masonmace

[masonmace]

Sorry for not being around chat.

Life has been kicking a dead horse (me 🥸).

And all I can think about is Sergej and John. SIIIIIIGHHHHHHH

I should just post about them 🥰

[masonmace]

Pricecore

price commiting war crimes like it's jaywalking

[masonmace]

WWWWOOOO GAY PRICE

neighbor!price who sees you get evicted from your apartment after failing to pay the rent on time, i guess being a waiter doesn't really pay that much huh

price taking notice to this offers to let you stay at his place, he'd gone most of the time anyways and it's really starting to get a little empty in here so you agree, moving your stuff in with his

you were a delight to be around, you kept the place homey and sweet, his favorite part of having you there was when he came home from deployment without you knowing and he walks in on you in just your underwear, watching your face flush red and rush to your room

and since price was mainly the one paying rent and letting you stay with him you basically took on the role of cleaning up around the house and cooking for him which warmed his heart and strained his pants

he couldn't help it really, after being alone for quite some time and now just getting a good looking birdie like you who was willing to be his house husband, he was desperate too keep you to himself

(idk im just obsessed with a divorced price who's lonely as hell)

[masonmace]

Price who comes home from deployment absolutely stinking like man. Like... walks in and smells musky. Like short showers and hard work. In the best way. It isn't overpowering, but it stinks on his body hair.

Mhm.

I'll be over here

[masonmace]

Everybody talk about: pop musik!

80's price brings me glee

daddy cool ⋆˙⟡

john price x fem!reader summary: “I’m a producer,” he says, taking a long puff of his cigar, waiting, waiting, “and I scout talent.” ↪or the one in which hairy muscle daddy john price asks you to show him your skills disco style tags/warnings: 70s clubbing, body hair is a central theme, scent kink, daddy kink, deepthroating, rough oral (m), cigars, some alcohol, manipulation if you squint,vaginal fingering + sex, a bit of exhibition kink but not really at all (one line), 'little' not used as a size indicator, dom/sub, oral (f), tiny gape mention

“I think he’s interested in you,” Debbie whisper-screams in your ear. It’s hard to hear her over the boom of the drums, over the four on the floor beat and soaring voices. 

“Really?”

“Girl,” she laughs, incredulous. You look over your shoulder and sure enough he’s fixing you with a stare hot enough to burn through steel.

He’s flanked by two others, but you hardly notice them. You’re staring right into the deep V of his open shirt, at the fur peeking out of it, at the pink of his tongue as it swipes his bottom lip under his mustache. Sinful.

The booth he’s sitting in is draped with orange translucent curtains, creating some illusion of privacy. No overhead lights, either, just a soft cave and dark burgundy leather. Perfect for a bear like him.

“Should I go over there?” you whisper-scream back, curling closer to Debbie, “he’s a bonafide stud.”

She laughs, throwing her long hair over her shoulder, “yeah he is, and he’s looking at you, girl.”

You peek again. He’s smiling this time, like someone who knew you’d look twice. Beyond his shirt, his pants are so goddamn tight you can see almost everything. Christ, who let him out of the house looking like that?

“I’m gonna go over,” you say before you can stop yourself.

A saxophone disco beat booms through the club, thrumming right through you down to your toes, which you move to dance your way to him. Debbie laughs behind you, disappearing into the crowd.

Your hips go side to side, your teeth bite your bottom lip, and you fix him with what you hope is a clear message; you’re hot.

He stays exactly where he is. There’s a smugness about him now, the same smugness you saw when you looked twice.

You can’t really blame him for it. Someone that looks like that is bound to expect attention, desire.

God, he’s just your type. A quiet kind of arrogance, one arm slung over the back of the booth as he lifts a cigar up to his mouth and puffs. Lazily, like a big lion that knows he doesn’t have to hunt to get his food.

“Hello, love,” he says slowly when you get close enough. You’re still bouncing to the music, but you lean forward to hear him better.

“Interested in me, are you?” you’re going for a coy, simpering kind of approach. Something about him makes you want to lay it on thick, want to seduce. To preen a little.

His knuckles are dark in the lighting, hairy and tough like he works with his hands, which you catch as he pats the booth beside him. 

You hadn’t even noticed his companions leaving.

“Saw you dancing,” he lifts a glass from the table, dark liquid, his mustache getting wet, “thought you might be interested, too.”

“You thought right,” you slide in beside him, the leather seat cool even through your tight bootcut pants. You tilt your knees towards him, lifting an elbow to match his on the back of the booth.

Reds, yellows, oranges dance on his skin. The occasional sparkle of the disco ball peeks through, but mostly it filters through the orange booth curtains and spreads into an archipelago of little bright spots. This lighting agrees with him, accentuates the best parts, makes them look darker and more defined. You’d feel like a pervert looking down his shirt if he wasn’t also doing the same to you.

“Name’s John, love,” and when you tell him yours he says, “that’s fitting.”

“So, what do you do?” boring, typical– but it’s all you’ve got. You’re surprised you can get words out at all with the drool pooling in your mouth. This close, you can see how his shirt strains where his shoulders move. A little too small, but it’s probably on purpose.

Should be illegal, honestly.

His eyes crinkle in the corners. He’s the kind of guy whose entire face changes when he smiles, who looks disarmingly more approachable that way.

“I’m a producer,” he says, taking a long puff of his cigar, waiting, waiting, “and I scout talent.”

“Talent?” you cross one leg over the other, trilling internally with satisfaction when you see his eyes fall to your thighs.

You know you aren’t being subtle in the least– and you aren’t trying to be. But you won’t say anything outright, not yet, not while the anticipation feels this tasty.

The booth isn’t private, but it is insulated. The music is loud, but not too loud, just enough that it thrums through you, that you can hear him. Anita Ward croons in your ear, encouraging you. He can ring your bell, that’s for sure.

“That’s right,” he puffs again. The smell makes you lightheaded.

“Moviestars, you mean?” you roll your ankle around, watching him watch you, wondering if he likes the polish colour you picked. 

You like that he’s visibly affected; licking his lips, that meaty hand climbing higher up his thigh.

“Something like that, love,” he smiles again, leans back in the booth and launches a counter attack to your leggy flirtations – he spreads those legs, feet pointed out, hunched just so that his belly starts poking out of those sinfully tight pants.

Motherfucker.

