#cod price x reader

[gothghostiie]

I'm pretty sure I've done something like this before but it doesn't matter bc I need it 💝

cw: reader works a front desk job, crying, kidnapping, drugging/anesthesia with a needle, dubcon, fingering, manipulation kinda (price isnt lying, he genuinely believes every word he says), immediate stockholm syndrome, gn!reader, dead dove do not eat

Work sucks. you know that, it's not news. there's better days, there's worse days, some people are nice, some people are rude. that's just how it is. but today? today is fucking taking the crown. apparently, for some reason, you're at fault for everything. it doesn't matter if you even know about what happened, you just are at fault. and it gets really old, really fast. but you keep your professionalism, you save some face, you stay friendly and calm.

until that one guy. that big asshole, that decided to make you regret your entire existence today. to be rude and unkind when you try to keep smiling, apologising for the inconvenience. who starts yelling at you until his face is red, harsh accusations and degrading words flying through the small foyer, leaving the people around you stunned in silence and leaving you teary eyes with a lump in your throat. your voice trembling as you call for the next person to step forward and ask for their name.

"Price, John."

His voice is soft, quiet on purpose. he always tries not to speak as loud as he has to at work, but especially now. he doesn't wanna make it worse, he feels horrible for you. hates the way you have to bite your lip to keep in fron trembling, the way you keep trying to swallow the lump in your throat, the tears threatening to spill all over your hot cheeks, the slight shake of your fingers. a pretty bird like you shouldn't be yelled at like that, shouldn't have to deal with scum like him, shouldn't be crying from anything but pleasure happiness.

"Are you alright?" He asks gently, leaning in a bit to make himself seem less big and imposing - and to read your name tag. you nod, sniffling. his heart aches. it makes him frown, it makes him angry on your behalf. you should be treated like royalty, you should never ever have to lift a finger, you should only be spoken to gently and lovingly, like one would speak to a skittish little animal to not scare it away. "I'm sorry, love. you didn't deserve that." he murmurs softly, you wave it off.

"it's fine." your tone is quiet and cut off, like you know you'll cry if you speak too much. he frowns again.

"does this happen a lot?"

you stay quiet. it tells him all he needs to know. all he wants to know. he finishes up with you quickly, telling you what he wants and thanking you, keeping his voice ever so soft before he leaves to his car. he sits in the pickup truck for a few minutes, staring at the building he just came out of, the building you're about to sit in and take your break, spending it crying instead of eating. it breaks his fucking heart.

so he does what any sane man would do. he starts looking for info on you - it's easier than he thought it would be. you're not that careful about posting it seems. your Facebook tells him you're single, the lack of friends and pictures tell that you don't have many friends either. no one to look out for you. no one to look for you.

he's a good man, he knows it deep in his heart. he's doing this for you, doing this to give you what you deserve, to give you a safety net, a shoulder you can lean on to cry, strong arms to cradle you against his chest. he's doing this out of the goodness of his heart. its what he keeps telling himself, even when he looms in the darkness while you're on your way home.

even when he grabs you from behind and clamps a strong hand over your mouth to muffle your screams, even when he pulls you towards the car that he parked in an alleyway, even when he carefully jabs the needle into your arm and injects you with the anaesthetic that knocks you straight out. he's gotta be quick now, it's only gonna last a few minutes. hauls you into the cab of the truck, the bags he packed in your apartment (you really shoulve invested in better locks) on the floor. he throws a blanket over you before climbing into the drivers seat, driving calmly to his home - a nice little cottage in the outskirts of the city, a few miles away from everyone and everything, but close enough to do what he has to do.

it's not long before you wake up. your eyes flutter open, the lights are warm and dimmed. whatever you're lying on is soft, comfy even, the pillow your head is resting on nice and cool. it would almost be nice, if it wasn't for your wrists being tied to the headboard and for your ankles being tied together. almost. the drugs effect is wearing off but you feel sleepy, a little dizzy, making it hard to move around. the room is silent save for your shuffling around on the sheets. it's clean and well kept, a few pictures and what looks like army memorabilia is on the walls.

then there's steps. they're heavy and slow, almost as if trying to be quiet but not quite being able to. they get closer until a big, broad frame appears in the dark hallway, making a sense of panic rise inside you - even more so when the figure steps into the room, revealing himself as the man from your work earlier. a weird mix of horror and calm washes over you, he's smiling at you like you're close, familiar, it puts something in your brain at ease, despite the fear the situation brings out.

he slowly walks closer, now dressed in sweatpants and a wife beater, his strong arms on display, shoved into his pockets. he takes slow steps, watching your reaction, not wanting to startle you - as if you could bolt if he got too close. sits down on the edge of the bed, mattress dipping under his weight, shifting your body closer to his. "how you feelin'?" he asks, casual, as if he didn't do something horribly wrong.

you don't answer him, just staring at him quietly, frozen in shock; it somehow makes him chuckle. "scared?" he asks softly, speaking again before you can react. "that's alright. but you don't need to be, darlin." he smiles more. "I won't hurt you. I'm not gonna do anything I think you won't like." he scoots even closer, putting one hand on your thigh, calloused fingers gently rubbing the fabric of your pants - of course he left you dressed. he's a gentleman after all.

