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ceilidho · 7 months ago

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Buttermilk

It doesn't take long to settle into the rhythm of your new summer job. Or: the babysitter x single dad au

Part 1 | masterlist

“I’m not looking for a babysitter that can only come by every now and then,” he says sternly and pauses for emphasis, brows furrowing to convey the seriousness of the situation. “I’ve got a busy schedule and his mom isn’t in the picture. I need a real commitment.”

You sit across from him wringing your hands under the kitchen table, wondering again what it is you’re doing here. Babysitting has never been your schtick; you’re somewhere in between too old to do it as a casual gig for extra cash and too young and inexperienced to be considered for a full-time position.

Yet, it seems like that’s what he’s looking for, based on the information he’s told you and your general impression from having been in his house for less than twenty minutes. The house is a mess—toys strewn across the baby’s bedroom and the living room, dishes crusted with day old food sitting in the sink, the bookshelf in his study covered in a fine layer of dust that tells you that this man spends so little time in his own house that it’s become something of a requiem to single fatherhood.

“So, a nanny?” you ask.

He hems and haws over that for a bit. “Bit too fancy for my tastes, but that’s more like it. It won’t just be watching the baby—I need someone who can help out around the house as well. ‘Used to run a tight ship before him, but cleaning’s not been my highest priority these days. Sure you’ve picked up on that.” He says the last part wryly, lips curling up into a crooked grin under his mustache.

“Well…” You trail off while glancing at the mess in the living room out of the corner of your eye, toys and blocks scattered over the playmat. Your own smile is sheepish.

“I work odd hours, so I’ll be gone a lot; you’ll probably have a few late nights here, but I pay well. Think that’s something you can handle?”

A polite refusal sits on the tip of your tongue until you swallow it back, suddenly conscious again of the dwindling funds in your bank account. It’s not that you don’t think you could handle the job. You’ve babysat before (only preteens, you correct yourself internally, but surely there are some transferable skills there). And, eclipsing all of your arguments in favour of walking out the door right now, is the very salient and pressing need for an actual income.

“You’re military, you said?” you croak out instead.

He nods, hums. “Bit of a glorified desk job these days. They don’t put the old timers out in the field. Still, keeps me busy.”

You frown at that. “You’re not that old.”

That gets him to cock an eyebrow. “Love, I’m over twice your age, easy. I’m plenty old for a first time father on top of that; should’ve already been an old hand at this, but I’ve been married to the job for too long.”

You don’t ask if the baby was an accident or how it came to be that he chose to raise the baby on his own rather than try to work something out with the mother or give him up altogether. It seems uncouth. Rude. It’s none of your business and, more to the point, hardly relevant to the job. It’s just your own insatiable need to pry and know every little detail raising its head to sniff the air.

“Well, I think—” You chew on your words and then backtrack. “—I can handle the job. I live nearby, so I can be here whenever you need me. If you need references, I can—”

“No need,” he cuts you off, waving a hand in front of him. “I’m a good judge of character. If you wanna help put the baby to bed, we can talk salary and I’ll go over my schedule this week with you.”

The chair scrapes against the tile floor when he stands up, pushing it out from under him. Standing, he towers over you, a big, fit man despite his protests to the contrary. Hardly out of his prime. You’d put him at forty-five at the latest, and still a work horse of a man at that; broad like a draft horse, like he flips tires and runs marathons for fun. When you push out your chair and stand as well, you’re still forced to look up at him.

“Sure can, Mister…—?” You realize with a slight start that you only remember his first name, though it hardly feels appropriate to call him by that given the fact that he’s about to become your boss. Already is your boss.

“Price. But John works just fine,” he corrects, his smile warm, almost paternalistic.

You ignore the flash of heat up your spine and the way your belly constricts when he reaches across the table to shake your hand. His big, calloused palm dwarfs yours, fingers easily overlapping. You might as well be shaking a mitt.

“Well, thanks for the job, John,” you say with a smile of your own, ignoring the way yours strains at the end, anxiety already gnawing a hole through the lining of your stomach that your stomach acid will now most certainly leak through. “I won’t let you down.”

“I know you won’t, sweetheart.”

His words seem like a bellwether for something that you can’t yet articulate or even anticipate. Regardless, they make you swallow reflexively when you start salivating out of nowhere. You should probably quit on the spot actually, just out of principle alone, but again you remember the gut-churning sensation of checking your bank balance in the middle of the grocery store the other day before putting half of the contents of your cart back onto the shelf beside you.

You follow him into the playroom instead, where a fuzzy headed infant gasps up at his daddy, blinking big lovestruck eyes up at him. Your own heart feels like a melted caramel in your chest when John picks his son up, eyes crinkling with affection. The baby is so tiny in his arms.

Any thought of being a good person evaporates from your mind. As if you ever had a chance.

You don’t know how he found you. Through a friend of a friend of a friend’s dad’s coworker, maybe. Word of mouth. Watercooler conversation and a heaping cup of gossip.

“Did you hear the Captain’s looking for a babysitter?”

“For what? To bang?”

“No, dipshit. He knocked some broad up and she left him with the baby.”

“No kidding. The Captain?”

“Didn’t I just fuckin’ say that?”

“Price, you mean? Captain Price?”

“Are you fuckin’ deaf? Yeah—Price.”

“Christ. Godspeed to him. A baby. Goddamn.”

“Give it a rest, it happens all the time. That’s why you always wrap it up. Anyway, you know of anyone that’d be up for it?”

And then somehow, your name gets mentioned. Much to your relief. Job opportunities don’t knock on your door all that often, and when John finally gets around to telling you your hourly rate, you almost burst into hysterical giggles in front of him. It’s more than you expected. More than you deserve, if you’re being honest. You’re retroactively grateful that he didn’t ask you to name your rate because you wouldn’t have dared propose something anywhere close to what he offers.

It’s a straightforward gig. John doesn’t work the typical nine-to-five, so you show up at the times he made you write down on that first day in his living room after your interview and you leave whenever he comes home. The first week is fairly true to the schedule he laid out for you. He’s only late by around half an hour one evening, but that was another condition that he made you well aware of prior to giving you the job.

You know better than to put up a fuss. You’re already learning on the job as it is; with your anxiety at a ten at all times, you appreciate the extra half hour to keep googling baby-specific information. What to do during tummy time. The benefits of baby massage. How to change a diaper. You’re learning all sorts of things these days.

To your credit, he could’ve done worse. The day after John hires you, you sign up for an intensive babysitting course over the weekend and read the online manual front to back. Your CPR certificate is still valid, but you book a refresher course as well just to be on the safe side. It’s a bit unbearable to watch the funds drain out of your account before you’ve even had a chance to earn your first paycheck, but it’s worth it for the burgeoning confidence that you bring on your first day.

