Obsessed with Vampire!Price x Vampire Hunter!Reader.
For starters, Price is not the brooding, woe is me vampire. He’s very old, so he’s not impulsive and reckless like many freshly turned vampires are. He is pragmatic and maddeningly calm even when he has a stake or silver blade at his throat.
You were raised in a guild of vampire hunters, and you had been trained to believe vampires were nothing but mindless, soulless killing machines. They ran on instinct alone and feel nothing.
You hunt Price for years, which is difficult because he knows how to kill without leaving much evidence behind. It begins with a few young people disappearing from one village, and then a few more in the neighboring village. You follow the trail and realize you have a very smart and very deadly vampire on your hands.
Over the years you encounter one another multiple times, but always from a distance, never giving you a chance to kill him. He always makes eye contact with you from up on the roof of a cottage or half a mile away, at the top of a valley. He never makes a move for you, leaving you alive to come find him again.
Until one time, you track him to a dense city, stalking him into an alleyway. In a flash, he has you pinned to the wall, snarling and growling, saliva dripping from his fangs. His eyes are no longer blue, but a deep dark maroon as his instincts scream for blood.
And that’s when he shows restraint. He lets you go, and you fall to your knees, heart pounding. You’re reaching into your satchel for a stake, eyes searching for him in the darkness, but he’s already gone.
You don’t see him for almost a year after that, but when you do, the encounter goes unacknowledged. Things go back to the way they have always been.
Shame fills you. You’re burdened with the knowledge that you’re only alive because he showed mercy.
You hope that killing him makes it go away.
He, on the other hand, looks forward to every one of your encounters. It had been over a century since he has found a true challenge. You’re possibly the first vampire hunter that he has truly viewed as an equal. Where other hunters have only been pesky nuisances, you’re a challenge with your wit, banter, and undeniable skill. It also helps that you’re easy on the eyes. Truly a source of entertainment in his unnaturally long life.
He enjoys provoking you. Where you’re sharp and righteous, he’s sly, calm and unflappable. It makes every encounter feel like a game of chess, which is infuriating to you who just wants to kill him and be done with it.
When your blades clash, once again, he presses in close enough that you can smell the blood on his breath as he murmurs, “You shouldn’t play with knives, love. You could cut yourself.”
He knows just how to get under your skin, teasing you about the way your hands shake, or how your heart skips a beat when his fangs flash in the moonlight. “Are you afraid, darling?” He muses. “You know adrenaline only makes blood taste sweeter.”
You tell yourself it’s disgust that you feel for him, but he already knows better.
Sometimes he doesn’t fight back at all, letting you get the upper hand just so he can study your face when you’re so close to killing him. He’ll grin wickedly through a bloody lip and say, “Go on then. Do it,” but then he immediately flips you, pinning you beneath him, before you can deliver the killing blow.
One fateful night, you’re wounded from hunting a rogue werewolf. You’ve posted up against a tree, certain that you were going to die moments after slaying your opponent. But Price shows up, watching from the shadows until you notice him.
You’re certain he is going to descend upon you, drink you dry, and leave your body there under the tree.
You see the dark red seeping into his irises as he approaches you slowly. But instead of finishing you off, he presses something into your hand. A rag and bottle of disinfectant.
“Patch yourself up before you bleed out, little hunter.”
After that, he begins to show up more often, lurking in the shadows. Sometimes you notice him, sometimes you don’t. His gaze becomes less predatory and more curious, maybe even protective.
John finds himself fascinated with your tenacity. “You should’ve been dead five times over by now, but you’re still standing,” he muttered to himself as he watched you battle with a bruja. “Stubborn little thing.”
He calls you “hunter,” or by your surname, but when he’s serious, your first name slips out in that gravelly voice, low enough to send shivers down your spine.
The first time he touches you, without trying to restrain or disarm, it’s to gently brush a drop of blood off your cheek. He lingers, his skin cold and calloused, before pulling back and pushing his thumb past your lips, forcing it into your mouth. The coppery taste of your own blood makes your stomach roll.
The longer this goes on, the more you realize you don’t actually want to win. If you win, Price is dead. And that doesn’t sit right with you anymore. No. You want to know him. You fight off the urge for as long as you can until…
You corner him one night, finally managing to restrain him with silver chains. He doesn’t fight, but watches you with unnerving calm and something akin to admiration. But both of you know he let you catch him.
He smirks and says, “You’ve finally got me where you want me, hunter. What’ll you do now, hmm?”