"I had to do it, love." he says gently, slowly lying down on his side next to you, keeping himself propped up on one elbow. "I saw how miserable you were... and what kind of man would I be if I just.. let that happen?" he says quietly, almost ashamed at the mere thought of not doing anything. "couldn't stand to see such a gorgeous little thing in distress.. that asshole yelling at you.." his gaze darkens, the grip on your leg tightening. "how was I supposed to just stand by? go home with the knowledge that you'd be crying your pretty eyes out with no one to hold you? no one to make it all better?" John's voice is a bit shaky. he pauses, taking a deep breath to calm himself down before looking back up at you with something like adoration. utter adoration. "i couldn't have done that, could i?"

you pause. could he?

you hesitantly shake your head, his eyes light up. "exactly.. you get it.. you get me.." he mutters, leaning in closer, close enough for you to smell his cologne. "I'm sorry about grabbing you and putting you to sleep like that.. I didn't have a choice.." he murmurs and somehow you belive him, despite your heart racing. "didn't mean to scare you like that.." He leans in even closer, nuzzling your hair for a moment.

"let me make up for it, okay?"

your stomach drops but you nod again. youre not sure what 'making up for it' means - but you get a pretty good idea when he undoes your pants. your eyes widen, a distressed noise leaving your mouth as you squirm; he pins your hips down gently. "shh! shh.. I won't fuck you, I promise.." he hums into your ear, placing a kisd right underneath it. "I'll just make it up to you, i promise.." his hand slides to the waistband of your pants, pulling it down until its pooled around your knees - then he gets up. you watch him switch positions, one hand gripping the rope around your ankles and pulling them back towards you, pushing your knees to your chest. a loud gasp leaves your lips, but he soothes you again.

"nono, its okay.. just be good and trust me.. Promise you'll like it.." he scoots one meaty thigh under your hips, angling them up so the position is easier to keep, one arm draping over the inside of your knees to keep them pinned, the other hand gripping your ass. for a moment his fingers tighten, digging into the fat as he groans, before letting go. "pardon.." is all he has to say for himself. quickly gives his hand another purpose to stop himself from groping you some more, instead pushing your underwear towards your bunched up pants, fully exposing you. again you gasp, trying to wiggle free, but the disappointed huff from John's lips, for some reason, stops you.

"please, lovie.. just let me make up for it.. won't do anything you don't like.." he says and it's so convincing, so weirdly heartfelt, it makes you freeze again. he slips his hand into his pocket, retrieving a small packet of lube that he brought from downstairs, opening it with his teeth. "gonna feel so much better, I swear.." he hums while dribbling the lube onto your clenched hole, the gel warm due to being in his pocket. fully empties it on you, wants to make sure you don't feel any pain at all, he wants to take care of you after all; not punish you. big fingers start rubbing the lube into your skin, making you twitch and pant with the soft massage he's giving to relax you.

"gonna make you feel so much better.." he assures again - then slips the first finger in. you tense up again, wincing softly, but the kisses hes pressing to your leg calm you down a bit. he lets you adjust for a moment before slowly moving it in and out a few times, shuddering from the feeling of your tight heat around his fingers. "jesus.." he whispers through gritted teeth, it takes his whole strength to not just break his promise and pull his cock out - instead he settles on another finger. "Takin' it so good.. do you already feel better?" he asks softly, eyes glued to your sex, watching it quiver around his fingers. the movements are slow and gentle, making use of your sensitive spots - it's almost like he knows just where to touch you, somehow.

"feels good, doesn't it?" he grins up at you, his fingers speeding up, thrusting into you in a fluid motion that knocks the breath out of your lungs for some reason. you pull on the restraints on your wrists, trying to somehow stay grounded, stuck somewhere between the urge to fight him off, to scream at him to stop and the overwhelming pleasure that his fingers give you - it only gets worse when the other hand reaches down too, starting to rub your clit/stroke your cock to match the pace of his fingers. the moans you're desperately trying to muffle slip out as he brings you closer and closer to the edge, hips starting to twitch while you contract around his fingers.

"please-" you gasp, but get cut off by him.

"nonono.. you do have to beg, love. 'm here to take care of you.." a third finger slips inside. "never gonna have to beg for anything.. gonna take such good care of you.." his movements get more frantic, as if he's about to cum himself. "never need to worry about anything again lovie.. promise.. gonna take care of you, just have to be good for me.." John leans closer to your sex, licking his lips as he pants. "you gonna be good for me, darlin'?"

you feel your muscles tense, the knot in your stomach getting almost painfully tight - before you give in, against all instincts, you nod. his eyes roll back with pleasure, movements more frantic again. "fuck.." he hisses through gritted teeth. "you're so good f'me.. 'm so proud of you.." he thrusts his fingers deeper, palm hitting your ass every time. "gonna take care of you baby.. no one will ever be mean to my sweet thing again.. never gonna have to lift a finger.. you're mine to care for, mine to-"

he stops when you cry out, cumming around his fingers hard. he watches with fascination, almost as if he had never seen anything this magical, allowing you to ride out your orgasm. he only stops after a few moments more, pulling out his fingers before spreading you open to look at the slight gape his fingers left; a chuckle escapes him. finally puts your legs down but leaves your clothes bunched up around your knees, lying back down beside you. the had that was just inside you is now caressing your head gently. "there you go.. feels all better now, doesn't it?"

you nod. your face is hot, legs trembling, but you nod. his eyes light up.

"so youre gonna stay, aren't you?" He asks softly, your eyes widen. "gonna let someone else take care of you for once.. gonna let someone else think and make your decisions.. it's gonna be good, i promise." he kisses your temple, uttering the next words softly, almost sounding vulnerable.

"you trust me, dont you?'

you nod again.

[itscodplicated]

Kinktober | Day 2 | Sub space - Price

The moment Price told you to "be good and listen" he knew he had fucked up. Maybe using the same phrasing he normally used in bed, in the middle of a battle field and while you where bleeding out, wasn't a good idea.

The others were worried, thinking you had succumb to battle shock. But they were also quite impressed by his ability to herd you around seemingly without any difficulty given your state.