Babies are fun to be around, you realize, much to your own delight. Babysitting—or rather, nannying, but John still introduces you to the neighbours as his babysitter, plus nannying requires a host of additional accreditations that you simply just do not have—might not have been a job that you ever expected yourself to like, but you find yourself kind of morose at the end of each day when you have to say goodbye to baby, and even going so far as to turn in early when you get home so you’ll be ready bright and early the next morning.

Babies also smell better than anything you’ve ever smelt in your life. You could huff the top of this little guy’s head morning, noon, and night. Milky and clean; it barely takes a few days to become addicted to the smell of his little head. When he’s cradled in your arms, you can’t help but press your nose to the top of his head and take a deep inhale, eyes fluttering shut. It’s some good shit.

You keep a journal filled with notes to relay to John when he comes home at the end of the night and keep your phone close to you during babytime to film any important moments that John might’ve otherwise missed.

“He started babbling today,” you tell John the second he walks through the door, the video already pulled up on your phone. You haven’t felt this excited in ages. “Look.”

He’s still in his fatigues and everything, but he humours you and takes the baby when you pass him over, cooing and tickling his belly until the baby squeals and babbles again for him.

“See?” you gush, mooning over him. You don’t have the presence of mind to be self-conscious in the moment.

“Yeah,” John remarks, lifting his son up to blow a raspberry into his belly and grinning at his ensuing peals of laughter. “Ain’t that something.”

If the smile in his voice has anything to do with you, you don’t pick up on it.

On top of everything, John turns out to be a really good boss. Despite his gruff, intimidating exterior, he’s remarkably kind and patient with you. He doesn’t nag you for missing a spot when cleaning the bathroom. He doesn’t scold you the day your car breaks down and you’re forced to take the nearest bus to his place, tacking on an extra twenty minutes to your commute, even though that means that he’s invariably late for work. When you accidentally use scouring powder on the inside of his Le Creuset Dutch oven and scratch off the enamel, he gently talks you out of a sobbing fit, seemingly unbothered by the state of his scratched up crockery.

He shrugs when you bring it up. “It’s got a lifetime warranty anyway. I’ll bring it into the shop over the weekend. No use getting upset about it.”

Unflappable. That’s the word for it. It’s like as long as he’s able to come home to the baby and you in one piece, nothing else matters, and that sense of calm permeates the whole house; for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel like you have to walk on eggshells around someone.

Your only qualm—and it’s hardly even a qualm, to be honest, more of just an observation—is that John is more of a physical person than you are.

When he wants to move you, he does—two big hands clamped around your waist and only a fraction of his strength to move you away from the stove so he can take over cooking while you check on the baby, your mouth hanging open, aghast. Fuming at his nerve. The gall of him to manhandle you.

You don’t hold it against him though. You haven’t spent much time around groups of men, but you’ve seen military movies before and it seems like the status quo for men to grab and push each other around. If anything, he’s gentle with you.

It’s just that—and again, John’s the first adult man you’ve spent any one-on-one time with, what with it just being the two of you and the baby in his house, so your frame of reference is microscopic—you’re not completely sure whether it’s appropriate for your boss to be so touchy.

You don’t mean to insinuate that he’s being inappropriate. It’s just that—and again you have to catch yourself before you go making assertions about people because John is honestly such a nice man and he’s done nothing but treat you fairly and made you feel safe and welcome, but…—sometimes he insists on you staying over for dinner after he comes home from work and doesn’t take no for an answer.

You’re never in any rush to leave. There’s not exactly anything waiting for you in your dingy little apartment. So when he asks you to stay, you have no good reason to refuse. It’s nice to get a free meal as well. With the way John gives you unfettered access to the fridge and pantry, you hardly need to buy groceries at all these days. You feel a little guilty about that, but you know what it’s like to go hungry.

Maybe that’s why you stay for supper the first time he asks a couple weeks into you working for him. You’re subconsciously mortified that you’ll eat his food when he’s not gone but not when he offers it to you.

At least dinner feels like something you’ve been given rather than just taking, taking, taking.

Not to mention you’ve developed something of a rapport. There’s always something to talk about with John: the baby, his work, a show you watched on TV after putting the baby down for a nap, the new big Tesco four blocks from your place, his late teens before joining the military (“back when you weren’t even a thought in your mum’s head,” he jokes, cutting into his steak and something in your brain pops and fritzes out like the static between radio stations).

The first few suppers are sporadic and never long enough to make you feel like you’ve overstayed your welcome. In all honesty, they’re the few bright spots in an otherwise dull life. Outside of your job and the infrequent dinners, you’re estranged from your family and you’ve only got a few close friends in town that you see maybe once or twice a month. Nothing to write home about. Some Friday nights, the yoga studio near your flat has a five pound community class that you pop in for, but those are infrequent too.

Then there’s the odd night where he shoos you into the living room to put on a movie while he cleans up after dinner. You stare absentmindedly at his forearms when he rolls up his sleeves and then jump when you find him staring at you expectantly over his shoulder.

“Go put something on,” John tells you, a warning look in his eye. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

“Sorry,” you whisper before slipping off into the living room.

You can’t relax on the couch while you wait. You flinch when he finally joins you, sitting down on the other side of the couch suddenly. You hadn’t even heard him coming; he’s light on his feet for such a big man.

The buddy cop comedy you picked barely distracts you from the fact that your boss is sitting on the other side of the couch. You spend the whole two hour run time so nervous that you’re afraid you’ll buzz right out of your skin.

For absolutely no reason, of course, because all John does is make light conversation with you throughout the movie. Conversation that you respond to in curt, choked whispers. When he walks you to the door after the movie, all you can focus on is how utterly embarrassed you are for being so weird.

Your dreams that night come frantic and heady. Humid under the blanket. The phantom feeling of a body heavier than yours weighing down one side of the couch and you sliding towards it gradually, unable to even cling onto the arm of the couch to keep from falling into his lap.

Then hands on your belly, cupping and holding. Thick fingers with hairy knuckles. A warm, tobacco smell wafting under your nose, sweet like tonka bean and smoke. Nothing you can do to keep them from travelling down your stomach and thighs and spreading your legs wide, big hands curving around your inner thighs until—

You wake up panting, fingers pressed against your clit in your sleep. It takes nothing to bring yourself over the edge, dark blue eyes swimming on the precipice of your conscious mind.

“Sleep well?” John asks you the next morning when you show up on his doorstep, handing you the baby before you’ve even said so much as a word. You hold the baby to your chest like a makeshift shield. Anything to put some distance between you and the man who has now taken to starring in your dreams.

“Not bad,” you squeak.