Looking back up at him, his eyes are crinkled at you, head tilted forward. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Which movies have you produced?” you lean your head on your hand, looking at him through your lashes, “anything I’ve seen?”

“I hope so,” he hums. His eyes flit down to your feet again, up to your midriff, then back to your eyes– it’s hot, but it’s also not just a flirtation. He’s assessing, “have you seen Swan Lady? The Nun and the Two Vikings?”

You frown, “no, I haven’t heard of either.”

“How about Call of Duty: Servicing the Captain?”

Ah, it clicks. Your eyebrows go up, into your hairline, “you make pornos?”

“Aye, smart girl,” he gruffs.

Pornos, huh. You could laugh– he looks the part. A little sleazy, unabashed. Masculine not to the point of parody but it’s close. The ‘stache is in style, but in combination with everything else is just the cherry on top.

You only have one question, “you don’t star in any?”

“I prefer working behind the scenes,” something about the way he says behind feels filthy.

John tells all. He does scout, finds girls who want to have a good time (like you), and gently (or so he says) nudges them in front of the camera. I can always sniff ‘em out, he says. The ones that’ll do well on film, that have star quality.

“How can you tell?” you ask, lips pulling on your straw. John has ordered you a tequila sunrise.

You can’t help but trace the skin of his neck with your eyes, roving at the bob of his Adam's apple as he explains. Girls who can take the gloves off, so to speak. Says he can tell by the way they move, how free they are with their bodies.

A little dubious, but it’s honestly doing it for you. You wonder what he saw when you danced up to him, if the sway of your body was free, liberated.

Doesn’t take long at all for him to invite you out either way. John puts his hand on your knee and squeezes, gets real close, gruffs that his place is nearby.

“What do you say, sweetheart?” and of course the only answer is yes, please.

Boney M. soars around you as you follow him out, your hand holding his, your fingers stroking the hairs on his knuckles. 

She’s crazy for her daddy!

On the drive over, he keeps that big paw on your thigh, squeezing almost subconsciously. Just the flex of his fingers.

You widen your knees, hoping for that rough palm to slide upwards, glancing at John as he drives one-handed. Not your first rodeo going home with a man from the disco, but it sure is the first time you’ve felt so keyed up about it.

He’s huge, takes up an absurd amount of room in the car, knee knocking into yours. He even drives sexy, so sure and in control.

“You think I could be in one of your movies?” you say, impish, looking to provoke.

John glances at you for just a second too long, too intense. You can tell he’s picturing you in front of the cameras.

“That what you want?”

“Just picturing it,” you simper, shifting your knee to deliberately touch him again. His fingers flex against your thigh again, jaw moving.

The air is warm, breezy, lights passing by like twinkling firebugs. You roll your window down, smiling at the feeling.

“Oh you're picturing it, are you? Is that making you wet, sweetheart?”

Fuck. It certainly is now.

“Only if you can be my co-star.”

“Is that right?” he laughs, low and deep. His hand climbs higher, “‘fraid I’m just the recruiter, but I’ll have to do a quality test.”

“Quality test?”

“Mm,” he hums, “need to make sure you’re ready for the camera, don’t I? You think you’ve got star quality, then prove it.”

Your panties are sticky.

“I can do that,” you breathe.

“Yeah? Can you prove you can show off your star quality for me, sweetheart?” his fingers slide, achingly slow, to the gusset of your pants, “that you can look into that camera and show the world you’re a good girl?”

They press against you, right up against your clit through the fabric. You fight to stay still, to not come across like you’re desperate, but god it’s hard. You ache.

“Mhm,” you breathe, subtly tilting your hips forward as he idly pets your pussy.

“Not an answer,” he says firmly. Butterflies dance in your stomach, the air slowly being siphoned out, leaving you hot and bothered. John is barely affected, it seems, driving still, gliding through the night.

“Sorry,” you swallow, “I can do that, daddy.”

“Much better.”

“Still want to prove it to me, love?” he moves to a glass cabinet, pulling out a little box. It opens with a click, revealing a neat row of thick cigars.

“Yes,” you stand in the middle of his living room, appreciating the atmosphere he’s made; low lighting, oranges, reds everywhere. Brown leather and the heady smell of cigar smoke, of leather polish and an incense-y kind of musk.

He walks back towards you, brand new cigar between his fingers, steps heavy on the carpet. You’re made aware of the height difference when he stands right in front of you, looking down not unkindly.

Your skin prickles at his gaze, the same one from the club; that assessment. Like he’s measuring you, testing you, scanning you.

John leans forward, breath puffing lightly across your face. He smells like his house does, only there’s a bit of whiskey mixed in.

You can’t help but squirm just a little, thighs rubbing together, both to relieve the pulsing ache of your pussy and that it’s impossible to stay composed under that gaze.

“Drop down,” he says finally, “to your knees, sweetheart.”

From your knees, you get a good fucking look at those tight pants– at the bulge in them. The hair on his chest sticks out a little, too, peeking at you from above. Hot. So hot.

“Comfortable?”

“Yes, daddy,” you bite your lip again.

“Keep those hands down, alright?” he leans to the side and picks up a cigar lighter, watching you as he lights up.

John stands over you, new cigar lit, plumes of smoke drifting from his fingers. His expression is neutral, though he hums in a pleased way as he strokes the softness of your cheek.

“Take me out,” he commands.

You lean forward with your mouth, unable to resist giving him a good long sniff before you pull at his zipper with your teeth. He smells good, musky and strong, a little cologne there but mostly it’s natural.

When your teeth gently take his briefs, pulling, he cups the back of your head with a big hand and strokes your hair.

“Are you going to take it all, sweetheart? Right down your throat?”

You let his cock flop out of his underwear, heavy. The bush surrounding it makes your mouth water. It looks so good, long and a little curved, bouncing as if it’s teasing you.

You nod finally, hands squeezed into fists in your lap just the way he asked, “yes, daddy.”

“That’s my girl. Are you going to give daddy’s cock a little kiss first?”

You lean forward, lips pursed, planting a little kiss on the mushroom head of his cock. Though you ache to lick your lips, to taste him, you wait.

“That’s a good little girl,” he murmurs, “open your mouth.”

You do, holding your tongue out.

He grips the base, holding his cock up, tapping your tongue with the head. You almost whine, before he grips your head firmer and holds you still so he can slide the entire length of that monster right to the back of your throat.