But he knew better. He could see your eye starting to glaze, your mind desperately trying to go to that fuzzy, pliant place, trying to use it to ignore the horrors around you. If you could just concentrate on him, on being good, on listening. At least it had stopped your panicking.

"I've been neglecting you lately, haven't I, sweetheart?" He chuckled out softly, still applying pressure on your wound.

"I'm going to have to rectified that, but not right now." He continued, earning himself a little whine from you.

"Now, now. Don't give me that. Can you be good for me and let Gaz patch you up without complaints?" He asked, figuring out that he might as well lean into it if it kept you calm. Plus, he couldn't denied that seeing you go all submissive like that from just a few words did keep his mind from worrying too.

So he kept going, murmuring soft commands in your ears, keeping a firm hand on the back of you neck. And it goes surprisingly well. The march to the extraction point went surprisingly well when you stopped freaking out about the all the blood you had lost.

And now, back in the safety of his office, he was intending to solve his mistake.

"No squirming, sweetheart. We wouldn't want those stitches of yours to break." He teased, his fingers pumping in and out of you.

[inkmonster21]

I'm Just Next Door

Captain John Price x SingleMomReader

Series Masterlist

While John Price runs a firing-range training day with new recruits, a surprise visit from your ex-husband forces you to confront old wounds, prove your boundaries, and realize—more clearly than ever—that the life you’ve built with John is the one you choose every time.

47. The Dude is Back

John stalked the length of the firing line with his hands behind his back, boots steady, iconic hat shading his eyes. The tang of cordite clung to the air, undercut by sweat, dust, and that uniquely sharp scent of fresh, nervous recruits who hadn't quite learned how to breathe yet.

"Cease fire!" he barked.

The first volley stuttered out, then died. The range fell into a ringing silence, broken only by the distant hum of generators and the rattle of spent brass settling.

"Safeties on. Muzzles down. Stand by your weapons."

They obeyed—mostly smoothly, a few fumbles here and there. John's eyes caught every one.

He moved to the nearest lad, who was trying to subtly flex his aching shoulders. Barely twenty-two, still had the softness of civilian life in his face.

"Langley," John said. "How's the shoulder?"

Langley stiffened. "Fine, sir."

"Feels like shit, you mean," John corrected. "You're hunchin' forward, you're fightin' the recoil instead of workin' with it. Loosen up. Rifle is not your enemy unless you give it reason to be."

A couple of recruits smirked. Langley tried to hide his own smile.

"Yes, sir."

John reached out, nudged the kid's stance into something more stable, rolled one shoulder back. "There. Better. Don't muscle it. You'll burn out in the first hour. Again in five. Hydrate."

He moved down the line, checking safeties, adjusting elbows, correcting grips. A few of the lads were promising—eyes sharp, hands steady. A few made him want to march them back to admin and tell them to pick a safer trade.

He wouldn't.

Not yet.

That was the point of this rotation.

Catch the cracks before the battlefield did.

"Alright," he called out when he hit the far end. "First set wasn't entirely disgraceful. Let's take a look."

He waved them off the line and toward the targets. Boots crunched on gravel as they shuffled forward, murmurs rising.

"Groupin's shit," one of them muttered, staring at his paper.

"Language, Harding," John said mildly, appearing at his shoulder.

Harding flinched. "Sorry, sir. It's... not great."

John studied the pattern of bullet holes. Low and left, a tight enough cluster to show potential. "You're flinchin' before you pull," John said. "Anticipatin' recoil. Think of it as a surprise. Squeeze, don't jerk. You're leanin' into it like it's a fight. Rifle'll win that argument every time."

Harding nodded, jaw set. "Yes, sir."

John clapped him once on the shoulder, then moved on.

He liked this part, if he was honest. Watching them shift from bewildered civilians in too-big uniforms to something tighter, sharper. Knowing that if he did this right, some of them would live who otherwise wouldn't.

Didn't mean he planned to tell them that. They didn't need the sentiment. They needed clarity.

He reached the end of the row and glanced at his watch. 10:46.

His phone buzzed in his pocket almost on cue.

He ignored it for the moment, finishing a slow walk back down the line, letting the lads compare their targets and mutter amongst themselves. He'd give them five minutes to stew in their own performance before running the second set.

At the small shade structure near the edge of the range, he finally dug the phone out, thumb already prepared to swipe away whatever dull admin notice was waiting.

Instead he saw:

📲 (to be) Mrs. Price

9:42 – Good morning, Captain ☕️

9:42 – We slept in. Your daughters apparently didn't get the memo about "missing Daddy."

9:43 – (1 video)

The corner of his mouth twitched on reflex.

He hit play.

Your face filled the screen, hair in a messy bun, one of his old t-shirts hanging loose over your bump. You were half-framed in kitchen light, holding the phone out and trying—and failing—to keep it steady.

"Say hi to Daddy," you said from behind the camera, laughter in your voice.

Peach immediately shoved herself into frame, so close her nose was basically the only thing showing. "HI DADDY," she shouted. "WE HAD WAFFLES WITHOUT YOU, SORRY!"

A second later, you tugged her gently back. "You're not sorry at all."

"I am a little bit sorry," she said, solemn. "But Nana said sugar helps my heart."

He heard you snort.

The video cut off with your exasperated, affectionate "Oh for—John, your children are chaos incarnate. Have a good morning."

He exhaled slowly, heat, dust, and gunpowder fading for a heartbeat, replaced by tile floors, baby kicks, and the smell of your coffee.

"Everything alright, sir?"

He looked up to find one of the other instructors, Harris, watching him with a knowing expression, ear defenders pushed up around his neck.

"Fine," John said, tucking the phone away. "Just my girls."

"Wife already checkin' in, then?" Harris teased lightly.

"Fiancée," John corrected without thinking, a small, private satisfaction moving through him at the word. "But yeah. Keeps me honest."