Your hesitation gives you away and he laughs, a quiet rumble, before breaking the chains with alarming ease. He surges forward and grabs ahold of the back of your neck, jerking you forward and kissing you roughly. His lips taste of iron and they’re suspiciously warm for a dead man.
You dream of that kiss for weeks, trying to summon anger or rage in hopes that they can smother the unacceptable warmth that grows low in your belly at the memory.
Until he saves your life for a second time. This time by feeding you his blood after a mortal wound. It keeps you alive… but now you’re bound to him in a way that leaves you shunned from your guild. You’re furious with him.
“Why didn’t you just let me die?” You snap. “It would have been more honorable than being bound to a vampire like some sort of slave.”
John stares down at you, amusement evident in his eyes. “A pet would be a more accurate analogy.”
You scowl sharply and step forward, ready to argue some more, but he cuts you off, by stepping up to meet you.
As you crane your neck up to meet his gaze, the amusement leaves his features.
“I didn’t kill you because it would have been a waste,” he says lowly.
He didn’t elaborate on what he meant by that.
He didn’t tell you that he chose not to kill you the first time because he saw a fire in you that he hadn’t seen in centuries.
Something he wanted to protect, even from his own instincts.
He knew he’d have to turn you before bringing you back to his nest. You smelled far too tantalizing to bring around the others. Especially his newest fledgling who hadn’t quite mastered self-control yet.
Johnny would tear you apart in minutes.
Yes, it was better to turn you first. He knew you wouldn’t like it, but that didn’t matter. He’d grown far too attached to let anything happen to you.
What if: Simon 'Ghost' Riley. Is actually just the ghost that haunts the 141, specifically the tired easily annoyed secratary Laswell forced Price to hire.
No one else on base can see him because he chooses not to let them only revealing himself to Soap, Gaz, Price and you. The rest of the base dont ask questions about the men but when it comes to you grumbling out a 'fuck off' into the air, strange looks are thrown in your direction.
Ghost particularly enjoys fucking up your day, moving files just slightly, putting important documents under random sheets, turning off the printer mid way through you copying something. Just the little things to be annoying but noticable. He cant help it when the adorable scowl crosses your face once you realise that your going to actually have to clean your mess of a desk in order to find the things he's hidden.
Of course the build up of stress only leads to you needing an outlet and thats where ghost gets a particular kick out of annoying you. Taking your packet of cigarettes and dumping them out to hide each individule one somewhere within your room. Even going as far as to nicking your lighter when you eventually do find where he's been shoving all of your nicotine. He just wants you to use him as an outlet, wants to listen to you yell or curse him out in that tired hoarse voice of yours that barely gets any use given how you hate speaking when unnecessary.
The boys all get a kick seeing the ghost of base trailing behind you like a stray puppy. The dopey look in his dead eyes giving him away to Price Gaz and Soap of how much he truly enjoys you being around.
And maybe he also finds himself a bit more than curious whenever you shower or change. Sneakily watching from the showers to get a look at you. He may be a dead man but who said ghosts couldnt have fun?
CW: D/s dynamics without it being explicitly outlined, blowjob, a bit of yearning Price.
Price looked up at the sharp rap on his office door and blinked out of the trance-like concentration that had kept him focused for four hours solid, without even a coffee break. The nearby clock said 0200 in flickering red numbers, which meant it could only be one person. No one else sought him out at such an ungodly bloody hour without an imminent mission.
"Come in, Simon."
The handle twisted instantly, like Simon's hand had been resting on it in readiness, and the looming figure of Ghost crossed the threshold. But it wasn't Ghost who needed attention now; Ghost was asleep, waiting for the moment he was needed once more, which had left Simon Riley to surface. The mask did little to hide the difference; Ghost moved like a force of nature, unrepentant and ruthless, but Simon... he moved like a man uncertain whether he was even real.
Price threw his biro down and leaned back in his chair, head tilted to the side. He knew that waiting for Simon to speak was futile; he never would, not in these fragile early hours when he was exposed like a raw nerve. So it fell to Price to take on the burden of deciding, just like in the field.
Price turned his chair to face to the side and Simon drifted over to stand before him, his fingers twitching at his sides in regular little ticks. The tension hummed off of him like radiation, a tight heat on a hair trigger. Price tilted his chair back, fingers twined together over his belly as he looked up at his officer.