You flinch when he guides you in with a hand on your back and shuts the door behind you. Your cunt pulses when his fingers press firm against the small of your back, hand bigger than you remembered from your dream.

As if you were ever going to end up anywhere but here.

#ceil writing #cod x reader #price x reader #price/reader #john price x reader #john price x you #john price/reader #captain price x reader #captain price x you

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drgnflyteabox · 4 months ago

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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.”

#happy valentines day!#thank you syoddeye for the cig picture its soooooo ruff ruff #theres a little easter egg in there for u #john price x reader #john price #john price/reader #price x reader #price/reader #john price smut #jeopardized my midterm to get this out on valentines day #drgnfly writes

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pricetagged · 4 months ago

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This is so niche, so so niche, but has anyone ever heard of the 'pedal pump/car stuck girls' kink where men pay for videos of women who have car trouble?

Anyway, that's Price. I will not be taking questions.

I will, however, elaborate. The first time he sees one, it has him clenching his knuckles and sucking in through his teeth. Pretty girl flooding her engine and gazing dolefully at her dash camera, eyebrows pinched and confused. Soon, he falls down the rabbit hole.

Eventually, he settles on one creator. A smaller one, unassuming. Her footage isn't well-produced and edited. She's not made-up and plucked and preened. She looks like any of the women he drives past on the street. She's perfect—

He subscribes. Clicks on the VIP package which offers the opportunity to chat and send requests.

[27.12.24]

>>JP141CE: That blue dress is beautiful on you. Wear it in the next video.

[13.01.25]

>>JP141CE: You need to adjust your seat angle. Gonna give yourself an injury if you make a hard stop.

[24.01.25]

>>JP141CE: Take the camera out of the car, sweetheart. Let us see you pop the hood and try to fix it.

Your camera work is shaky with you clamouring out and edging around the door. But if he pauses at just the right frame—

There. Your license plate.

Got you.

#he soooooooo has a damsel kink you cant convince me otherwise #also no-one ask me how i ended up down the rabbit hole of car trouble kink #anyway yeah he's gonna arrange a kind of 'meet cute' while youre filming to try and see if youll accept his help #or if youll stutter your way through an excuse about your filming #either way youll not be posting the video — he'll have you in his car driving you home #this is nonsense but it's on my mind haha #price #báirseach rambles #báirseach writes #john price x reader #price x reader #john price/reader #cod imagine #cod mw2 #cod x reader #cw sex work #cw stalking #certified flop post hahaha

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op1umeyes · 11 months ago

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to the heart

cred: @/cafekitsune

Being John’s wifewho is a badass cook and finally meets the team!!

Your mother always said that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. Being married to the one and only John Price could only further confirm her statement.

John was a military captain- forming, training, and leading men and women into missions that could very well take their lives. As well as gain muscle and a family, military folk also gained an iron stomach. At least in John’s case.

The way he casually scooped up half the lasgma in the big pan made you wonder how he had survived off of packaged meals. John just shoveled down mouthful by mouthful as you eargerly awaited his reaction. Making something John wouldn’t like is borderline impossible, but you wanted to make only the best for the man that protected you and your loved ones in ways you couldn’t even imagine.

When John finally asked you if you’d be open to meeting the men he unofficially adopted, you were immediately filled with a mix of excitement and anxiety. Your husband had refrained from the gory details of the missions he preformed but entertained you with stories of his team goofing off or doing something impressive (John was more proud of those men then he let on and you could tell). He had told you that the way he had described your cooking had the men salivating.

You had decided to make a classic meal on the evening they were to dine with you. A simple but tasty spaghetti and meatballs dish. For the side- recipe you’d seen from Instagram- you cooked up a dozen fluffy pull-apart garlic/cheese/butter muffins (all dishes were John approved, of course, he’s eaten everything you’ve made). You debated a salad, but figured you’d just offer instead of set out a bowl in case they didn’t want any lettuce or anything.

John pulled you out of the kitchen when he heard the sound of an engine come closer to your secluded country-side home. “They already love you with the way I talk about you, love. Don’t worry your pretty little head,” he murmured, pressing a sweet kiss to your forhead as he les you out to the porch.

Eventually you found out John was exactly right. You greeted everyone with a hug- which was surprising to you that Simon seemed to melt into you like he hadn’t felt a good hug in years because, according to the stories John told you, Simon was anti-touch. Kyle was a sweet young man and you could tell how mich he admired John. Johnny was a handful, you observed. He immediately started taking cracks at Simon after he pulled away from the bone-breaking hug he gave you and recieved a sharp punch to the shoulder.

“Plates and bowls are right there. Silverware’s on the table,” you said, gesturing to the respective items. “Come on, J,” you said, urging your husband up from his spot at the table.

John carried your plate and his in one hand and weapped his hand around your waist with the other. “Are you doing alright so far, love?”

You nodded with a bright smile. You easily got along with John’s teammates and they seemed to get along with you. And you could only hope that they liked the food you made.

Luckily for you, though, you didn’t have to wait long for your answer.

You were sitting down in your seat beside John when you heard a noise that sounded like a gasp and a whimper.

Two spots to your left, the fork in Johnny’s hands shook as he chewed.

“Is- Are you okay?” You asked skeptically. You’d avoided using any foods you’d known they were allergic to, so what was the problem? Did he not like it? Did the spaghetti go bad? Were the meatballs moldy? Did you add the wrong spices to the pull-apart muffins?

“Lass… I need you to send me ma this recipe. I don’t- this is- serve this at my funeral, cap, bury me in this,” he babbled as he shoved forkfuls of noodles into his mouth.

You breathed a sigh of relief, incredibly grateful for Johnny’s compliment and reaction. You looked at Simon and Kyle. To your surprise they too practically licked their playe xlean before bouncing back up to get an even bigger heap of spaghetti.

John watched you through moist eyes and soft smile. The way you fawned over his team like a mother duckling made his heart race in ways he didn’t know was possible for a man his age. He didn’t have to tell you how much he cared for Simon, Kyle, and Johnny. You knew because you always knew- even when John couldn’t form the words to say anything. Seeing you all interact made his heart swell. John felt complete; pure, even. At times he wasn’t sure if he deserved this small but solid family, but he knew he would fight tooth and nail to protect each and every one of you.

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spacecasette · 3 months ago

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s w e l t e r

retired!john price x fem reader | hitchhiker au | w i p

moodboard | playlist

˙⋆✮ The stillness and the lonely and the unbearable heat make you crazy. The slam of the screen door only serves to make it worse. The sweat all over your skin is just a condition of the conditions you’re in - it’s a wretchedly hot late July in Texas and you can’t do anything but sleep naked and pray fervently to the box fan in your cramped bedroom. It’s before breakfast that you decide to take matters into your own hands, thinking, I'll die if I stay here, I swear I will. ✮⋆˙

— or : fed up with your microcosm of misery, you skip town and walk to Waco. John Price seems to be the right man in the right place at the right time.