Harris grinned. "Better than the lot we've got here. They'd forget to eat if we didn't shout at 'em."

"Then let's keep shoutin'," John said, stepping back onto the dust.

He lifted the megaphone. "Places!"

Back home, later that same day, you had flour on your leggings and a half-finished resin batch curing on the dining table when the knock came.

It was a Thursday.

The house hummed with midweek rhythm—Peach's cartoon playing soft in the background, Slinky sprawled in a sunspot, the washing machine droning.

You weren't expecting anyone.

Your first, automatic thought—John?—got dismissed just as quickly. He was on base for the full stretch, no popping in for lunch, no surprise coffees, no early dismissals.

You wiped your hands on a dish towel and peeked through the side window by the door.

Your stomach dropped.

He stood on the porch like he'd never been gone. Same cavalier slouch, expensive coat too thin for the weather, sunglasses pushed up into messy hair that was just a little too perfectly disheveled. The kind of artsy scruff you used to think was soulful, now you mostly recognized as high-maintenance laziness.

He was holding a glossy gift bag in one hand. The other scrolled idly on his phone.

You considered pretending you weren't home.

Then you heard the patter of small feet behind you. "Who is it, Mommy?"

You exhaled slowly and opened the door.

"Wow," he drawled, sliding the sunglasses down with two fingers when he saw you. "Domestic goddess."

You gave him a flat look. "Hello."

He swept his gaze over you, head to toe, lingering pointedly on your bump, then your ring. A slow, practiced smile spread across his face, the same one he'd used on gallery owners and critics and starry-eyed undergrads.

"You look... good," he said, like it surprised him. "Glowy. This life agrees with you."

"Therapeutic retreat didn't humble you, I see," you replied, voice cool.

He laughed, stepping inside without waiting to be invited. You moved automatically out of the way, cursing yourself for not blocking the door more firmly.

"It was transformative, actually," he said, dropping the bag on the entryway table and looking around like he was inspecting an installation. "I did some real work. Inner child, past trauma, breaking cycles, all that bullshit that actually matters. It was intense." His eyes flicked back to you. "You should go, you'd love it."

"I'm good," you said. "Some of us can't just vanish for months to 'find ourselves.' I have kids to raise."

At that, his shoulders shifted, the first hint of defensiveness creeping in. "I'm here to see her, actually," he said, gesturing vaguely toward the living room. "Where is my little muse?"

As if summoned, Peach appeared at the edge of the hallway, clutching her stuffed cat, sizing him up with all the seriousness a three-year-old could muster.

His face lit up. "There she is!"

He crouched down, arms open. "C'mere, sweetheart."

She blinked at him. "Hi... dude."

You bit the inside of your cheek.

He chuckled, unfazed. "Still callin' me that, huh? That's our thing." He held up the gift bag, rustling it enticingly. "Look what I brought you."

She eyed the bag, unconvinced. "What is it?"

"Only the coolest art set in the world," he said. "Markers, paint pens, metallic crayons. Very exclusive. Only the best for my favorite girl."

She glanced at you. You gave a small, noncommittal shrug.

"It's okay, baby," you said. "You can look."

She edged forward, taking the bag like it might bite her, then plopped down right in the middle of the entry rug to dig through it.

"Oooh," she breathed, pulling out a packet of neon markers. "Mommy, look! Glitter ones!"

"Wooow," you said, forcing a smile. "We'll need to lay down some ground rules about where those go."

"Not on the walls," she recited dutifully.

"Or the cat."

"Oh, right, that's silly," she agreed.

Your ex husband watched the exchange with a smug little smile, then straightened up, stepping closer to you.

"See?" he said quietly. "Told you I could show up. Growth."

"Last visit was almost seven months ago," you replied.

His smile faltered for half a second. "The retreat was... renewing. No phones. No outside contact. It was very—"

"Expensive?" you supplied.

He smirked. "That too."

His gaze dropped then, zeroing in on the curve of your stomach, more obvious now at twenty weeks than ever. Something sharp and complicated flickered across his face.

"Well," he said slowly. "Looks like you weren't exactly sitting around pining for me, were you?"

You folded your arms. "My life didn't stop because you left. We are divorced."

He took a step forward, hand lifting like it had every right to.

"Wow," he murmured, fingertips reaching for the curve of your bump. "You're huge. How far—"

You slapped his hand away before you even thought about it.

He jerked back, surprise flaring. "Ow. Jesus. Still violent during pregnancy, I see."

"Don't touch me," you said, voice ice-cold. "You don't get to touch this."

He studied you for a second, then huffed a small laugh, as if he was indulgently amused by your boundaries. "Right. Captain's territory now, is it?"

Your jaw clenched. "Don't be disrespectful in his house."

He smiled wider, sensing the nerve. He tilted his head, eyes narrowing on your ring. "And he works fast, too, apparently."

"You don't get to comment on the speed of anything," you snapped. "I get tired of having the same conversation each time I open the door. You checked out of this life long before he came into it."

He clicked his tongue, gaze drifting around the hallway—the family photos, Peach's scribbles taped to the wall, the coat rack with John's jacket hanging beside yours.

"Never thought you'd go for the... traditional thing," he said. "House. Kids. Husband. Another baby. It's all very..." He gestured vaguely. "Suburban."

You stared at him. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

He smirked. "Just doesn't fit the girl I met in Foundation Figure Drawing, that's all. The one who stayed up all night talking about meaning, and narrative, and refusing to be boxed in."

You felt that old, distant version of yourself stir—paint-stained fingers, cheap bottles of wine on cramped apartment balconies, endless arguments about art and life and freedom. You also remembered the way those nights had ended more and more often—with him disappearing, with excuses, with broken promises and cold sheets.

