Long awaited continuation to this, let’s go while John Price’s multiverse spirit has me by my fucking hair
John is a man of many qualities.
Discipline, integrity, cold head and sharp mind.
Relatively stable code of ethics he tries to apply when it doesn’t cost him an arm and a leg in the process.
He likes staying this way and he likes how high he managed to climb given his absolute hatred of bureaucracy and strained relationship with higher ups in command.
And a general he once murdered in cold blood.
On the other hand, now he is able to add to his CV “efficient and quick thinker”, so if the day comes and army boots him out, he’d be able to get a job at a place that probably frowns upon on unnecessary murder and his choice of coping mechanisms.
John knows a tad more about self control than most people — the itch under his skin to fight and chase ever present, at times even more intensely than in Simon.
And Simon is a wolf, for fuck’s sake, man is a stalking predator through and through.
But it was always different for John, a deep seated hunger, a need to climb to the top and stay there no matter what it takes and no matter how many he’d need to send tumbling down.
After all, he just does what his gut tells him.
No one’s bloody business if his gut also has sharp teeth and heavy tail and less patience than he would have liked.
John drinks his whiskey until his head is blurry. He usually stops at the glass of two fingers and a wank, getting it out of his system before his systems decides to reboot itself by urging him to maul the first soldier that looks him in the eyes.
This time John finishes three glasses, scales rippling when he stretches out, his own smoke clouding his head.
Not a good look for a captain. But tonight he isn’t one.
Tonight he is just John. Just a man.
A man you seemingly don’t want, but at the same time can’t help but enjoy teasing.
Taunting him with the promise of intimacy that John cannot have, showing affections that aren’t for him. Kisses that he can’t get.
For one or another reason.
It’s been almost three months now since he has given up trying to figure out what was so wrong about him.
Why isn’t he good enough. Why don’t you like him.
On most days he doesn’t have some proper time to spiral into thinking about his own inadequacy or about you kissing him just as sweetly as you do kiss Johnny. As you kiss Kyle.
Bit unfair it all feels, if he’s being completely honest and a little selfish. Bit unfair and a whole lot less serious than his brain makes it out to be.
Unfortunately today is one of the few precious days when he has more than enough time to think or spiral or preferably finish his bloody paperwork because the thing has been mounting on his desk.
And people need these forms filled out yesterday.
John will probably fill them out tomorrow. Maybe.
Maybe not. He isn’t sure, as of right now, your frame pulling his whole focus off the necessary work.
You aren’t doing anything per se, you just write the reports he needed help with, you are being a good teammate, you are being useful. And yet, your presence there is enough to distract him.
Well, maybe not your presence exactly.
There’s something different about your scent today.
Not the regular salt and sweat, that he already got used to. That he had spent the last few months imagining himself licking it off your skin.
Its not even the faint sea smell you bring back in your hair after taking a swim for an hour or two.
Nothing about this scent is sharp or cloying,
Practically tender, melting on John’s tongue.
Soft with something that makes him want to do things he can’t, wrapping around John’s head like a veil, coating his mouth with sheen of something he wants to lap up.
Drives him mad that he doesn’t know what it is he smells. His tongue darting out to taste air, to moisturise his dry lips, heavy head of his tilting to the side.
Something is different today with you, seal. Something has changed and it makes the wires in his head sparkle, buzzing him back to life.
Pulling him out of an ice bath of his self-control he painstakingly forces himself into.
Doesn’t help that your usual unfazed and unbothered demeanour is not with you (why is that, he wonders) — twitchy and antsy, your knee jerks up and down under the table, shaking it with how fast you do it.
Real pity there is no one else around, but John.
No Johnny to ‘check your vibes’, no Simon to settle you down, no Kyle to kiss it better.
Just the leftovers you apparently don’t want and the captain you don’t like.
Thought scrapes the inner side of John’s throat, acid bubbling, poison spreading. Bitter taste in his mouth almost enough to make him scowl.
But the instinctual, subconscious urge to care for a distressed member of the team is stronger than his wounded pride and heavier than his stone heart.
So his whole body is angling towards you, voice a little softer when he tries to find out what has changed. What makes you so jittery, seal?
You tick like one of Soap’s favourite bombs, timer running down, quickly approaching zero and maybe you can feel that too.
Somewhere deep under your belly button, the pull that makes you try and get away from him.