Tags (tba): daddy kink, fem reader, dollification kink, guns, canon-typical violence, age gap (~20 years between reader and price)

This is in the beginning stages (I'm talking 4k for the first chapter is written, and outlines for 8 projected chapters) but I've had this one in the chamber so long, it needs to come out so I can start working on other shit lol. Huge amount of kisses and gratitude to @madsmilfelsen who inspires me to remain perverted, devoted, and true at all times. Also to @ceilidho for being a beacon of beauty and knowledge of all things Daddy Price.

Update schedule will likely be fucked but chapter one will probably drop here and on ao3 along with chapter two of Bolt the Horse next week !

k bye now, smooches on the head for u all, thanks for reading

૮꒰˵• ﻌ •˵꒱ა

#john price #john price x reader #john price/reader #call of duty #cod #call of duty fanfic #i promise to be as depraved and dirty as can be

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peachetteprice · 8 months ago

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CW: dark themes, kidnapping, assault.

Neuroscientist!Price wishes to explore the established neurological link between sex and fear, to better understand the heightened state of sexual arousal present in abduction victims who have experienced symptoms of Stockholm syndrome at the hands of their kidnappers.

He files an advertisement in the morning paper and tapes his research proposal form onto the faces of street-lamps, urging women who may be interested in his project to rip a strip of paper from the bottom, a phone number – his phone number – advising anyone who fits the criteria of his sample to call it; it states you must be over thirty and under forty-five, have been sexually active for the previous five years, and have natural brown hair. You don’t quite comprehend enough about neuroscience to discern the relevance of asking a woman for the colour of her hair, though you assume it is the simple reasoning of an intellectual with much more expertise than a lowly accountancy firm receptionist, and, fitting the description with enough accuracy and curiosity to wish to take part: you call the number.

Three days later, you receive a voicemail asking if you’re available to meet him in his office. The man's voice is warm, woody; it has the exact qualities that would warrant you fantasising about him requesting that you get on your knees, like the good slut you are, and keep your hands to yourself as you throat him. His office is in the centre of London, you learn, within a building you’ve never heard of before, though it seems to be across from a quaint café that requires you stop off at an hour before the scheduled meeting, arriving in the building's empty foyer with a latte and a croissant.

The research will take place not far from his office, he explains, and leads you down a set of stairs, indented from the rear of the caretaker’s workroom, though you’re hardly paying attention to his words, nor the path you’re taking when his hips are swaying so seductively, biceps flexing against the constraints of his lab coat as he opens door after door, descends step after step, all the while a fragrant and tantalising scent keeps your mind hazy.

Poor thing. You don't stand a chance. Neither did the four other women before you.

By the time your eyes adjust to the dim lighting, to puzzle together a set of metal chains and leather straps hanging from the ceiling and a cold, wet, stone interior, you’re thrust to the floor with a deft slap, nostrils free from the smell of his cologne to settle, instead, on the faint, rustic scents elsewhere, coalescing together much as the damp and mould in the corner of the room, that not a soul would be able to guess incorrectly: blood, sweat, and cum.

No one quite understands what Doctor Price does in the evenings: why the back-up generator in the basement ticks overtime long after every employee has left the building, why his office remains vacant and his name and photo stripped from every company poster and website listing, or why he has such a friendly rapport with the building's sole cleaner, a man who goes only by the moniker of Ghost, but they know exactly how he elicits such darling noises from the women he passes in the street during the daytime – for he has the sort of mind that drives women insane.

| Masterlist |

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rotten-womb · 2 months ago

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wildfowl

her relationship with her boss remains precarious. (skittish secretary x unwavering boss)

john price/f!reader, 6.4k wc, rated m, ao3

They were on opposite sides of the room, the interstice between them thick and stifling.

The constant white noise of pen against paper, of the man on the other side of the room breathing in his cigar, the never-ending ticking clock, grating at her ears.

The vanilla-tobacco-scented smoke engulfing the room burned its way down to her lungs, making her eyes water, but she wouldn’t dare ask him to crack open a window.

It was dark. After hours, the higher-ups had sent her boss a deadline he couldn’t meet without her, so she’d done the noble thing and stayed. Stayed in that suffocating room with him. Captain John Price. Her superior, and the main subject of her thoughts ever since she was impelled into that airless room with him, subvocally kicking and screaming.

She was immured in his office. Given the lack of space and prestige of her job title, they were expected to cohabitate. He had no need for a secretary but took her on as a favor for Laswell, giving her a desk and a paycheck so she could help lighten a load that was no plight to him.

She hadn’t wanted a job in the first place. Nevertheless, by virtue of being Maria’s friend and, to an extent, her wife Kate’s, she had too many people overly invested in her life. They forced– persuaded her to get this job on the basis of ‘Breaking out of her shell,’ and to ‘Stop acting so fucking spooked around men.’

The everlasting consequence of being locked away in an all-girls school for the entirety of her adolescent years. The effects of it still batter her in waves, she still doesn’t know how to act around them. Men. Stupid, obscure beings. It made her feel less than, like an interloper amongst women, after seeing how effortlessly they communicated with the inverse sex, how they could have them wrapped around their finger with nothing but well-aimed hooded eyes and a sultry smile. Like everybody else had cracked the code but her.

This man, in particular, left her breathless; fumbling, she didn’t know what to do with herself around him. Her heart turns into a pit in her chest, constantly weighing her down whenever she parts from him, as if it can’t stand the interspace created between them, wanting to anchor her body to his.

But, as much as it wants, it aches. Aches from her untold desires. She craves his presence as much as his absence. Yearns for his touch while condemning it.

She spends her working hours after finishing her comically light workload wallowing in fatuous fantasies, dozes off, and indulges in idealistic versions of themselves; a princess and her sworn knight; a siren and the lone sailor she bewitches to sate her desire; the god watching her while she basks in the green fields, pomegranate seeds aching to be laid on her wanting tongue held in his palms; a woman unafraid to be unveiled for love and a man acquiescent to love her in whole. Her accustom to his company remains precarious, though.

A gruff “You alright over there?” called from across the room wrenched her away from her thoughts and brought her back to actuality. She could feel his gaze on her; it made her burn all over, but she refused to meet it. She cleared her throat and responded lowly: “Yeah– um, yes all good.” her cheeks heated from embarrassment at getting caught running her mind far away, so she turned her focus back to her work, swiftly finishing the file sitting open in front of her, she let out a silent sigh of relief the last one, thank god, and added it to the pile with the others, glad at all this being over, already excited by the idea of returning to her sparse little flat, sinking into her bed, and expelling all thoughts of John Price out of her mind.