"That girl grew up," you said quietly. "You should try it."

Something in his jaw tightened. "I did," he said. "That's the point. I went and... dug into all the ugly shit. The addiction, the avoidance, the way I pushed you away before you could leave first. I'm trying, okay?"

You believed, in a distant, clinical way, that some of that might even be true.

Didn't mean you owed him anything.

"Trying is good," you said. "For you. It doesn't rewrite what you did to us."

He spread his hands a little. "Which is why I'm here. To... reconnect. To be present. To do the things I should've done."

"Including asking about my pregnancy like it's your business?" you asked.

He shrugged, eyes flicking back to your stomach. "Well. This one's not mine, obviously. I got that memo. But it's... fast, isn't it? We Divorced, you move out of the compound into a little shoebox, then suddenly you're in his bed, engaged, pregnant in less time than it took me to plan our first gallery." He whistled softly. "Captain really swept in and rescued the damsel, huh?"

Your hand clenched around the dish towel you were still holding. "Don't reduce my life to some story you can sneer at," you said.

He leaned closer, dropping his voice. "Come on. You can't tell me there's not some part of you that wonders if you're just... reactin'. Runnin' from what we had straight into whatever this is. He's what, twenty years older than you? Thirty? Not to mention you're his third marriage. Never took that into account?"

"Stop," you said. "You don't get to stand in my hallway and question the best thing that's ever happened to me because you suddenly decided you're healed."

A beat of silence snapped between you.

In the living room, Peach gasped theatrically. "These ones smell like strawberries!" she announced to no one in particular.

He let out a breath, taking a step back, putting his hands up in that faux-pacifying gesture that had once charmed you and now just looked like performance.

"Alright, okay, my bad," he said. "I'm not here to fight. I'm here to see my kid and... maybe catch up with you. That's all."

You didn't fully believe him.

But Peach was in the next room, and you'd already had the lawyer conversation. Legally, as long as he stayed clean and kept his court agreements, you didn't have grounds to bar him.

So you swallowed your anger and nodded once. "An hour," you said. "Then I've got work."

"An hour," he echoed, unbothered. "Sure."

He sauntered toward the living room, pausing when he saw the cartoon on the TV. "Is that still Bluey?"

Peach glanced up. "This is a new one," she corrected.

He dropped onto the armchair like it was his, slinging an arm over the back. "Ah. Nice. Very colorful."

You forced yourself to move, to tidy the already-tidy kitchen just to have somewhere to put your hands while they talked.

"Whatcha drawin' these days?" he asked Peach. "Still makin' masterpieces?"

She perked up. "I drawed Daddy as a superhero yesterday."

"Yeah?" he said, easy. "Where is he, anyway?"

"Daddy's at work," she said, entirely matter-of-fact. "At the 'big school for soldiers.' He's teachin' them not to be dumb."

You nearly choked on your own breath.

He turned back to Peach, smile smoothing out. "He sounds very important," he said. "What about me, hmm? Who am I?"

She stared at him, then plucked a strawberry-scented marker out of her new stash. "You're dude," she said cheerfully. "You live in that big art store."

His smile stiffened just a fraction. "Right. Dude. Very... modern of you."

"It's a good name," she added kindly.

You almost laughed.

He definitely did not.

"Great," he muttered. "I'm bein' demoted to side character in my own child's narrative. Excellent."

"You made that choice," you said quietly from the doorway.

He shrugged like it didn't matter, though his fingers drummed a little too fast on the armrest.

"Can I draw on your hand?" Peach asked him suddenly.

He brightened. "Now we're talkin'. Go on then, kiddo. Make me art."

She grabbed his hand and immediately started scrawling little hearts and squiggles on his skin. He watched her, real fondness softening his face in a way that still hurt to see.

"Y'know," he said, not looking up, "I do think about it. The life I threw away." His voice was quieter, stripped of some of the defensiveness. "The nights I stayed in the studio instead of coming home. The first word I missed. The first steps. All those clichés I said I didn't care about."

You swallowed.

"You made your priorities clear," you said. "You loved the idea of being an artist more than the reality of being a dad and a husband."

"And now?" he asked, finally meeting your eyes. "Now that I'm standin' here, doin' the work, showin' up. Is there any part of you that... wonders what if?"

You opened your mouth, then closed it.

Because there was a time—years ago, in that first raw stretch of divorce and single motherhood—when you'd lain awake and tortured yourself with exactly that question.

What if he got sober sooner?

What if he came back different?

What if he really changed?

But that was before John.

Before Peach had someone steady to build her little world around.

Before you learned what safe actually felt like.

You looked at you ex husband —the man who'd once been your whole future, now a visitor in your house, sitting in a chair that wasn't his, in a life he barely could register.

"No," you said at last, honest and clear. "I don't wonder 'what if' about you anymore. I know exactly what that looks like. I lived it."

He flinched, very slightly.

You continued, gentler but firm. "What I have now... isn't a rebound. It isn't about you at all. It's... choosing someone who shows up. Every day. Even when it's hard. Especially then."

He glanced down at your ring, then your belly, then looked away.

"Must be nice," he said softly, some of the bluster gone.

"It is," you answered. "And it's not something I'm going to apologize for."

He nodded once, almost to himself.

"Dude, look!" Peach raised his hand triumphantly. "Now you have a clown on your hand."

He looked at the wobbly clown doodle, and for the first time since he'd walked in, his smile reached his eyes without effort.

"Wouldn't be the first time," he said, and the line between you eased into something that felt... less sharp. Not forgiving. Not forgetting. Just... accepting.

Eventually, the hour ticked by. You checked the clock, then cleared your throat.

"Alright," you said. "We've got nap and orders to work on. You should head out."

