Summary: just some dreamy lil thoughts about how 141 put cameras up to... keep an eye on you
Price
Doesn't care for pretense, tells you he is putting cameras up in every corner of your apartment and tells you that he will be watching you when he is away, doesn't give you much of an explanation either but you don't complain when you watch him install each one... Forearms flexing and shirt riding up just a little...yum
Soap
Cares for pretense. Goes on and on and on about how it is for your protection and he would just feel so much safer with it as a precaution... doesn't tell you about the amount of times he has beaten himself silly over you just dancing about in the kitchen or getting ready for work...but he is still a sweetheart also and still loves to check in bc it makes his chest warm and fuzzy
Ghost
Lies. You have no idea he has the cameras up, completely hidden. He has his reasons so he doesn't feel guilty...much...
Gaz
Kyle is normal...kind of.. he'll buy you pets just for the excuse of installing 'pet cameras' and he'll get you a ring doorbell just because 'everyone has one these days' and he'll come up with lame excuses to have cameras everywhere but he is just so charming about it all that you never think to question it. He's just looking after you
Summary: A dreamy lil thought of making Price just a tad jealous. Testing the waters with this mans sanity - at your own risk.
Warnings: Suggestive..?
A/N: sometimes people write Price soooo fluffy and I'm here to put a stop to that propaganda. That man is certifiably insane (no way they don't fudge with his psych evals).
Also, we're not going to pay attention to mistakes bc this is NOT proof read (these are my dreams not my thesis) and no we aren't going to pay attention to my horrid habit of bouncing in and out of past and present tense, thanks x
"Do you want to spar with me?"
You ask, off-handedly, as you pass Price in the common room. He's reading a newspaper - knowing him it's just for the sports section. Arms hunched on the table in front of him, forearms on perfect display, paper down on the table as he towers above. Every inch the man in charge.
He looks up slowly, blue eyes piercing as per. Looks you up and down - he is allowed to do what he wants, don't read into it - rubs his big hand over the bottom half of his face, his stache, his beard.
"Not today, love."
It's accompanied by a cheeky sort of half hearted smile, the one that makes his cheeks glow - but it's still disturbing, in a weird way. There's always going to be something dark beneath the surface with that man and despite the months you've spent in his service you've not seen the half of it. But it's there. Undisputably.
It's there in the sharp gleam of his eye. Even as he dismisses you and refuses you, it's there.
"No problem, sir. I'll ask LT."
You attempt nonchalance. Though it doesn't carry and you know it. He knows it.
He's captain. Whatever he says goes. He says 'jump' and you say 'how high?' It hasn't been more than a week since your last mission with the 141 and you know he's tired. So it shouldn't sting as much as it does when he denies your request of a simple spar. Not like he couldn't take you. Not like it's not easy for him...
You had trained with the 141 before deployment and it was aways grueling. But each of them had gone a little easier on you now you've proven yourself.
You cross the room heading for the fridge, a snack and a drink is the logical choice afterall. At least, that's what you convince yourself. Not like you were trying to stay just an extra minute, not like you had only come in here hoping to find him and only him.
"Wait."
Your foot falls solid to the ground, stuck like glue. The logical choice. You turn to face the voice of your captain. The voice of the man that you have never seen anyone defy.
He's at the table still. Not looking at you as he licks his finger, flipping a page. Leisurely. He knows you'll wait.
There's a small smile that graces his features but it's dark and humorless.
You go rigid as he stands. It's slow and methodical, as is everything he does. Metal chair scraping abhorently against the floor. He's always in control.
"Get on the counter." His eyes rise to meet yours, finally. You're watching every move.
The counter is backed against a wall with no escape. The only exits being far from it. You know he calculates the exits in every room he is in, meticulously. The only movement in the room is the rise and fall of your chest. The only sound is your breath.
"Counter." He repeats calmly.
You don't need to be told twice to take order from The Captain John Price™.
So why have you been told twice?
You scramble. It's not graceful. You clamour onto the surface of the kitchen countertop.
His eyes, stormier than ever, zone in. Target aquired. He side steps the table and strides towards you. Why did you have to be told twice...?
His eyes never leave you, but he reaches for an apple at the side of you. Pausing his hand there for a moment near your thigh.
He doesn't say anything for so long that it's almost awkward. You're past the point of thinking about saying anything because the tension in the air is so thick that you know you shouldn't.
You look down at his hand, clenched white around the apple. Fingers thick, wrist corded with pumping veins. So close to you, your body, your thigh. Your skin comes alive, buzzing with static in all the right places. he comes closer. The hand beside your thigh. His breath washing over you. His chest - though far away enough - feels like it's closing in on you.
It feels like speaking could shatter the room. The air presses in around you, as if the world has stopped and this is the only thing happening.
The breath stutters from you and you feel small under his gaze. There's little to no thoughts in your head. Just a wide-eyed, cornered animal. He has that ability - you've seen it in action. He makes people crumble. It's what he does. It's what he enjoys.
"Do you think..." He speaks slowly, making sure you understand each word. Pausing only to lean in closer to you, the side of his face coming next to yours, his lips so close to your ear. His warm breath casting over the side of your face. You stare straight ahead, he's just about in your peripheral.
..."for a moment.." he rolls the apple now, slow and controlled, his other hand flexing slightly beside his own leg. Ever the controlled soldier, squeezing that damned fruit instead of -
"That I'd let him get his hands on you like that?"
It feels like the room does shatter. As if you've been thrown into another realm of existence. What you feel versus what is reality were two separate things only moments ago and now those worlds are colliding.
You say nothing as the words sink in but make no sense. What was he insinuating here? And could you risk putting your entire career on the line for wishful thinking? Your brain was mush. Any attempt at a coherent thought is white noise at best.
"Hmm?" He jerks his head forward, humming. Taunting. That damn smile still on his face. His eyes lit up doing his favourite thing (to his favourite person).
"I'm tired, sweetheart. You know that. I'm not playing games anymore."
Every spare glance. Small joke. Brushed skin. Had it been wishful thinking afterall?
"You're going to eat plenty and eat well tonight. Go shower and get an early night. 0600 tomorrow, before mess hall. I'll take you then. Alright?"
It's not a question and you know it. He knows it.
You watch him, carefully, as he raises the apple in his hand to his mouth. The thought of making eye contact with him in this proximity is near terrifying. But the overwhelming sight of his lips sliding over the skin, breaking into it with a wet spray, has your thighs squeezing together.
Finally, he bridges the gap and presses his lips to your foreheard tightly. His lips aren't pursed but press flat to your forehead, the hard line of his mouth imprinting itself there. The juice from that damned fruit is sticky. His hand is on the back of your head. Keeping you there. Thoughtless yet feeling everything. You're skin tingles all over, hairs raised.
He walks away, calm. But you know better than that.. don't you?
It's not sweet or gentle. After all these years, he's not sure he knows how to do that anymore. He's walking the line between possessive and predatory.
He returns to his table - his newspaper. Licking his finger and turning a page.