She gathered the completed files and–with her gaze down–walked over to his desk to dispose of them with slight ceremony then hastily announced her departure and turned to gather her things, eager to leave, but was stopped by his request to “Check somethin’ real quick for him,” he beckoned her towards the file lying open in front of him. She hesitantly turned back to the front of his desk, but he lured her in further with a simple gesture from his pointer and middle fingers.

She mindlessly obeyed and–with his sharp eyes tracking her every move, as if a predator stalking its prey–rounded the desk to amble closer to him, penetrating the smoke-filled aura that seemed to surround him loyally, interlaced with his entire being.

It was intoxicating. It made its way under her skin and buzzed in her veins, filling her with the overwhelming urge to climb into his lap and burrow her face into his neck so she could inhale him in full.

She settled a few steps away from his imposing figure–always heedful not to get too close. He towered over her even when seated, and she felt unnerved under the shadow cast over her like it could swallow her whole in the blink of an eye and leave her swaddled in darkness for all her life. He had slowly–without taking his eyes off her–swiveled in his chair to meet her directly.

“What’d you need, Mr. Price?” she softly asked.

He took a beat before responding to raise his cigar and suck in a hearty amount of smoke, all while drinking her in with his battle-hardened eyes. Incessantly, she had noticed on the rare occasion she gained the courage to meet the heated gaze that prickled at her neck, was how he looked at her. As if he were attempting to decorticate the hard skin off her body to reveal her soft core. It makes her want to leap out of her body to take a good hard look at herself, just to see what’s so fucking interesting to him.

Taking care to exhale the smoke away from her, he circumvented the question with a reproachful tone, “Didn’t I tell you to call me John, sweetheart?”

She shut her eyes in perturbation, “Right, I’m sorry–”

“Don’t,” he cut her off sharply, but not unkindly, “Don’t start apologizing over nothing.”

Her eyes blink open, and she breathlessly exhales a vague oh sound– he levels her a pointed look as if to stress his point, like she’d committed a grave sin by simply apologizing. They let the unoppressive silence hang in the air. He’s so… she can’t find the precise word to describe how he is with her–forbearing, gallant, gentle, and unyielding, he’s almost ineffable.

It unsettles her for him to behave this way regarding her. Like his care is anything but artificial, she doesn’t know what she’d do with herself if it weren’t. If he thought of her as a person instead of merely the nervous secretary who was dumped on his lap.

His voice snaps her out of her reverie, “Come look at this, love.” He picks up the folder and moves it to her line of sight, “This can’t be right, could it?”

She drew nearer to look at what he was referring to, unwittingly shifting closer to him. She couldn’t tell what he meant, though, it all looked accurate. She turned her head to ask him to clarify what he meant, but froze in a way reminiscent of a deer caught in headlights when she realized how close their faces were to one another.

She couldn’t help but be painfully aware of how close their lips were, she could sway forward and press hers against his. His cool and composed eyes bore into hers; wide and skittish, she seemed seconds away from fleeing the room, but his gaze cemented her body in place, turned her statuesque–as if she had been staring into Medusa’s eyes instead of her infallible boss’.

He breaks eye contact to cast his gaze down to her lips, eyes shining in captivation, and then he brings his eyes back to hers and tilts his head, seemingly in challenge.

The provocation interlaced with his demeanor awakens a dormant defiance in her and tempts her to sink her teeth in the bait; she feels drunk on the tension engulfing them. When she thinks back on this, she’ll thrash her head in dismay and cry Why, why did I cross the line with him? I’ve fed the insatiable beast, and now it can’t stop– won’t stop fiending for more scraps, it’ll scratch and bite at my hand til I grant it more but it won’t be satisfied til I split his chest open, pry open his ribs, and rest with his beating heart held in my greedy palms. But for now, she bites into the self-imposed forbidden apple and leans in, entranced and intent on capturing his lips. Pleas run in her mind, verging on prayer; Let me have what I want without acidic shame burning my skin. Let me be happy. Please.

Just as she was a hairbreadth away, a loud bang paired with a cat’s angry yowl dries out the heady air, causing the reality of the situation to come rushing back to her, and she takes a staggering step back, horror flooding her face.

She rushes to gather her belongings, “I– um, God fuck–” she stammers out, her voice growing faint til the last word comes out barely louder than a whisper, “I have to go. Goodbye, Mr. Price,” she can’t hide the tremor in her voice, already turned away from him to let her back take the brunt of his stare.

She quickly darts out of the room and inadvertently slams the door behind her, escaping into the corridor, barely hearing his pleas for her to “Wait–!”

She hurriedly flees the base and dashes through the parking lot to her car, her bag and coat crowded in her arms, the cold nips at her entire body but she can’t feel it over the molten spread throughout it–she almost slips and cracks her skull on the icy ground but she barely spares it a thought other than righting herself, her vision tunneled to a single objective.

Upon reaching her car, she quickly unlocks it–her shaking fingers only mildly fumbling the keys–and wrenches the door open, seeking refuge in its familiarity. She allows herself a second to catch her breath and thumps her head against the steering wheel, resisting the urge to scream.

After a few moments of contemplating driving her car through the nearest tree at full speed, she gathers herself and instead pulls out of the lot–at a completely safe and reasonable speed–to make her way home.

The drive and everything that came after was a blur, only a loud ping in her otherwise silent flat pulling her out of her static-filled mind. She turned over in bed to check the message, but nothing registered in her brain but sharp brightness burning her retinas. She put her phone back down, pulled the blanket over her head, and drifted into a restless sleep.

—

“See, I told you!”

Maria’s voice came clearly from the speakers of her phone, aimed at Kate, but all she could register was a faraway voice. She’d called her bright and early to confirm one fact or another, not wanting to waste any time proving herself right to her wife.

Sitting in front of her vanity, she met her own eyes in the mirror and attempted to mentally prepare herself for another emotionally arduous workday chained to John Price.

In all the months she’d started working for him he never relieved her of his presence for more than a few days at a time, apparently his infamous task force had finished a major and time-consuming mission sometime before she’d arrived so the higher-ups had offered them the grace of a respite and sent them out to shorter, less lethal missions for the time being.

Pity, she thought, I’d’ve loved to be rid of that horrid hat for a few months. Still, as soon as the thought strikes, her tender heart immediately clenches at the thought of him being in mortal danger on a battlefield instead of on his plush chair, chain-smoking and suffocating her while she steals glances at him to tuck away in her greedy mind.