"Already?" he said, but he stood, stretching with exaggerated reluctance. "Fine. You heard the boss." He tapped Peach's nose lightly. "I'll come back next week, yeah? Maybe we can paint together."

She shrugged. "If Mommy says yes."

He glanced at you. "Mommy?"

You nodded once. "We'll see how next week looks. Text before you show up."

He placed a hand over his heart. "Boundaries. Got it."

At the door, he paused, looking back one last time.

"You do look happy, you know," he said. "Despite the... suburbia and the army man and the sticky fingers."

"I am," you said simply.

He held your gaze for a long second, then nodded, something like regret washing over his face, pulling the years you'd spent together into sharp relief.

"Good," he said. "I'm... glad I didn't ruin that completely."

"You didn't," you said. "You just made it harder to find. But I did."

He gave a half-smile. "Always were stubborn."

He left with that, the door shutting softly behind him.

You stood there for a moment, forehead resting briefly against the cool wood, exhaling everything you hadn't said.

Then your phone buzzed on the counter.

📲 John

15:07 – Range done for the day. No one shot themselves. Call it a win.

15:07 – How are my girls?

Another buzz followed:

15:08 – (1 photo: John, in ear defenders and cap, a faint smear of dust on his cheek, one eyebrow raised, the hint of a smirk. Caption: They're not as pretty as you lot.)

You stared at the image for a second, letting the whiplash of then and now wash through you.

Then you snapped a quick picture of the living room—Peach on the floor surrounded by markers, Slinky half-asleep on the back of the couch, a glimpse of your bump where you'd settled a hand without thinking.

You typed:

You:

We survived the day. Your eldest has acquired glitter markers. Pray for the walls.

Training going okay?

You hesitated, thumb hovering over the keyboard, then added:

Also... remind me to tell you about a visitor later. Nothing dangerous, just... annoying.

You hit send.

A moment later, three dots appeared.

John:

Glitter? Christ. I leave for five minutes.

Trainin's fine. Lads are soft. We'll fix that.

Visitor?

You smiled faintly.

You:

Ex-husband type of visitor.

Don't worry. Peach still calls him "dude."

We're okay. Just wanted you to know.

There was a longer pause this time.

When his reply came, it was simple:

John:

Will call you after mess.

Love you, Mrs.

You felt the tension you hadn't even realized you were holding begin to melt from your shoulders.

You typed back:

You:

Not Mrs yet, Captain. Love you too. Teach those boys something useful. We'll be here when you get home.

You set the phone down and walked back into the living room, sinking onto the couch.

Peach immediately crawled into your lap, chattering about which color Daddy would like best.

And for the first time since you'd opened that door to your past, you felt completely anchored in your present.

Whatever you ex husband had thrown away, whatever he wished he could reclaim—

You weren't his to lose anymore.

You were John's to come home to.

And that, you decided, was the only story that still mattered.

🥃🧸🍪🥃🧸🍪🥃🧸🍪🥃🧸🍪🥃🧸🍪

✨ Want to be added to the taglist? ✨

Just let me know below and I’ll make sure you don’t miss a chapter!

[taffyabby]

.CAPT.JOHN PRICE

Summary: Price finally gets home. After being away for a week, he can finally enjoy being close to you again.

Taff Says: New blog. First Post :D, I promise myself no, I SWEAR to actively create and post fanfics.

Today.

Today was the best day. Why? Your husband, who worked tirelessly and dangerously around the world, finally had some free time. You could finally wake up with him beside you, unlike the recent days when the bed felt cold and empty whenever you opened your eyes. It had been disappointing at first, but eventually, you got used to it. You treated it as normal. You knew what you were getting into when you started dating John.

The birds chirped outside the house as the morning sun streamed through your window. A warm arm was wrapped around your waist. You stirred slightly in bed, feeling his arm tighten around you. Your hand moved to rest on top of his, your fingers brushing against the cool metal of his wedding ring.

“Mh, mornin', love,” he murmured, his voice rough with sleep.

You felt him move even closer, his warm chest pressed against your back. A smile tugged at your lips despite your eyes still being closed.

“Morning...” you mumbled.

The two of you stayed quiet for a moment, simply enjoying the peace. John slept like a baby; it was probably the first proper rest he'd gotten in a week. He'd been desperate to finish the mission and come home. To finally see you, hold you, and kiss those lips of yours.

You sighed and slowly cracked your eyes open. The first thing you saw was the sunlight beaming directly into your face. Groaning, you shut them again before rolling over to face John.

Your sleepy eyes took in his features. His arm remained draped around your waist, and a scar—probably a new one from his latest mission—caught your attention. You'd definitely be asking about that later.

He was still half-asleep, though his arm tightened and pulled you closer. The warmth of his body spread through you.

Just as you were about to close your eyes again—

“Enjoyin' the view, love?” he rasped.

Your eyes immediately widened. His soft blue eyes were already looking at you, accompanied by a lazy smirk.

“Hey...” you murmured sleepily.

He smiled.

“Mornin', sweetheart.”

You blinked at him. “I hope I'm not dreaming,” you said with a tired giggle.

John let out a low chuckle.

“No, you're not. Don't worry.”

You smiled and scooted closer, burying yourself against his warmth. His familiar scent filled your nose. God, you missed this. In his line of work, mornings like these were rare. But today, he was here.

“Missed me that much, eh?” he murmured.

You huffed out a small laugh.

“You have no idea.”

Neither of you spoke for a moment. Then he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to your cheek. Instantly, you melted, letting out a content sigh as he continued peppering your face with kisses. His beard brushed against your skin, but you didn't mind at all.

He started with your cheeks, planting gentle kisses that sent warmth through your chest. One on your left cheek. Another on your right. Then one on the tip of your nose.