Your nose hits his pubic bone, buried in the coarse hairs there, overwhelmed, hands balling into fists.

“That’s right,” he grunts, “hold it right there, sweetheart, show me you’ve got what it takes.”

God, he’s all the way in, a perfect fit. You try to stay still, anchoring yourself to him, to his palm, to the possibility of hearing good girl.

You gag a little, coughing around him, tears burning at your eyes as drool plip plops onto your chest.

Finally, he pulls out, stroking your hair, “good girl, such a good girl. Ready?”

“Yes,” you garble around the heady of his cock, clit swollen and needy, hands pressing hard into your thighs, “please fuck my face, daddy.”

He does, his pistoning, fucking your mouth like it’s a cunt. His hand cradles the back of your head, pushing you, hips moving, grunting when he’s not taking the occasional puff of his cigar.

You throb in your panties, body scorching hot, gagging every so often around the thick meat of John’s cock. Drool falls in viscous strings, tears following, the world dropping away. 

Nothing else but the slide of his cock in and out of your mouth exists, matters.

“That’s it, that’s it,” he pants raggedly.

You have no idea how long he lasts, only that when he’s finished you're an absolute mess. Wet faced and panting.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, wiping the tears from your cheeks with his rough thumbs. You look up at him through your clumped lashes, mouth open, “did so well for me, hm?”

“Thank you, daddy,” your voice is a little gravelly, but not painful.

John pulls you up with a hand at your bicep, walking you down a hallway off his living room and towards an open door. 

It’s his bedroom– and it’s decorated exactly as you’d imagined it.

The bed is huge, kingsized with a radio inlay and a thick, padded headboard that extends all around the mattress in a kind of cradle. His sheets are silk, dark, and dark orange.

“Nice digs,” you laugh, “you sure you aren’t a pornstar?”

He laughs behind you, setting his lit cigar into the ashtray on the bedside table. He slowly strips out of his clothes, getting totally naked. Then he slides in, and leans back.

“Give me a show, sweetheart.”

You hum, swaying again. You aren’t a pro at this kind of stuff, but it’s fun regardless to pull your shirt up and over your head like you’re a dirty dancer.

“Like this, daddy?”

John hums.

You slowly slide your pants down, turning so he can watch your ass move, kicking them away. You hear the slick sounds of him jerking his cock as you do.

“Should I take my panties off?” you ask, thumbs slipping into the elastic.

“Yes, take them off,” he grunts, “turn around.”

You do, then slowly slip your panties off. He licks his bottom lip again, quick.

“Come here.”

You slide onto the bed, on your knees, then crawl forward until you’re beside him, where he pushes you to lay on your side.

His heavy palm finds the naked skin of your hip, squeezing, “still want to show me your star power, sweetheart?”

“Yes, daddy,” you’re back in it, eyes half lidded. Your pussy is making a wet spot on your thighs, “I wanna show you.”

He pushes you to your back, slaps your thighs until you open your legs and hold them out. Then he pauses, hand at the junction of your thigh and hip, thumb inching towards your pussy.

“Look how wet you are, sweetheart,” he murmurs.

You clench, tilting your hips up. Your clit throbs.

“Ah ah, get back down,” he tuts.

Your ass touches the bed again, hips forced down by sheer willpower. His thumb finally reaches you, pulling aside your pussylip to gaze at your wetness.

It gushes out of you, and you’re sure he can see the way your hole clenches.

“Desperate little cunt, isn't she?” he uses his other hand, two two fingers coming to pull the hood of your clit up and just watch as it jumps needily, “awe, poor thing.”

“Please, daddy,” you could cry, “please, touch me.”

“Touch where, love? Touch this needy little clit?”

“Yes, please!”

“Well, since you asked so nicely,” he abandons holding you open to bring his thumb to your exposed clit, rubbing in circles. You shout, a tremor immediately beginning. It’s too much and not enough at once, electric and icy-hot.

Then he slips those fingers inside you, slow and testing at first, but when he realizes just how wet and soft you are he curls them inside you deeply and oh, fuck, your eyes roll back into your head.

“That’s the spot, that’s it,” he grunts, shaking you, taking you apart.

John only fingers you long enough to let your wetness spill out of you, wetting your thighs, soaking his fingers– until you’re ready for his cock.

“You’re ready,” he lays the length of it against your pussy for a moment, letting your swollen lips hug his length, before he shifts back and nudges the head at your hole, “yeah, you’re ready for it.”

He stuffs you fucking full. You’ve never been so stuffed in your life, thankful for his diligent attention earlier or you might be really feeling the weight of him.

“Oh, fuck,” you gasp, back arching, nipples rubbing against his chest hair. It sparks pleasure from your tits right down your cunt, body aflame, hands scratching through the hair at his back.

It’s like fucking a bear, or a werewolf. He’s relentless, too, without mercy. Plows into you hard and long, thrusts measured, never faltering.

John fucks like a pornstar, there’s no doubt about it. He takes up so much space on top of you that without his arms holding him up you worry about being crushed– you crave it, too.

“Good fucking girl,” he snarls, lip curling, mustache going with it, “want to be on camera, do ya? Let me hear you.”

You let loose, mouth open in one long drawn out sound, interposed only by the gasps you let out each time he hits you deep.

You tilt your head back, bearing your throat, taking each heavy thrust and crying out with them, squeezing around him.

“I’m gonna give it all to you, sweetheart, fuck,” he snaps his hips faster now, “and you’re gonna take it all like a star.”

You nod desperately, feeling his pubes each time he thrusts to the hilt, wet with your juices. You’re so fucking close, one breath to your clit and you’d lose your mind.

He straightens, hands going to your hips, tightening, as he snaps one, two, three times and tenses–

His head snaps back, neck bulging with veins as he comes, teeth bared in a growl as he curses, “fuck, good girl, that’s right– good fucking pussy–”

Hot come shoots inside, heating you up further, making you whine with frustration and satisfaction both.

When the taut line of his body relaxes and he pulls out, a flood of come following him, he slides to his stomach and spreads you open with his thumbs.

“Let daddy make it up to you, sweetheart,” he murmurs to your pussy, “he’s not usually so selfish.”

John looks down first. Your pussy is swollen, well-fucked, and you can feel a slight gape.

“Poor little pussy,” he murmurs, then seals his mouth over your clit until you fall apart.

“You sure you aren’t a pornstar?” your cheek is pressed to his chest, basking in the furriness, arm and leg thrown over his body.