She could still distinctly remember the first time she saw him, and he saw her in turn; he barged into his office, body still punitive and movements still stiff from combat, he was big and tall in a way that unnerved and excited her simultaneously.

Her gaze timorously swept over the length of his body; his thick, unkempt beard obscured his features, his fatigues brazenly displayed his body, showing off thick biceps she wanted to be enveloped in and a wide chest she wanted to burrow in. His alert eyes, shadowed by his Boonie hat, immediately zeroed in on her for a few breathless moments before passing his eyes over Kate and taking a perfunctory glance around his office, then settling on them again.

Kate had talked to him about her beforehand, and he’d already agreed to take her on, of course, so that first meeting was nothing more than a handoff. She’d felt like a wobbly preschooler being entrusted to a teacher while her mother implores them to take it easy on her, she’d felt his gaze straying from a talking Kate to her a few times but refused to meet it, still praying he’d change his mind and throw them out on their asses at some point, but he’d let her stay.

His scent had already formed a rigid impression in her brain by the time the meeting ended.

Heavy eyebags tormented her face, her dreams were plagued by memories of last night. She could still see it so vividly, her mind tacking on to the insignificant detail of a tiny mole residing under his blue eye, illuminated by the moonlight, she could still feel herself leaning in, she fabricated what comes after, though, indulging in a fantasy where she let herself want him and he wanted her in turn, let herself press her lips against his and climb onto his lap as he embraces her in his strong, safe arms before the scene fades to black and repeats over and over again.

She can hear Maria and Kate’s whispers to one another like a buzzing in her ears, conferring in a language fluent only to them. Kate was settled offscreen, and Maria’s face was angled towards her, but she didn’t need the full picture; she’d seen them lost in their own world before and could easily fill in the gaps. Seen the way their bodies mirrored one another and mindlessly fit together like puzzle pieces.

She yearns for an affinity like theirs, yearns for someone to lodge their hands in her chest and reach for all the love embedded in her soft flesh, to unstopper all the shame and guilt obstructing it from spilling out of her.

“–ey! Hey!”

Maria’s fretful voice violently pulled her out of her mind, she was mindlessly going through the motions of her routine. Normally, it’d comfort her, but now it’s another burden weighing her down.

Her light makeup felt glutinous and heavy–it made her want to scratch the skin off her face, her clothing felt restricting on her body, and the simple loose style she pulled her hair into felt like it was tearing at every hair follicle on her head.

She wanted to rip everything off her body and lie on her floor, motionless, in an infant position as if she could protect her vulnerable underbelly from the world just by curling in on herself.

But she made a promise to Maria to try. She’ll, unfortunately, do just that, keep going even when it gets too heavy. Damn, my manners.

“You good? You kinda went away for a second there.”

She plastered a too-bright smile on her face, “Yeah!” Her voice came out too high, “I’m good, everything’s terrific.” She couldn’t muster the energy to lie better.

“Okay,” Maria drawled the first vowel, deadpan, “You wanna tell the truth this time?”

She let the smile drop, “I’m just a bit tired, that’s all,” she was reaching for her makeup remover, cotton pads already in hand, not caring to try today.

“She’s tired!” Her tone betrayed her disbelief, and her mouth was slowly lifting in a mischievous smile, “Tired from the oh-so-strenuous work John gives you? Please! He barely lets you lift a finger,” she took a moment to tack on a lilting tone, “Y’know,” her smile grew, “I think he’s sweet on you.” She brandished her frankly unnecessary opinion like it was a God-given prophecy.

Her face heated and she attempted to don a hardened look on her face, “Get your head out of your ass, Maria, you’re talking nonsense.”

“No,” she drawled the word, “I think I’m talking just right, don’t you think so, Kate?” She turned to face her wife, unfairly bringing in somebody else to gang up on her.

She could hear Kate humming in faux contemplation before replying, “You’re always right, love.” Maria turned back to face the camera, wearing a victorious look, “His eyes did seem…” Kate continued, before trailing off to find a suitable word, “Obsessive, I guess, in how he looked at you, last time I visited the base. The man could barely take them off you for longer than a few seconds. It was terrifying, honestly. should send him for a psych eval soon.”

Maria let out a loud sound of delight.

She couldn’t suppress her eye-roll, “You’re both delusional; when’s the last time you had a black mold inspection done?” She finished wiping her makeup off, sighing in relief, then threw the used cotton pads in the bin near her vanity.

Maria laughed, “All of our mold is fine, thank you! And you know I’m right!”

“I don’t know shit about that, and now, since some of us have jobs, particularly ones brutally forced on them, I have to go, so goodbye!” She pressed the end call button, effectively cutting off Maria’s cackle.

—

The cold bites at her skin as she exits her car, and gray, brooding clouds loom over her, promising to bring nothing but whipping winds and piercing, needle-like rain.

She makes her way to the compact building, the base offers nothing but temporary habitation for soldiers–she doesn’t know what’ll happen to her when they decide to move on. Will he march her out of their office and send her off with a Thanks for nothing, darlin’? Eager to be rid of her nesting on her shabby desk? Taking up space just to do fuck all?–It sits there in all its glory; cramped barracks, a tiny cafeteria, and outside, at the edge of the structure, a flat surface serves as a small helipad that can be accessed by the ever-open doors adjacent to it on the building.

She passes by it en route to her office and catches the dreaded object of her thoughts from afar, dressed in full gear, standing ways away from a chopper and debriefing his squad.

Soldiers buzzed around them like worker bees–each with a delegated task, ensuring to keep the cogs of the hive turning.

Then, she sees rather than hears John release his squad with a firm, sharp dismissal. They disperse from around him and bestow a clear, unobstructed view for her to get lost in his towering figure.

She knows that if he turned and allowed her to ogle at his muscled back and broad shoulder blades, she’d die, so she sends him a silent thank you for sparing her a mortifying death and facing resolutely to the side, overseeing the loading of the equipment.

Through the haze of John, she glimpses from her peripheral Soap attempting to climb a large yet-to-be-loaded container, boasting about his ability to do one thing or another to Gaz–who was not-so-subtly egging him on–but was yanked back in place by Ghost’s tight grip on the back of his tact vest, looking all but an enervated mother who’s mostly given up on keeping her unruly children in check.

It’s strange, she thinks, to see them filled with such spirit–as if their lives aren’t on the line more often than not. She wonders how they do it, how they can go on when a scythe hangs a hairbreadth away from their delicate throats, only a tiny push needed from a well-aimed bullet, or a well-placed knife for it to penetrate their flesh and claim their damned souls.

She stares at them, splitting her attention between John and his squad.

She can’t help but be envious of how even the dead men walking can find instances of bliss, but whenever she tries to grasp it, she pries open her fist, and only bitter ash slips through her fingers. She wondered if the promise of a bullet to the head could blow life into her.