You couldn't help but smile.

“John...” you laughed softly.

“What?” he asked innocently, though the grin on his face gave him away. He knew exactly what he was doing.

He leaned in again, pressing another kiss to your cheek before dragging his beard lightly against your skin.

You squeaked.

His grin widened.

“John!” you whined, trying to hide your face against his chest.

Instead of stopping, he rubbed his beard against your cheek again, tickling your skin.

You burst into laughter.

“John, stop!”

“No can do, sweetheart.”

The room filled with your giggles as he continued, nuzzling his face against your neck and cheek. His beard brushed against your skin over and over again.

He chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest.

You tried to push him away, but it was hopeless. One arm was securely wrapped around your waist while the other kept you pinned comfortably against the mattress.

“John!”

“Yes, love?” he replied innocently.

[rv3rblog]

btw this is how price looks like when you facetime and ramble abt ur day at work and then go off track nd gossip w him. he is just so in love w u its sick !!

[pricegotmedickmatized]

basically copy/pasted from my dms with the wife @gothghostiie but i've just been thinking about it some more so have it: price and gaz are the two who really actually talk during sex, the other two can't. like physically can not

gaz gets you in bed (against the wall/the couch/the changing room door) and suddenly the man can not shut up to save his life. every horny thought he's ever had is coming out of his mouth, pure stream of consciousness, even when his face is pressed tight against your cunt as he eats you out his still fucking talking, knowing the vibrations of his voice just get you off hotter. he's greedy with it, trying to prove a point, lots of 'you know no one else could ever make you feel this fucking good, just me, only me baby' in between his rambling fantasies about you'd look tied up in his bed while he put a vibrator on your clit and forced you to cum over and over again

price is more methodical about it, more precise. he's taken the time to analyze you, every hidden corner of your head and what makes you wet so that he doesn't even have to ask you what you'd like to hear - he can just give it to you unprompted. the man will whip out the filthiest things you've ever heard in your life, stuff that would make even a porn star blush bright red, and he'll say it rough and mean against your ear while he pounds your pussy into the next century. he's not rushing, he can just fuck you like that until he thinks you've cum enough for one night. it usually takes a long, long time before he thinks he's properly wrecked you and treated you for one night and he can take his own reward and breed you full of his cum, and he's not shy about letting you know that intent, about letting you know any of it because he's been talking you through it the entire time

soap is the one who you would think would be the biggest talker of them all. because up until he's actually got you on your back/knees/stomach/etc he is the biggest yapper of them all. and don't get it twisted, he's definitely the loudest of all of them, but it's not from talking. once he's the one getting pleasure (a hand, a mouth, a hole, anything) he can't finish a single thought. he devolves into mindless instinct and brutal thrusts of his hips and greedy searching hands, sentences that are bitten off by load moans, broken praise and calls of your name as he whines and whimpers and groans through his orgasm (after making you cum first like the true gentleman he is)

simon, simon, simon. poor rizzless bitchless simon. look, i know what we'd all like to think, but the man doesn't want to (can't) talk to people he's attracted to even stone cold sober much less when he's pussy drunk out of his mind the way he always is when he so much as senses you get slightly turned on by thinking about him or by staring at him from across the room. he can't even think in full sentences when he's inside you, much less speak any. all that comes out are some soft gasps and shocked moans, and always, always bite marks and bruises littered over your body to convey what he can't speak: that he may not have much but he has you and you are his utterly and completely

[crimsonbubble]

Reader with the COD boys, where reader walks up behind them and hugs them, sliding their hands into their shirt, saying “I’m cold.”

cw. fluff, gn!reader *not proofread, just pure brainrot

[it's been a while since I wrote fluffy headcanons :D]

Ghost

changing the idea a bit for ghost

but him leaning against the kitchen counter and waiting for the kettle to finish boiling

and he's leaning his back against the counter with his arms crossed over his chest

and he's wearing a hoodie that hugs his arms a little too well

but anyways, he sees you wander into the kitchen out of his peripherals

and he just watches as you come up to him, slide your cold hands under his hoodie while whining about being cold

he flinches slightly but relaxes as he wraps his arms around your shoulders

makes you a cup of tea while you're there

watches in amusement as you basically try to burrow yourself into him

holds you close and tries to envelop you as much as he can

I also think that ghost is just a walking heater

like he's always warm and it makes of great use when it gets colder

Soap

as soon as you get clingy and whine about being cold and he's wearing a jacket

he'll do the stupid thing and try to fit you under it so you can both wear it

but if it's a zip up hoodie

he'll stand behind you, put his hands in the pockets and hug you

will also either rest his chin or your head or shoulder depending on your height

def steals a few dozen kisses while doing this

Gaz

imagine during winter and he's wearing a big jacket with a fluffy hood

and you just put your hands in his jacket pockets

and stick your head into his hood

idk why but it's such a cute idea

i love gaz sm :(( pretty boy :(((

and he's all smiley and giggly and he's just giving you kisses and holding you against him

brb gonna go sob he's so cute TvT

Price

another one I think is a walking heater

loves when you complain about the cold so he can be your blanket

if he has one he'll give you his jacket

also does the thing where he grabs your hands, blows warm air onto then a rubs them to warm them up

or just holds one of your hands and sticks it in his pocket

but he also absolutely swoons when you take his hand and put it in your pocket

[ilostthewar]

Ever think how the 141 boys handle a potentially triggering sound/action (e.g a car backfiring and they're jumping on top of you, counting exits, scanning the area for potential threats, etc ) and how their SO comforts/handles it with them?