He laughs, “I’m sure, sweetheart. But I will say–” he pauses to lean down and kiss the corner of your mouth, mustache still damp, “you’ve definitely got star quality.”

[masonmace]

BAHAHA

At one point in time, John Price has uttered the words "Christ, that scared the tits off me."

And Simon Riley has immediately grabbed his tit and shook his head, uttering a very serious: "No, it didn't. Still there, still perky."

That day, they learned that John can swing significantly faster than Simon can duck.

[masonmace]

Hey, so! I haven't snapped any hearts like twigs lately.

Cw: angst.

RINSE. REPEAT.

Imagine Modern Warfare IV. Johnny's dead. Things aren't the same with the task force: they never will be. Simon's been quiet; distant. Gaz is quiet, but tries to fill the silence with jokes. A replacement for the jokester they'd lost. It's just met with grunts that are meant to be laughs.. but aren't true laughs.

It's just not the same.

John's been distant to you, too. Sure, you both had talked things out. You convinced him that he wasn't going to kill you. That it was in his head and that it was nobody's fault.

As if some shit like that would work.

Nobody expects a civilian to understand, though. John gets it.. that you didn't experience it. It's hard to sit day by day with his men when he killed their friend. He may as well've put the gun at Soap's temple. He was daft to make the scotsman wait. So . utterly . daft.

Missions are all the same. Well, they're never consistent, but they're the same. Quiet in the hawk, quiet on the field, quiet on the way home. Get into compounds, get intel, find targets, do whatever bullshit they need to do, etcetera. Get back to base, get hammered. Sometimes Gaz or Ghost will go spend the night with someone. It's all coping mechanisms.

The silence is so, so very loud.

Makarov is one of the biggest reasons why so many of John's men died. He won't stop until the bastard is dead. No matter what. Maybe that's where he went wrong. The bloodlust he carries for Makarov sits on the bloodied throne right next to the guilt. Wedded. Hand in hand ruling the war-filled place in his head.

He just isn't the same.

None of them are.

John's known Simon the longest. Gaz for a good while, too. Roach, too. They're his boys, and he wishes he could put a face on for them. John just cannot force himself to act okay this time.

None of them can.

The mission had happened so, so very fast. Too fast. Way . too . fast. What happens now? Where does he go? It was Gaz. Bullet between the eyes. Snap. Crack. Thud. Sigh. Then the blood was rushing in his ears again and he didn't have the time to even call his name. The mission roared on.

He should have called them off quicker. Told them to take a different route. Maybe if he had told Gaz to go with him instead.

Maybe.

Maybe.

What if.

If he hadn't-

There was a mandatory leave after Gaz' death. John didn't come home to you. There was no way in hell he could have. No, he didn't go home. Instead, he ran straight to the pub. Left when they closed and stayed at a hostel instead.

Rinse

Repeat.

Four days later... middle of the night. That's when he came home. It was three in the morning. The front door open and the stink of booze and a man in desperate need of a shower ran into the room. Your head immediately bounces up off of the couch's armrest.

He's a zombie as he shuffles into the house, toeing his boots off and mumbling a greeting. Even though you're half asleep, you rush up to him. Questioning where he's been, he only groans another response.

"Out." He mumbles. "I was fucking . out." John spits, glaring at you with a few harsh breaths. "Go t'sleep." He shuts down any and all conversation as he trudges down the hall and into the bathroom.

"Jonathon." You call, all groggy and discombobulated. You step into the bathroom, uncaring of the fact that he's stripping. The sight is enough to make anyone's throat dry. "John. Talk to me." You plea.

"I'll talk t'you in the mornin'." He grunts, eyebrows set into a deep furrow and jaw set into a clench.

"Right now." You insist. Eyes batting at him. "Let me shower with you. At least."

You showered earlier, but that doesn't matter to you. It takes quite a bit more convincing before John gives in - a drunken frown on his face as you don't turn the shower on, but draw a bath.

You will die.

The bath is quiet - John prefers it that way. He's already cried enough tears. He's all dried up now. He holds you in his arms most of the time, and manages to allow you to wash him the others.

Rinse.

He doesn't. John doesn't answer questions. Just closes his eyes and allows you to do what it is makes you happy.

Repeat.

The mandatory leave was only a couple weeks. Ghost, Roach, and Jonathon back onto base alongside two new transfers to replace Soap and Gaz. John's less than approving of them, but he does his best to put up and go through with an open mind.

They must kill Makarov. It's the only way to win. Things won't be right until that mother fucker is dead and burned. John has sworn that he will light his goddamn cigar with the same flames that burn that bastard alive. Swears it.

That's how it was supposed to go.

The ride to the compound was grim. But John was determined. He made sure to make very clear communication between everyone. Before they'd left, he'd hugged Ghost. It sure had been out of character, but he felt the need. He did the same to Roach.

Why must everything go to shit?

Ghost had gotten out of the building in time. But Roach's comms were finicky. He didn't hear his Captain shouting. The comms broke out, and Ghost went head first back into the crumbling building. The groan of concrete was loud. The world rushed around him and he was frozen there in time. 23:34.

Rinse.

The sound of the building crashing around him wasn't as loud as his own heartbeat. He was too late. 00:12. Price's hands clawed at the rubble, digging and forcing chunks up. Slipping himself in at the only entrance he found like some brave cave explorer. He slotted himself in and got through the rubble.

Repeat.

Price called out their names. Simon. Gary. Over and over. When he found Roach, he was already dead. John sat and tried to resuscitate. It didn't go over as planned.

He should have gotten Gary a new comm.

He didn't leave Roach there. He brought the limp body back to the surface and dove right back it. Simon was alive when he found him. His lieutenant. His breathing shook, and he fought and fought. "I've got you, son." His voice broke under the weight. Coughing from the dust. "I'm comin' to ya." He groans.

Simon's breathing was separated and wheezed; pained. Once the rubble was cleared, he had to tread carefully. A piece of rebar was staked through Ghost's lower abdomen. The blood made John's stomach twist. Not because he couldn't handle blood, but because it was Simon's. The pants coming from Simon made him want to puke.

It should've been him.

The groan of the concrete around them scared John, but he wouldn't leave Ghost here.

"Y'gotta work with me, Si." John breathes, hulking the broader man further and trying to pick him up. To save him. His last soldier. "Please. Please, son." John has to suck his lips together not to cry.