Other than his mask, Simon had presented himself practically naked. Well, by Ghost's standards. Cotton shirt, trousers held up by an empty belt, not even a utility knife at the side, his boots were unlaced where he had clearly rolled from his cot and shoved his feet into them in a hurry. Price couldn't see his eyes; the light in the office was too dim, the battered lamp only enough to illuminate the dossier he'd been working on. The shadows hid Simon from him.
He spread his knees and dipped his chin towards the floor. "On your knees, lieutenant," Price said, and Simon obeyed. He dropped between Price's knees without hesitation, hitting the old rug with a dull thud. His shoulders remained squared, his arms rigidly at his sides, but now he was looking up at Price with doe-wide eyes, and Price felt the first stirrings in the pit of his stomach.
He made Simon wait as he evaluated those eyes, the only window he had into the man before him. They were still blacked out but the camo had partially smeared off in sleep; Price could see a few wisps of a blonde eyebrow and damn if Simon didn't have the fullest lashes Price had ever seen on a man.
"The airport," Price said, and saw a flicker in Simon's eyes that confirmed it. "I see."
Price leaned forward and saw the first judder in Simon's composure; a hitch in his chest, a twitch of his broad shoulders. There was no point in telling Simon it wasn't on him; Price carried the rank so he carried the responsibility. All Simon would be thinking of was the families he hadn't saved; the stand-ins for everything he'd lost. Ghost understood; collateral damage, the enemy taking their pound of flesh. That was just what happened in the field. Simon needed help forgetting and letting it go, because he would never be able to understand.
Now, Price wasn't a fool. He knew they were one and the same man, but trauma did something to a man's head. Fuck, it had done a number on his that he was sure some army psych would take great joy in unravelling when it eventually all caught up with him, but they managed in their own ways. Simon has pulled on a mask and called it Ghost, because his call sign was the one defence he had left.
So, to reach Simon, the mask had to come off. Just a little.
Price reached forward and Simon flinched from his hands despite the needy jut of his chin. "Stand easy," he said, the words falling out naturally as they would with any twitchy greenhorn about to take his first jump. Calm authority. And it worked on Simon like a dream; his chin pressed into Price's palm and his shoulders eased.
Price held him there, letting Simon rest in the literal and metaphorical safety of his commanding officer's hands. He felt the warm puffs of breath from Simon's nose on his wrist, and squeezed only enough to feel the strong lines of Simon's jaw. A handsome bloke, if memory served. One day, he'd get this damned mask all the way off and admire it once again, even with all of Simon's past etched and burned into it.
Price hooked his thumbs beneath it and curled it up until it folded just over the tip of Simon's nose. Those intense eyes were flickering, alert, and Price let them settle again until he turned to tracing Simon's lips. They were so unique; full, pale, gnarled across one corner by the scar twisting from his jaw to his cheek, disappearing beneath the band of his balaclava.
Simon was breathing a little heavier; excitement, anxiety, it didn't matter, the body reacted the same. Hairs on end, goosebumps on pale skin. Simon wouldn't pull away, wouldn't stop Price at any point. In these early hours, Price could make him do anything, which was precisely why he couldn't. Simon would shatter and Ghost would be there to harvest the pieces, absorbing them until Simon disappeared forever. Price would only go as far as they always did, because he couldn't risk losing Simon. Not this way.
"You're a good man for coming to me," Price said, the low timbre of his whisper sounding loud in the small office. "Always so good. So loyal."
Price tugged at Simon's lower lip and then stroked the pad of his thumb over Simon's teeth; Simon opened obediently under the lightest touch, and Price stroked his tongue, cupping that strong jaw as Simon surrendered to him, each breath coming easier. "Good, lieutenant. Come on, show me what you want..."
Simon's eyes flickered and rolled, his mouth closed only to suck Price in as far as his thumb would go, those full lips pressing down to his palm with the softest groan as the last of Simon's hesitant restraint tumbled away, like glacier ice cracking off a distant mountain.
"Ahh, there you are, Simon. Good boy." Price pressed a little on Simon's tongue and looked down between his knees. The front of Simon's trousers were bulging out, but his big hands remained firmly on his thick thighs; thighs that Price would give his damn pension to have wrapped around his waist, they would snap him in half and he'd be bloody grateful for it.
The heat under his own skin throbbed warmer and he spread his legs a little further, yielding space to his hardening prick. As if he could sense Price's building arousal, Simon sucked harder, his teeth grazing Price's skin. "Hmm, eager to please, I see." Price pressed down, urging Simon's mouth open, as he pulled at his belt and button. It took only a little fumbling for him to free his cock, the shaft sitting over the elastic of his boxers and dripping shamelessly. Price grunted, a little abashed at his own eagerness. "You do things to me, lad."