Hello! I lowkey had never seen this in my askbox, so I'm sorry I'm taking so long to get to this! But I see this being a major problem when you are already out and they're a bit overstimulated. In general, I don’t think any of them would want a big reaction if you are out in public. A quick check in and then moving on. But let’s see where I take this! No triggered warnings I don’t believe, but let me know if I need to add anything!

John Price had planned this whole evening for you and it had backfired horribly. The flowers he ordered were all wrong, his suit had a bleach stain, and now your reservation was fucked. An extra thirty minute wait. You both are in the waiting area for the table that should have been ready for you the moment he walked you in. It's clearly a busy evening. Waiters are rushing back and forth, even the hostess is being called away from their station. He see's the commotion before it even starts. Bodies moving too quickly and unaware of where the other is. Clattering dishes onto the floor, raised voices, a shrill shriek. He’a reacting before he thinks it all the way through, all he knows is that he won’t allow you to be bothered by the disaster that’s brewing in the dining area. He grabs you by the shoulder and he steers you out of the humid waiting room and to the outdoors. He doesn't even realize he's doing it until you pull him to a stop and you're standing in front of him. Your hand comes up slowly and pries his fingers from your shoulder. Instead of dropping his hand, you lace your fingers together and hug his hand to your chest. "Can we go home and just order in?" You ask him, but he knows you're asking for him. He wanted to give you a nice evening out, but the idea of being in a pair of sweat pants and sprawling on the couch with one of your shows sounds better the longer he considers it. “Only if it’s that Indian place you like.” He agrees, exhaling through his nose before he pulls you close enough to kiss your forehead. He has plenty of time to plan you another date night out. But any time spent with you is never wasted It's a brisk autumn afternoon and Simon Riley has sniffed more candles than he thought possible. You had brought him out to some type of seasonal farmer's market. It wasn't exactly something he was used to, but for you he would try. And he did try. Followed at your side, inspected every dish, item, and treat you found, carried any bag you managed to acquire. But it's busy. Children squealing and rushing under foot, bodies bustling too close to the both of you, people shouting about their sales and discounts. He keeps track of the swiftest exit out of the market, but there are to many lines of sight, too many places for someone to hide. It keeps him on edge even as he tries to enjoy the afternoon you planned. He's walking beside you when it happens. A man thrusts his arm out at you, something in hand and Simon moves before he thinks. He shoves the man's arm, knocking the item free and bodies his way between you and the stranger. But it isn't an attacker, isn't someone looking to harm you. It's just a merchant trying to show off some type of sugared treat on a toothpick. Externally, Ghost is glowering, but internally Simon freezes as he looks down at the man holding his bruise. Simon doesn't feel bad for him, but he knows all you wanted was an easy outing. He feels your hand smooth across his lower back and you ease under his arm, allowing him to hold you. You settle the commotion and end up buying some sort of fried pastry "Come on, I saw an apple cider stand back near the car." Your smile is gentle and understanding and he exhales the breath he's holding. You split the treat with him, and he’s certain it tastes sweeter from your fingertips.

Johnny Mactavish wanted to enjoy this with you. He typically liked these sort of things. It's a pub you and him tend to frequent, a local band playing live tonight, but it all seems to crash into him. His hearing wasn't as spectacular as it used to be, a hearing aid in his right ear to help him. But with all the layered noises it's hard to focus on any of it. He can't pick out specific voices, can't hear when the bartender tries to ask for his drink, can't hear the man trying to inch his way behind him. It's a constant stream of input that doesn't organize itself into any sort of order that he can understand. When the band is testing their equipment the feedback makes his hearing aid ring and he flinches. He shakes his head before his hand reaches up to fiddle with his aid until he simply pulls it out, his chest stuttering for a moment as the sound around him dulls down. He feels your arm curl around his elbow and you lay your head on his shoulder, a tactic you adopted to make it easier for him to hear you. "This band is shit." It gets a little breathless chuckle out of him and he tilts his head just enough to see you. Despite the amusement on your face he can see that you're worried. "Let's go, that chip shop you like is still open." You offer him with a little nudge. The offer is for him more than you, but he nods and lets you guide him out of the bumbling bar. The night air is much better with you on his arm. Kyle Garrick was the one who suggested this and he's regretting it. You had errands you needed to run and Kyle had been eager to offer his own help to you. He knows he's often too busy to really indulge in your day-to-day, but he's free now and he wants to go with you. Wants to do mundane little tasks with you. You're only on your second shop when his knee starts acting up, aching up into his thigh and down into his ankle, but he's dealt with worse so he sucks it up. But the pain only makes the rest a worse experience. You end up in a thrift store and he entertains you by trying on a few different items, even when the material makes him want to claw his skin off. When you drift into some sort of body shop he sniffs every lotion, perfume, soap, body butter, bathbomb, and candle you come across; even when it simply feels like a synthetic sugar chloroform on his senses. He's hauling a handful of bags as you both meander your way down the street when it happens. He knows it's not a gun or a bomb, but the backfire of a car sets his nerves off just as badly. He drops the bags to the ground, ignoring the shattering sound it produces. Despite the ache in his body he's covering you with his body, pulling you tight against him as he stutters through a breath. "Love?" You call to him, and he looks down at you. You both are on a sunny street and your eyes are peering up at him with confusion. He opens his lips to try and explain himself and apologize in the same motion but nothing comes out. You wrap your arms around his middle and give him a firm squeeze and he feels himself breathe again. "Come on, that bakery you like is around the corner, we can stop in there for a bit." You offer as you go to pick up one of the bags. You inspect the broken glass. It's one of those candles you purchased. But you don't even look upset as you chuck it into a nearby trashcan. "You owe me a cinnamon roll, though." Your eyes are full of mirth and he feels his own smile return. He grabs the bags you hadn't and follows at your side, the both of you arguing over which seasonal drink you plan to try.