Rinse.

John pulled Simon as close as he could, clutching at him. Hauling him closer. Simon tried to fight it when Price moved to lift him, forced them both back down with a thud. "Leave me." Ghost pleas, groaning with the pain. Too many broken bones. His eyes too unfocused and the world spinning. "Let me go to Johnny, Price."

Price tried to argue, tried to drag Simon back up again. The bloke's too goddamn big. "I need a hand!" John hollers. He fights with his voice not to crack. His hands clutch for his mic. "Laswell! I need evac now." John spits, the mics cracking. His voice broken and wheezed. His face screwing up and the sob he sobbed unmatched by another. He saw the exact second Simon's eyes rolled, head lolling to the side right after. He's dead.

Repeat.

[masonmace]

All of you better say happy fourteenth birthday to my kitty.

It is her golden birthday after all! :)

Happy Valentine's Day!

Nine whole years with my girl, and I could never in my life ask for a better little fur ball. I may not have seen her as a kitten or raised her on my own, but she will always be my girl.

People can say what they want, but I don't love this cat like an animal or pet. I love her with all of my heart and being. She is my baby. She will ALWAYS be my baby.

Maycee Mae: you will forever be my furry soulmate. Even as you get persnickety in your old age. Even though I know you won't be by my side forever. Never, in my little life, will I meet another as wondrous and loving as you are. I love you, and I always will. Before, during, and beyond. Some might even say furever.

[masonmace]

How come I see John kinda being a cuck.

Like.. he'd really like to just sit back and watch Ghost or his pretty Gaz fuck you. Sometimes even asking Ghost and Soap to bang in HIS bed while he sits on the couch in his quarters. Pervert. He isn't the type to be like "oh I can't touch myself," though.

NOPE. He's jerking himself at the same pace they're fucking you. Fisting his cock and making sure he doesn't cum before any of you.

Yeah, he totally has a cuck thing. Total voyeur. It's like an in-person porno where he gets to watch the people he adores in pleasure. To give them pleasure by allowing them to do this. And later giving them all pleasure by fucking their ever loving brains out THEN making love to each of them.

Now THAT is Jonathon Price.

Also, he doesn't bottom for any besides Nikolai.

[masonmace]

I like Gazprice

I like Ghostprice

I like Soapprice

And Ghoap...

And Soapgaz

And Nikprice

I also like poly141.

I need to write for them

[masonmace]

Part.2 of Sergej being a pervert.

Okay. Well. John's a fuckin perv too..

cw: wrestling...turned fucking. Primal play times 700 (growling and fighting), rough sex, butt darts(anal!sex)(no lube..spit), spit, creampie, dryhumping mention, anal!fingering, biting, spanking

This time during their spar session, there'd been some weird shift in energy. A new determination in John's eyes. It made Sergej boil with arousal. Anytime they spar, anyways, they both end up hot and bothered near the end. Manhandling and being in the close quarters of another is one the easiest ways to get a man worked up ... not to mention that the competition and exertion sends a little excitement down south anyways.

This time is no different. Sergej watches John stroll in. Meeting the other half way and giving him a handshake, shoulder meeting the other's chest before they both peel back and share a smile - add on a few words about what they're looking to work on this time around.

The usual. Mainly a bit of wrestling practice with the usual additions of jiu jitsu. John's not to the point where he can fully match Sergej's sparring style.

They've been at it for a while now, but John's finally got a hold on Sergej. Sergej's trying to fight back, when John full out groans, grinding his hard on right against Sergej's backside.

Whose eyes shoot wide and he gives a few huffs and a fight back, only for Jonathon to shove him down by the shoulder. There's one hell of a difference in grazing and full-on dry humping. This time, Sergej juts his hips back into John's - giving a challenging growl. There's no need for consent spoken - action is enough here. John tears Sergej pants and boxers down. Spitting onto his hole - one finger moving and catching the spit before snapping it into the blonde below him. Who gasps and arches his hips into John even more.

It's all teeth and growling with need. John using his other hand to free himself from his sweats and boxers. Pumping his cock and spitting onto his hand. Giving himself steady strokes and coating himself in the poor excuse for lube.

Sergej juts his hips further, whining desperately for more.

"Guess I know 'how t'win now." John growls. To which Sergej shoots him a look, hissing - hole twitching and fluttering as John retracts his finger and wastes no time to replace it with his thick, heavy cock.

Sergej gasps and growls as John forces himself in. Hips retracting and snapping forward, working the smaller male open bit by bit. The blonde's eyes rolling back and jaw hanging open. One hand grasping at the floor and the other reached back to spread himself open. To feel the way John cock works him.

With a heady moan, John bottoms out, back bending and forehead landing on Sergej's shoulder. Rubbing against him and panting - hard and heavy. He gives them both a moment to adjust to the new sensations. Sergej's plush, soft inner walls twitching around John. Clenching with each drawn pant he gives. Sergej's breath knocked straight from his chest and eyes already half rolled back from the intrusion. Feeling so full on his Captain's cock. He can feel the pulse of every vein. The angry throb that beats with the older's heart.

When John starts moving, he doesn't even give the mercy of starting slow. One hand clasping against the back of Sergej's neck. Holding him into the mat as he abuses his tight hole with drawn, punishing slams of his hips. Finally able to dominate this little fucker. Who's digging at his hip and giving these panted moans.

They're both lost in the sensations for a bit. All before Serg gets the upper hand, tearing away and sweeping John's knees out from under him. Rolling and grasping until he's got John under him. Legs stretched to pin John's arms; Serg's arms wrapped around John's legs. Fighting to get John's cock back into him. Releasing the other's arms and crooning out a moan that he half-bites back when John works in tandem.

Price's hand cradling his own cock and stuffing it into the scout's waiting hole. Both of them giving growls and grunts of delight as Sergej's hips start to snap up and down against John. The look of bliss evident on his face. Head knocking back and eyes rolling. His knees shaking when he angles just right so John can find that little spot deep in the other. John's large hands grasping Sergej's waist. Heel of his palms pressed into the plush belly of the younger. Adding just enough pressure to have him trembling.

"Turn around." John spits, growling and snapping his hips into Sergej's: who takes a second to breathe before lifting himself off and moving so his ass was facing John. One hand holding his Captain steady as he once again sits onto the man's thick cock. Biting his lip. Seating himself fully before leaning and slowly, achingly so, pulling up. Making John gasp and bite back and trembling groan. Fighting not to cum at that sight: watching the way his dick disappears into Sergej's pink rim. The sight lewd and nasty and purely primal.