She wants to dissect their minds. Pin their bodies down, steady their heads, and take a bone saw to their skulls, then scrutinize the inner workings of their bruised brains to try and imitate their happiness. She prophesied these stolen moments are what drag their half-dead bodies–inured to the scent of death and gunpowder–back to a civilization that condemns them.

She feels the weight of his familiar gaze on her and immediately meets it, drawn to him with no choice in the matter.

A beat passes while the rest of the world becomes an ambiguous blur for her, and the only lucid being to her is John. John.

She wants to scream his name, whisper it, moan it, caress it, and violently trap it between her gnashing teeth.

John, John, John.

She’d never allowed herself to say it aloud, no matter how the urge clogs her throat when he reminds her of his blessing. It’s dangerously intimate to her–her heart sharply skips a beat whenever he calls her name, and she wants to sew his mouth shut every time he does, teetering on the edge of wanting him never to speak it again or having it be all that he utters.

She catalogs the minute facial expressions that flit across his face and tucks them in a neat box reserved for John in the back of her mind. Even with her back-breaking systematizing of his every look, word, and burning touch, he remains enigmatic to her, she can’t quite seem to grasp the meaning behind his every action. Still, God, the overwhelming want to understand, boils her body from the inside out.

After what seemed like an eternity, she breaks their distant contact and hastily makes her way to the office.

—

Looking out from the window to the cold torrent of rain, its frigidity seeps through the walls and cools her skin, and its persisting pounding on the roof mixed with frequent rumbles of thunder makes her shudder.

She nervously picked at her nails, bemoaning the moment of weakness she submitted to the fatigue weighing down her weary bones, and took a nap.

It was supposed to be a short one, honest to God, thirty minutes tops. She cuddled into the rickety couch sitting in the corner of the office, soothed into a deep sleep by the then light pitter-patter of rain.

She was roused from her sleep, Lord knows how many hours later, by the sound of booming thunder, completely ignorant of the alarm she had set earlier.

She was too scared to drive under these conditions, envisioning losing control of the wheel and hydroplaning off a bridge or lightning striking the car, frying her on the spot.

I’ll just wait it out, how long could a storm possibly last, she took a deep breath, in and out, I’ll be home soon, I’ll finally catch up on my show, maybe even take a hot bath, do some pre-sleep yoga, get a routine started, it only takes twenty days to form a habit, right? Maybe it’ll stick this time, and everything will be just fi–

The door opening behind her made her jump before whirling to see who the culprit was.

She found John with his hand still on the doorknob, his body tensed for a split second at the sight of her before relaxing.

Her body freezes at seeing him, and her nerves get even more frazzled.

Fucking perfect. I pray for a months-long mission only to be granted one that didn’t even last five minutes, spec-fucking-tacular.

He didn’t seem to be cursing her existence like she was doing his, seemingly content to idle under the door’s archway. Hm, mission must’ve gone well.

The rest of the 141 are probably scattered around base and going about their post-mission rituals. She doesn’t know John’s; they always arrive in the dead of night, so this is a first for her.

A beat passes without a word from either of them.

Then he calls her name, and she lifts her head to face him, his body hangs still, head tilted to the side, and eyes intent on her–like a hound that’s spotted a rabbit.

“What’re you doing here so late?” His gravelly voice felt like it was caressing her, and she shivered.

She weakly gestured to her desk, “I got caught up with work,” their heads turned in sync to her glaringly empty desk.

It was a flimsy lie, and the motion of his lips, lightly quirking beneath his beard, shows that he knows it.

Closing the door, he abandoned his post from the archway, then noiselessly approached his desk.

He’s light on his feet for a big man, giving her many almost heart attacks from how he sneaks up behind her.

Opening his desk drawer, he grabs an ashtray, a lighter, and a cigar.

Then he went to sit on the couch that still held her sleepy warmth. He placed the ashtray on the armrest, lit his cigar, then raised it to take a drag.

She found herself entranced through it all–the flame illuminating his handsome face, the evident exhaustion draining from his body with one smoke-filled exhale, eyes shut in bliss, and his head tilting to rest on the back of the couch, exposing his throat, all while spreading his thighs wide.

She wanted to sit on his inviting lap, bite his vulnerable throat, and leave her mark on him.

It’s like he’s begging me to jump him–what a sick, sick man.

She was rooted to her spot, at a loss for what to do and flooded by images of what had happened the last time she was trapped in this very room with him, late at night.

“Why don’t you sit?” He unseeingly calls out to her, “Get a leg off.”

She stared at him in disbelief, appalled at the simple request, and racked her brain for an escape route, but came out dry. She’s not comfortable enough around the base to wander off in the dark for solitude.

Reluctantly, she gives in and slowly inches to the couch, way more cautiously than the situation warranted. Her eyes shifted towards him, then quickly away, but he remained apathetic.

Sitting as far away as the couch allowed, she crowded herself on the edge opposite him.

Her body was taut, every part of her rigid and distinctly uncomfortable, a stark difference to his deliquesced figure.

A chuckle came from him, breaking the silence. It grated on her; she wanted to turn and ask him what was so funny, but her resolve to be as discomfited as possible–to wordlessly communicate how much she didn’t want to be here with him–won over.

She didn’t need to ask; he told her anyway, “Scared the shit outta me, seeing you standing there in the dark. Had my heart dropping to my ass, ‘specially after an op.”

“Oh…” She didn’t know how to respond or why he was telling her this. “My bad.”

He hummed noncommittally in response. “Came straight here to work on the reports, can’t get proper shut-eye with it hanging over my head.”

Normally, she’d offer to help, but she didn’t want to stay in his overwhelming presence any longer than needed, so she said nothing.

He makes idle conversation she can only respond to in choked monosyllables; it doesn’t seem to bother him, though, merely using this moment to unwind after an exacting day. With her.

It isn’t like he had any other choice with how she greedily takes space, no matter how small she tries to shrink her presence.

From her peripheral vision, she saw him half-lidded and staring into nothingness, then taking a long drag from his cigar and blowing tendrils of smoke into the stiff air. Heat pooled in her lower abdomen as if it were hitting her directly instead.

The ticking clock taunted her. She further averted her gaze. If I stay here any longer, I’m gonna explode.

“I think the storm’s letting up.” She was lying through her teeth, but she needed to get out. “So, I’m gonna get going.”

Just as she went to get up, his piercing tone cut her off, “Don’t be daft, sweetheart, you’re not going anywhere with how it’s pissin’ outside. Car’ll probably fly off the road five minutes out. ”

“It’s not that bad.”

A sharp look from him shut her up and had her burrowing into her end of the couch, back bowed in defeat.