Simon's eyes flickered between Price's face and his prick, his tongue wriggling beneath the weight of Price's thumb. "Fuck," Price breathed, fingers tightening on Simon's jaw once more. He eased thumb free and then his foreskin back until his frenulum could tease over the soft, supple skin of Simon's lower lip. Simon held fast, his eyes not leaving Price's face, and Price let him see the pleasure, the admiration.
He teased himself on Simon's lips, rocking backwards and forwards, leaking into his lieutenant's mouth until Simon's tongue was saturated in scent and taste. Price couldn't deny the feral attraction of it; of having Lieutenant Simon Riley on his knees, Ghost tamed into quiet submission, all that power coiled away, and the man himself so desperate to submit.
Simon's tongue curled up to press at Price's slit and Price groaned as his glans yielded to the tip of it. "Impatient, as always," Price said, the words croaked through a miasma of listless pleasure. He leaned back and drew Simon with him, sliding that hot, eager mouth down his shaft. Price wasn't sure what was better; the wet, needy heat that swallowed him to the root, or the way that Simon's eyes rolled back into his bloody head.
Simon pushed his nose to Price's groin, his throat spasming reflexively. "Steady," Price managed, checking the swell of his own excitement as his balls pulled tight. Fuck, so soon? His own bloody thoughts had ridden him to the razor edge and Simon hadn't got his fill yet. Price let his head fall back and closed his eyes, but his hand stayed on Simon's chin, not guiding once Simon had slowed so much as holding. He pressed his thumb into Simon's cheek and felt his prick slide through Simon's mouth and it was almost enough to shove him over the brink.
"Bloody hell," Price hissed through clenched teeth as Simon drew off to lick through his slit again, seeking that concentration of taste and arousal. He licked the thick vein that snaked up from the base, finishing just shy of the tip and then slowed. Slowed right down. Price played with the fuzz of blonde hair at the back of Simon's neck, revealed as his mask hitched a little higher, and felt the cooler tip of Simon's nose at the cusp of his boxers, the puff of hot breath and another deep, guttural groan, and Price's stomach bunched tight.
It was sweet, sweet torture, but Simon was teasing him deliberately, baiting him out for something a little more, and Price gave gladly. He pushed his lieutenant back enough to stand, before hauling him around by the chin until the back of his head pressed to the edge of his desk, cushioned by the meat of Price's free hand.
Simon's mouth hung open for him and Price thrust in deep with a low growl. Price rolled his hips slowly, savouring each drag of Simon's lips and tongue down his shaft, but he couldn't temper his pace for long. He moved faster, stopping only just short of ramming Simon's head back into his hand. Simon's eyes were closed, his body completely slack, and the absolute submission was enough to rip Price's orgasm from him.
His hips stuttered as he emptied down Simon's throat and the lad took it all, consumed every last drop of it, and Price once again revelled in the power yielded to him. He may never have Simon over his desk in the way he wanted, but fuck was he going to enjoy every shred of him he could have like this.
Price dropped Simon's chin in favour of propping himself up and watched as Simon licked absently at his softening prick, the sparks of oversensitivity leaping up his bloody spine like burning shrapnel.
When he was certain his legs would hold him, Price pulled back, returning to wipe Simon's mouth clean of spit and cum. Simon hung in his hands, soft and light, and Price stared at his lips. The urge to kiss in these moments after was almost overpowering, a breath between Price and the taste of himself in his Simon's mouth. Ahh, and there was the bloody problem. His. Not now, not ever.
Price swallowed and sat back on his heels, discarding the scarf he'd used to clean Simon's face, and eased Simon's mask back into place. He rose on aching legs, the afterburn of his climax making him a little dizzy. "Bed. Now. Mess at 0600."
Simon uncurled to his full height - all six-foot-giant of him - and left without a word. Price slumped at his desk and stared at the ceiling. The dossier would have to wait. He felt like he'd just run Test Week at double time.
***
"Ahh, L.T., bit of a wee bounce in yer step t'day. Get lucky at the bar?"
"Focus on the mission, Soap."
"Ahh geddit, you don' kiss an' tell, pwoper English gent."
As Ghost walked to the back of the plane, Price was sure Simon glanced at him from beneath that balaclava, but it was Ghost that rumbled through the intercom. "Ready, sir."
"Ghost takes point, radio silence until we rendezvous at agreed coordinates, go."
Ghost slid his rifle behind his back and threw himself into free fall.