The slow pace only lasts a second before both of John's hands grasp Sergej's thick shoulders and tear the younger man back. Biceps closing and flexing around Sergej's throat. Just enough to choke him as he starts fucking his hips up, hard and relentless. Gasping and growling into Sergej's ear and panting down his neck before his teeth snap into his shoulder. Biting hard enough to leave crevices from his teeth. The sounds from them both primal and animalistic.

Taking frustrations and stress out at they hump and rut into each other. Sergej's face growing red. Slowly rolling them both onto their sides. The slap of John's hips against Sergej's rear-end lewd and ricocheting off the walls. Sergej's body now pliant and taking every. fucking. thrust. Like his weary little life depended on it. Giving these sobbed moans of pleasure. Babbling John's name and how good he feels. John growling and moaning into Sergej's neck - full of triumph at finally finding Sergej's weak point –

that sweet, sweet hole.

John's free hand moves, grasping Sergej's thigh and lifting it. "Spread f'me, baby..." he growls, Sergej's poor leg trembling and prying apart. "More.. wider." John growls, pulling out and moving. Straddling Sergej's lower thigh and cramming his cock right back in. Twisting the sweet little blonde's other thigh onto his shoulder. Panting and leaning forward. Gripping at his throat and keeping his head in the mats as he goes right back.

Sergej's back arching, thighs trembling and eyes rolling again. John's own fluttering and flickering as he groans - low and heavy. They're both slick with sweat. Banging like wild fucking animals in the middle of the sparring ring.

"Good fucking boy.." John spits. Jamming his hips in with his words. "Taking m'cock like y'were made fer' it." Jonathon's words growl as he ruts into Sergej. Wanting to cling to the feeling of his sergeant finally around him, but knowing full well that they both are far too close to stop now. "Jus' go'ah fill yer ass up and you shut that snarky fockin' mouth." He moans the words with a snarl. Jamming his hips at the perfect angle. "Put my load in there next."

The threat is one Sergej very thoroughly enjoys. Giving a sobbed little whimper. John's cock jamming into places that Sergej hasn't had touched in goddamn years. The fingernails he's got left digging stripes into both John's forearm and shoulder. Trying to choke back his moans as he tumbles closer and closer. Tears of pleasure wetting his blonde eyelashes and turning them a pretty brown. Rolled back into his head and trying to form the words around John's hand on his throat. To say that he's close.. that he's about to cum.

But of course his Captain knows that. Can feel those abused walls clenching around him. Giving groans and snapping his hips right in. His own nostrils flaring. Chest heaving as he gains on his orgasm.

Both parties've been needing a good fucking. "Jus' needed a pounding from yer captain..." John growls, panting heavy and loud.

The slurred "yess.." that Sergej produces is nothing short of sinful. Gasping as the hand tightens around his throat. A few babbled, foreign curses choking from his chest. The thigh of his over John's shoulder started to twitch and tremble. A choked plea for permission rising in his throat. Lips twitching.

"Go on." John insists, hips snapping into Sergej hard enough for his body to jolt back. "Cum on my cock.." he urges. Hand loosening around Sergej's throat and running down. Holding his soft little belly. It only takes a couple more thrusts before Serg goes taut and then that coil snaps. Shamelessly trembling and cumming all over the mat beneath him.

John's quick to follow. Hips stuttering forward and cock pulsing before he gives a tremble, spilling a hot load deep into the sergeant below him.

They sit, intertwined, for a minute. John's face leaning down and kissing sweetly down the back of his thigh. Licking off the sweat with a little purr of delight. His hips slowly pulling back, slipping his - now soft and spent - cock out of Sergej. Both of them hissing at the feeling. John growling as he watches that pretty rim gape and twitch, squeezing out his load as Sergej pants - dazed out of his pretty head.

John's not having too much of it. Fingers reaching and gathering his spend onto his fingers. Swirling that pretty hole and stuffing it all right back in. Sergej gasping and trying to pull from the feeling at first. Only for John to tug him back and giving a few pumps of his fingers. Pulling them out and wiping it all off on Sergej's ass. Hand reeling and snapping down. Spanking both cheeks. Listening to his sergeant squeak and try to twitch away.

Looking over his broad shoulder and pouting. Only to spank him again.

"Don' you gi'me that look." John growls. Squeezing those plump cheeks and shaking it sweetly. "Yer the one who just let me fuck you in th' middle of the trainin' room, prince." He gives a dark chuckle.

Sergej huffs out a whine. "Or what?" He snarks right back, speaking with a tight jaw.

"Or I'll fuck you stupid in front a' th' whole team... an' let em have their way, too." John threatens. Making Serg's jaw involuntarily drop. Then watching the blonde deflate and give a pleading little whine.

"It won't happen again." Sergej says. Promise in his eyes.

[masonmace]

Need more

Out of the Ordinary. john price x reader (2/??)

old west vibes. reader isn't referred too as 'you', reader is referred to as she/her because the story is written from john's pov. no physical description is given. title is based off of ordinary by alex warren. not beta read.

1st part.

The whole thing starts when he runs into the preacher, early on a Tuesday morning at the general store.

The man is pleasant as always, makes conversation easy, and leans into the fact that the town is finally getting a teacher after all these years, (it’s slow going getting there because the man talks about everything from the weather to Mr. Saunders’ horse having another foal, to how John missed church the past Sunday).

John wonders the whole time the man’s talking about this new teacher, why this concerns him, he’s known how to read and write for years. They’ve also had the school completely built for three months. It’s not until the man finally gets to the point, it’s not until John has checked out the few items he needs and is standing outside, purchases already shoved in saddle bags, and waiting to climb onto his horse.

The preacher finally says to him, the school doesn’t have a desk for the teacher, nor do they have desks for the kids and he’s wondering if John had the time to make some like he did with the pullbin and pews for the church. The church would pay of course, seeing as how they were the ones asking.

John says yes, he’d be happy too if only to get out of this conversation and go home to cook supper. He asks the man what he’s thinking, gets an idea of what they’re looking for, and finally gets on his horse.

