head tilts. “think this is funny, do you?”
“no, sir.”
his brows lifts. “then why the fuck are you smiling?”
his fingers dig deeper into your shoulder - enough to make you wince - enough to make you grind your teeth just to keep the pathetic involuntary groan at bay. you open your mouth but close it just as fast, because you know you don’t have an answer that he’ll like.
your throat clicks when you swallow, and that’s what he clocks. not your grin - but the fear behind it.
“yeah,” he mutters, voice fizzing rough across your nerves. “that’s what i thought.”
your back hits the truck a little harder as he crowds you now - all body heat and storm breath - one gloved hand flat against the metal beside your head and the other holding deaths grip on your jaw.
he leans in. “you smile like that again, ill fuck it off your face.”
your lungs stutter. he doesn’t care.
“tonight, you’re done makin decisions. done thinking for yourself until i forget i had some wet-behind-the-ears rookie call me at 2am to tell me one of my best assets got picked up like some fuckin street thug.”
you blink. heart pummelling. his face is close enough now that you can feel the scrape of his breath across your lips.
he exhales a growl from his chest. it vibrates through you. “you want daddy to keep cleanin up your messes? then maybe it’s time you’re dealt with like the brat you fuckin are.”
you suck in a breath like you’re starved for it and try to force a response, anything, but he shakes his head before you can even try. final.
“no no. i didn’t ask you to speak.”
you nod. the earth spins sideways - because you’ve seen him mad. you’ve never seen him like this.
he hums, like he’s pleased you’re finally getting it.
“the ice you’re on’s gettin real thin, sweetheart, so listen close.” he breathes, red in his eyes. sin on his lips. “i say sit, you drop. i say beg, you fuckin whimper. you don’t talk unless i ask you to talk and even then, the only things i wanna hear outta that mouth is ‘yes’ and ‘please sir’ until i can trust you’ll behave.”
jesus christ-
his thumb drags slow across your bottom lip, catching on a split from the fight. “do i make myself clear?”
you swallow. nod some pathetic, desperate little thing.
“yes sir.”
“there we go.” he purrs - a noise that sends heat somewhere you’re sure he meant it to. “that’s more like it.”
wind howls again in the space he lets linger between you, and then he lets go. only after he’s memorized the exact shade of red youve turned.
“don’t you ever, ever make me come find you like this again.” he says, then he steps back and yanks the truck door open. “get in the truck.”
I’ve been reading fics all over for literally a decade and have for whatever reason never cried while reading but holy shit fever pitch make me fucking cough sobbing it was actually the most beautiful thing i’ve read in all my time here k bye
cue maniacal laughter like stitch when he crashed on earth so sorry for making you cry, i’m glad you enjoyed it though!! the spirit of angst just possessed me or something but it’s gone now fr this time 🤭