“Sergeant?”, John murmurs quietly, his voice snapping you out of whatever haze you were in, your head turning to him quickly.
You don’t stop jerking your knee. Almost like you don’t even realise that you are doing it.
“What’s wrong? You hurt?”, he gets to the point without tiptoeing around it, no use dancing in circles if he can shorten this whole thing, cornering you to your desk. Cutting the exit off.
No way out the corner but through him now.
“Nothing, sir. I’m sorry. Must be tired”, you murmur, throat working, ring finger of yours twitching to tap down on the wood of your desktop, your eyes as bright as ever.
Only the blunt and usually so casual tone of yours cracks when you try to change the topic and move on, when you shake your head at his questions, trying to dislodge John off the matter.
Like hell you would, he can smell that something is happening.
John tilts his head to the side when you are so close he can practically taste the sweat on your skin, his tongue flickering out to lick dry lips and hide back, eyes heavy with hunger you have been taunting for the last…how long has it been, love? Was running around plenty, didn’t you?
Alcohol stomps on the ice of his self-control, cracking it for you. Welcoming you in his deep waters.
He nuzzles in your neck, hands sliding under your sweater, groping the tummy of yours, fingers sinking into warm flesh.
Clicking his tongue at your shaky ‘captain, wait—‘ because there is no need for all of that. The chase and games, the play pretend and teasing. He can smell how much you need a hand right now.
So it’s true that fortune favours the patient because John has had an angelic temper when it comes to you. And this is the result.
His fingers now fondling your tummy, lips finding the juncture between your neck and shoulder, his beard tickling the heated sensitive skin.
That must be the gift for all the time he had to wait for you to finally come around.
John already knows what it is that changed when he yanks your shirt up, when he pulls the cups of your bra down, when he gets handfuls of your fat tits, thick calloused fingers of his massaging the flesh.
Someone’s having a little problem, don’t you, love?
John already knows what it is that is wrong with your mood because he kisses your neck and you shiver, panting, still trying to whine something about people seeing or someone walking in.
Komodo dragons thrive on hierarchy. And there is not a person in the whole base who’d like to push him when he’s this fucking busy.
He kneads the flesh of yours, thumb rubbing the areola. Coaxing out what he smelled this whole fucking day, what almost drove him to eat you alive before your own control came apart at the seams.
Milk beads on your nipple, John’s fingers working more of it out, his disappointed ‘tsk’ in your ear makes your knees buckle when he props his chin on your shoulder to see it all better.
So full and so hot under his touch, you’ve been having trouble with getting it out on your own, haven’t you, sergeant?
John knows for a fact that Soap is away for at least two weeks now, John knows even better that you are just out of options.
There literally aren’t anyone else but him who can help. It’s not that he is special or loved or even reliable. It’s the lack of options better than him.
Good news is: John doesn’t care anyway.
You wouldn’t believe it if he told you from just how many hopeless pits he crawled out in his days.
A stacked seal with attachment issues who needs help milking is definitely not the worst of it, love.
He tuts at your attempt to cover up or apologise when his grip tightens and milk squirts out on the desk.
All over the documents he was supposed to pass on yesterday.
Now he will probably pass them on never.
He will either need to suck the milk of yours out of the paper or burn it the fuck down.
John just might burn the bloody forms and tell the administration that he lost them. After all, you aren’t going anywhere.
And no one is coming to save you back until the end of next week.
You have no choice but him, sergeant. No one else to gift your kisses to but your captain.
The bottom of the barrel that you just grazed.
You know, maybe you should have been more careful, sergeant. Maybe you shouldn’t have dived this deep in his waters.
Now you just might not come up back for air.
John rolls his hips into you, lazy, stretching out until he is fully in and then out he goes, his thumb drawling slow excruciating circles on your clit, his thumb patting it like you are a dog that earned a treat.
And not a seal hybrid big enough to curl John into a fucking pretzel.
Though how much good your size is now when John is drooling over the fat of your hips and rolls of your stomach?
How much good your big frame is when your captain is still on the top?
“Didn’t fuck you how they should’ave, eh, sweetheart?”, John rumbles, tongue licking his lips, his hips slotting against yours like he was made for you. Like this is how it was supposed to be from the very beginning. “Can’t sate this greedy hole, can they? Need something bigger, need someone older”, he braces on a forearm above your head, hips of his rolling into yours, his tail wrapping around your leg and pulling you back on his cock.