It’s not until much later when he’s home, had some supper, that he finds himself in the shop, looking at the wood he has, thinking he’ll make something nice, something stained so the teacher can feel the softness of the wood without worrying about spills or marks from chalk that won’t wash out. He’s gonna make something that’ll last through multiple teachers because he’s sure once that young woman gets this far out west and realizes it’s not what she thought it was, she’ll be packing to head home and they’ll be waiting for the next teacher.

Not everyone stays or survives their first time out west.

It takes a few weeks, between finishing other projects and the few duties he has outside of woodworking, to get 20 desks made, big enough to fight the older kids, but still be comfortable for the little ones. The teacher's desk takes him just a little bit longer because he adds drawers to it, for her to keep things in, carves designs into the legs because the idea struck him when he couldn’t sleep and no one was there to stop him from doing it.

There’s pride in his step when he’s unloading everything into the new school, one of the older boy’s helping move everything in, get them set up just the way the preacher’s wife wants them.

That’s when he sees her, the new teacher.

He’s standing outside watching the young man load off the last student desk and he looks up for just a moment, there she is.

God must have been doing his best work when he made her, all delicate features and soft curves. He’s never been a religious man, a devout one anyway, but he’s thinking he might have to start worshipping if God was making things as beautiful as her. He’s seen a few of God’s more beautiful creations during his thirty five years on this planet, from views of the mountains when he’s standing in the valley to views of the valley when he’s standing on the mountain, but he’s never seen anything like her.

It’s her voice too, like the perfect song to soothe a wounded man’s heart, almost what he imagined angels were meant to sound like. When she speaks to him, introduces herself, he finds himself without words, finds his heart beating several speeds too fast and his mouth dryer than it's ever been. (Even when he was stuck in the trenches during the war and hadn’t had a thing to drink in almost a week.)

He’s glad for the preacher’s wife then, when she introduces him and he finds himself removing his hat, combing a hand through his hair so he looks mildly presentable. If he knew he’d be meeting an angel today, he would have removed some of the sawdust from his clothes, would have run a brush through his beard. She doesn’t seem to mind though, just smiles softly at him and keeps talking. He finds he could listen to her talk about just anything and be happy for the rest of his days.

" Captain Price made the desks, you see. " The older woman says, looking between the two of them. There’s something in the woman’s eyes that John can’t quite name, but the teacher just keeps looking at him, the smallest smile on her face.

" Just John, not a captain anymore, ma’am. "

Her cheeks are pink though and he speaks up about getting them inside and warmed up, one of the older boys already started the fire for her. Not that any of them knew she’d be coming today, not that it was really cold enough to have a fire going, but the preacher had insisted once the weather started to chill.

Yet when they get inside, her cheeks don’t stop being pink, only seem to get pinker the longer she looks at him. Perhaps now she’s too hot, should he take her coat? He can’t do that, ain’t his place after all.

He finds himself a silent observer as the preacher’s wife leads her through the school, shows her around, goes over lesson plans, lets her have a look at her small home just behind the wall that holds the chalkboard. Again, his mouth goes dry when her hands touch the wood of the desk he made for her. The way small fingers slide gently over the wood, the way she smiles when she sees the little woodland creatures carved into sides, or the greenery carved into the legs.

When she looks up at him, the smile she gives to only him makes his heart stop beating in his chest for long enough he thinks he might have died and gone straight to heaven. Even if God doesn’t have a place for him up there, not with the blood that stains his hands, not with the lives he’s taken, and all of the mistakes he’s made.

There’s no angels for him either, he knows that. Even if his heart wants the sweet little thing in front of him; young and beautiful, well spoken, with a soft figure. That’s an angel not meant for the likes of him, but it doesn’t mean he’ll stop wanting. After all, he’s just a man, one filled with enough sin to keep the devil busy for a few decades.

Eventually he does have to leave, has other projects to complete, and it's almost time for supper. As much as his heart hates the idea of leaving, of his eyes missing a single second of looking at her, he knows he needs to leave because lingering like this ain’t gonna look good. Especially if the preacher’s wife leaves, being alone and childless with the new teacher won’t look good for her reputation, and he’d hate to get her off to a bad start with the town. She’ll be good for this place, he thinks, bringing a little sunshine and light to a place (and a man) who could use a little more of it.

Her voice washes over him when he leaves, telling him thank you for the desks, that his work is beautiful, and it makes him want to linger. He doesn’t though, thanks her before sliding his hat on his head, paying the young boy who helped him off load and climbing up on the wagon.

He misses the way she lingers in the doorway to watch him leave, misses the preacher’s wife have a knowing smile across her face, but he doesn’t miss the way his heart screams at him to turn back, to sweep that woman off her feet and drag her back to den to make her his.

He won’t though, he tells that old thing he’s surprised is still beating, she deserves better than the likes of him.

[masonmace]

Timmy rant incoming.

I can't decide if John's more of the omega type, gamma type, or alpha type. See, he's so dominant and demanding but.. but... he would be such a little darling as an omega.

He'd think his job makes him undesirable, he's old and soft in the midsection. No alpha to soothe his heats and give him pups. Eyeballing and growing upset when he sees other omegas with happy family. He's too old for the dating pool. Everyone his age is taken.

Now, he isn't any less demanding just because he's an omega. In fact, he's even worse. Snapping put demands - we all know how omegas get when they're moody. And he's always moody.

GAMMA PRICE ! Best of both worlds.

Alpha Price... care taker and such, but still insecure and unsure why anybody would want him.

Hic hic get this man a husband please

[masonmace]

Hff hff

Incubus!Price

Hffff

OMEGA PRICE

[masonmace]

Now I need self indulgence cuz im big

Nevermind I am the self indulgence king.

Massive L's

Oc x price

HEHEH AERGEJ BEING A PERVERT MAKES MY ASS LAUGH

im not boutta try on this shit so don't look at me cockeyed.

Sergej who always asks John to spar with him. A bit of "you stand there, okay?" And just has a session of throwing John around because John's just big enough to be a challenge, but not too big to the point that Sergej has to break his back slinging him about.

John, who eventually learns a lot of Serg's tactic. And Serg, who info dumps that John needs to practice jiu jitsu - that size and winning doesn't matter, but control does. "Center of balance, Jonathon! Don't let me take control!" He always reminds after slinging John a little more one time.

Sergej's absolutely delighted with John's improvement! Now John, when they have a bit of a wrestling spar, can actually fight back and learn to get Serg off of his feet. Which means Sergej can show off and have those big paws on him. Pervert! Disgusting pervert! I saw that!

Sergej knows how to fight, and John knows full well. He's watched the little blondie sling Ghost over his shoulder with little more than a grunt. He's put Soap into a half Nelson with hardly any strain. And, because Serg is in a higher weight-grade than Gaz, he only asks Gaz for help with boxing or Krav Maga sparring.

Watching the blonde move in fights is like seeing a whole new person.

Instead of the slow-moving, anxious little twerp, he's this laser-focused, sweaty and growling beast. Chubby little soldier that can manhandle them all actually using his ability instead of sitting in the side lines and kicking rocks.

It also point out very well that he's a scout for a reason. He's quick AND deadly. Kid can't really aim for shit, but he can have an enemy dead in an instant. He's like a church mouse. Quick and soundless and taking people down like they're nothing.

The first time John gets a successful pin on Serg, the blonde is star struck. Stares for a second, and just when John's convinced he won, Sergej sweeps him into a different position and they're right back to bowling around and tussling before Serg has him folded up like a pretzel. Fuck.

Serg jerked off with a little too much fervor that night.

This is sweaty and nasty. Sergej's rarely wearing anything but his boxers and shorts - shorts often discarded because they're too restricting. John has the decency to put pants on, but Sergej's committed to wrestling. Not committed enough to wear a leotard.. he doesn't want to have a print. Causes a staring problem for even the straightest dudes.

ANYWAYS. The spars rarely have music so from outside the room, it sounds like a fuck-session. Bowling around. Growling and groaning and skin smacking skin. Only to peer in the room to see two shirtless dudes wrestling like bears and laughing like maniacs 'cause it's fun.

[masonmace]

Angst and porn in the same day is craziness. Sigh.

JOHN AND SIZE DIFFERENCE/POWER PLAY!

cw: porn (ie...size difference, power play, primal play if ye squint, some degradation/humiliation, leatherdaddy!price at the end, leather play, hand gags, choking...)(cum eating, creampie. Forgot those)(he's a little mean this time. Normally he's sweet.)

God dammit, John loves a good bit of power play. And being a big bloke just adds to it for him. With his little doll so brilliant for him. Hearing you croon and call him "Captain" just makes his toes curl with delight.

You'll be damned if he doesn't trap you under him when he gets into it. Doggy isn't doggy for very long because after watching your plump ass jump back on his cock, he gets so worked up. After a minute, you're pinned to the bed, back arched into his hips.

One of his arms around your waist and the other's got you in a headlock so he can growl and moan into your ear like the bear that he is. Hissing and grunting as he absolutely bullies your sweet hole. The bed - whether it be in your shared home or his quarters on base - jamming into the wall and causing a ruckus.

That arm holding you into a headlock eventually clasps over your mouth as he spits for you to "shut you're goddamn mouth, slag... tryn' t'get m'men all jealous." With the world's sexiest, cruelest laugh before he bites onto your shoulder and gives these hefty, punishing jams of his fat cock into your sweet, pliant hole.

You're dumb if you think it ends there. After he fills you with his spend, he sweeps you up. Manhandling your trembling body and sitting against the wall. One of your knees stuck under his arm, the other over his shoulder. One hand snug around the back of your neck and bringing you to his cock as he sucks that same load out of your hole. Sitting in this upright 69. Slurping and swallowing it all up shamelessly. Loud and proud without a fucking care.

Don't get ME started on the fact that he's a leather daddy. That, if he has the patience, you're tied and dolled up. Clad in his leather sets. A little bit of play and whole fucking lot of ravishing. Your little body trembling because he's been teasing you all night. Fingering you with those leather gloves on his hands and making you worship his leathers.

Don't worry, in due time, he'll have you in his arms and on his cock soon.

[masonmace]

John, who isn't a man to cry.

But when he comes back from employment to you?

Gn!reader

Tw: angst. Like. ANGST

It'd been a particularly rough mission. The one in which they'd lost Soap. All of the paperwork... the funeral. The dead look in Ghost's eyes after losing Johnny.

God. It was all his fault.

He told Soap not to pull the goddamn trigger. He told Soap not to kill Makarov. Now he's dead, and Jonathon is the soul mother fucker at fault. It was supposed to be him, and that stupid kid jumped in front of the gun.

The ride home was god awful. There was one thing on his mind: you. Now, most may think that after missions John does one thing: come home and have sex with you. That isn't how it goes. Sometimes, when the deployment wasn't heady, he does.

This time? No. Most definitely not. Sometimes he comes home and just asks for dinner, letting you take care of him. Wash his hair in the shower...maybe even allow you to give one of those baths. Tugs you in with him and snuggles you. Skin on skin and basking in your sweet, soothing presence.

He pulls into the driveway, car thudding over the bump at the end of the driveway. He abandons his bag in the car and heads up the front steps.

His throat has been tight since it happened. His eyes have been dry and he's finding himself unable to accept that MacTavish is gone. Sunshine. He snuffed out that sunshine.

The stairs feel like a mountain to climb, and his legs feel like boulders. His head is heavy and his heart is heavier. The guilt lay like suede in his chest as he unlocks the door. He steps into the house and abandons his boots.

His head lifts when he sees you, and he stands. Stepping closer, he holds your face in his heavy paws and kisses your temple. "Aye there, lovie." John's voice is full of gravel. He kisses the shell of your ear and down the sideburn of your head and down your jaw.

Jonathon tries to kiss down your neck, but his lips tremble and twitch. His nostrils flare and he wraps his arms tight around your body. Burying his eyes into your shoulder and following with his nose. He inhales your scent.

Would he kill you next?

The feeling of your arms around him breaks him. His chest and shoulders jumping as he huffs and few times into your shoulder.

You'll be the next one dead because of him.

He wheezes out a few jumping sobs into your shoulder, clawing at the back panel of your shirt with those calloused paws of his. When you try to coax him, his shaking only grows.

You're the next one.

John groans into your shoulder, whispering a soft plea for you to not question him. Not to see less of him

Don't leave him here.

Terrified that his weeping like a child will cause you to leave. That word would get to you that he killed John 'Soap' MacTavish. God, please don't leave him.

"I don't d'serve you.." he insists, and when you try to fight back, his body abandons yours and he stalks away down the hall. Wiping his eyes and sniffling to himself. Repeating the same phrase to himself.

He needs to keep you safe.

Even without him.