No running now, no slipping away.
But you whine, clamping down on him, your nipples swollen and sensitive when he cooes and licks one, not yet pulling it in his mouth, not yet giving you this relief.
Just a lick, aye? A taste for your captain, for all his troubles.
John licks off the bead of milk, his system rewiring as he rams back inside of you, his grip tightening because oh, this is so much better than he could have expected.
For one dangerous moment years of his discipline crack down so hard that he almost bottoms out in you, imagining you swollen with a baby. His baby. His seal.
“Wonder what face Simon would make if he finds out I knocked up his seal”, John rumbles, pressing his hips down on yours, feeding you every thick heavy inch of himself. Until you claw at his back, eyes rolling back in your skull.
Getting drunk on just the feel of his cock splitting you.
God, he should have taken you like that the moment you decided it’s a good idea to kiss his lieutenant in front of him.
Should have taken you to the office and should have given your ass a dozen stinging smacks.
Should have taught you some fucking manners, but he wanted to be nice, he wanted you to like him and come to him yourself.
He wanted you to give it to him voluntarily. Because maybe you didn’t actually think he was the worst of the pick. Because maybe you’d want him outside of his attempts to earn the trophy of your affection.
Well, too late for that now, isn’t it?
John clicks his tongue again when you try to crawl away — too overwhelmed to think clearly, too hungry for a thing you are too ashamed to ask for.
Just your luck that John isn’t used to asking anyway.
His lips wrapping around your nipple, sucking it in, lapping at the bud of it, milk of yours blooming on his tongue — rich and thick, dripping down his chin, staying in his beard.
You really are going to cover him all in yourself by the end of it, sergeant.
Might force the man to buy you a ring to lock you down for good.
John groans, his vision crumpling around the edges when you cunt spasms around him, your thighs tensing up, hips rolling into his.
Here comes the first one.
See how nice and easy it was?
If only you have admitted from the very beginning that you like your captain.
If only you stretched around him this nicely, whimpering ‘captain please’ like he is the only one who can give you what you want.
“You are the only or are you just one left?”, vicious voice at the back of his mind sneers and John has to pull his mouth off your tit, least he risks to bite through the tender skin, marking. Permanently.
It doesn’t matter why you let him do this for you.
‘Why’ has never mattered and he should have realised it a long time ago instead of sulking around and hissing at his own men.
What matters is that you let him spread you open and force you down.
What matters is that John’s jaws close on your neck and your pussy squelches so loudly it’s almost enough for him to let it get to his head.
John presses a palm on your back, pressing down until you arch for him, not taking your attempt to wiggle away for an answer.
Why would he when you haven’t been true about your needs ever since he met you?
Why would he when your body is so much more honest than you are — your pussy drools for him, back arches — tits now pressed to the bed, ass up in the air for him to feast.
John knows, sweetheart, your nipples are too sensitive to get rubbed like that.
He is being too rough, he is taking too much and he is too hungry.
All of these are true, sergeant, every single word you are right now choking out when he pulls you right back by the hips.
He slams into you from behind, humming when you cry out trying to get back up, because where do you think you are going? No, love, you’ve been teasing him for months now.
Naughty naughty seal, thought there wouldn’t be any consequences for a fit you threw? Thought that John wouldn’t get to have you one way or another?
Or maybe you hoped that someone else would be here with you now?
He clicks his tongue when you reach for your clit, his palm smacking yours away, pushing you face down in the mattress. No, sweetheart, bad seals don’t get to touch themselves.
If you can’t come from him fucking into you, pressing your heavy leaking tits into the bed then you aren’t coming at all.
See how unfair that sounds? See how mean he has to be with you now?
He wouldn’t have needed to do that if only you came sooner to him.
If you haven’t made him bite down on your throat instead of carefully eating from your open palm, accepting whatever you were willing to offer.
But you didn’t offer a single fucking thing so he had to take the matter in his own hands.
And look where it has gotten him.
Bouncing your ass down on his cock, your greedy fucking hole squeezing him so tightly it drives him half feral.
He’d need to train you proper, sweetheart, show you how to take your captain to the hilt like a good sergeant should.
John will show you, he’s only happy to teach.
And it’s only fair if he gives you an example by stretching out your favourite Johnny right in front of you.
Only fair he gives you a demonstration of how his team did some good seal to dragon communication before you came around.