Then a sudden heat encompassed her knee, his paw of a hand enfolded her in apparent comfort.

She could no longer feel herself breathe, every nerve going into overdrive from his touch, sending blaring warnings of pleasure to her brain neurons.

“It’ll be alright, love.” She couldn’t face him, her eyes were locked on his warm touch, a painful polarity to her icy skin. “I’m sure you’ll be home soon.”

She gave a shaky mhm in response. His thumb was steadily caressing the side of her knee in a careful rhythm, halting her temporal lobe from processing his words. Every nerve was focused solely on his touch.

“What’s got you scrambling, anyway? Got somebody waitin’ on you at home?” No amount of injected lightness could hide the trepidation in his tone.

“Uh…” She blinks her eyes to shake off the John-induced haze, but his touch leaves her stupefied. It wasn’t a common occurrence for her to be felt like this.

He called her name, and she turned to him of her own accord.

“Do you?”

Without taking her eyes off his, she lightly shook her head and murmured a barely audible No.

He hummed in satisfaction. “Good.”

The air felt still, and everything else but John was blurred to her. They stayed like that, captivated by one another’s gaze, and John’s hand inches higher bit by bit.

The space between them seemed to grow smaller by the second–fortuitously drawn to each other like puppets on a string, til they were breathing the same air and their faces were a hair's breadth away from one another.

She didn’t know what it was about him that could have her drowned in a daze and miles away from a comprehensible thought.

Further leaning in, he lingered near her lips, while his hand flexed in restraint. She wanted to close the distance but found herself hesitant–her final rational action. A soft, distant voice in her mind implores her to stop and think about what she’s doing, but she finds her every crevice exhausted at being cautious, so she throws it to the wind and kisses him.

It’s clumsy and frantic at first, weeks of need finally reaching a boiling point and spilling over. Then his free hand reaches up to cup her cheek and gently angles her face to his liking, she reaches up and grabs his wrist to anchor herself in the overwhelming sea of spilled emotions.

She lets out a low moan, then feels his hand tighten around her knee before trailing up to grip her waist.

His kiss deepens, and his body crowds hers before he pulls back enough to pull her over his lap–manhandling her like his pliant doll.

He kisses her hard, like he’s trying to infuse mountains of past frustration into it, tongues at her lips before she parts them to let him in. His hand goes to her nape while the other encircles her waist. He holds her in place to devour her to his heart’s desire while she tries to keep up with the heady taste of him.

She feels lost in his encompassing warmth, her hands are squished between her chest and his, and she can’t help but feel like an old-fashioned movie heroine locked in the tight embrace of the kind, chivalrous romantic interest, but she knows he’s anything but. Something coils beneath his skin, rears its head and waits for the perfect opportunity to strike.

She unconsciously grinds on the growing bulge she can feel under her, her cunt throbes and she lets out a soft whine at the staggering pleasure that pulses through her and she hungers for more.

He pulls away from her with a low growl and stops her movements with one hand to her thigh, then tucks his face into the junction between her neck and shoulder, his heavy breaths make her shiver.

He lightly nips her skin before resurfacing, staring at her with voracity in his eyes, and the flush in his cheeks to the tips of his ears makes her keenly aware of hers; his lips are red and swollen and glistening, and she knows she looks just as wrecked as he does.

Both his hands come up to cradle her face and she feels small beneath them. He lightly tilts her head to the side before leaning in to kiss the corner of her lips, then her cheeks, then down her neck to her collar bones, while whispering a soft “please, please, please,” in between.

“Let me take care of you,” she hears whispered in the hollow of her neck.

She yields in turn.

He guides her back onto the couch, then goes to kneel before her. He sets his palms on her pressed thighs and caresses them, trying to coax her into relaxation.

He strokes her from her thighs to her knees, up and down again and again while softly kneading her. Then his hands settle on her knees before gently prying them apart, he stares up at her momentarily before refocusing on her parted legs.

Hands on the back of her knees pull her towards him before traveling up to slowly ruck up her skirt.

She feels exposed already, his eyes are intent on her clothed core, and she can feel them focused on the wet staining the cotton. His hand reaches up to thumb it, and her thighs would’ve shut if it weren’t for his broad shoulders straining them open.

A broken whine escapes her when he presses on her clit, he placidly rolls her thumb over it and she can’t help but push into his touch, seeking more.

Suddenly pulling away, she jolts at the deprivation. He reaches to take her underwear off, slowly revealing her to him. His mouth goes dry at the strands of wetness clinging to the cotton.

The sight of her bare cunt only has him growing harder, his bulge strains in his pants and he palms himself to offer meager relief.

She’d turned away from him, unable to stand the sight of him removing the final barrier between them. A harsh “Fuck.” reaches her ears and it pulls her gaze to him.

The sight of him leaves her breathless. He’s enrapt by her–the darks of his pupils have taken over the blues of his eyes, and his rough breathing fills her ears. He looks ravenous, and her skin buzzes half in anticipation and half in fear over what he might do to her.

He hooks his hands beneath her knees, lifting and placing her legs over his shoulders before sinking lower into the chasm of her thighs.

His lips graze her inner thigh, placing a singular, tender kiss. His beard scratches the sensitive skin.

Hearing a deep inhale, her cheeks heat over the thought of him taking in her scent. The feeling of his breath, every hard inhale and exhale, on her heated core makes her writhe and fist the cushion beneath her in impatience.

He uses his thumbs to spread her folds apart to admire. Her back arches off the couch, and he sits still, torturing her with his need to look. Her hips tilt upwards towards him, and she feels like she’s going to burst if he doesn’t do something about the pulsating ache between her thighs.

Unhurriedly, his head travels lower, and he finally gets his mouth on her. She trembles with the first lick and moans.

One arm drapes itself across her lower stomach, and the other settles itself upon her upper thigh, inching towards her mons.

With every drag of his tongue her head gets emptier and emptier, then it fills with sudden, devestating static when his thumb grinds against her clit. She cries out, and vibrations from his moans turn her pleasure all the more potent.

Her body contorts to the rhythm of the storm, and his unrelenting in devouring her pulls her every nerve taut, and she’s so unbearingly close it makes her teeth gnash.

The cadenced pleasure flowing through her body feels like the incessant pressing of a bruise. She grinds her cunt against his mouth and locks her thighs against his head–uncaring if he suffocates in her desperate chase of her peak.

Her body goes tight, then unwinds in white hot pleasure. A cried “John!” is ripped from her throat, and her hand knots in his hair to hold him still; he allows her to ride her climax out. Her chest heaves, and she’s molten in his hold.

Gradually, she comes to and the static in her mind melts away to the twin sounds of their lurching breaths.

She meets his gaze from where he lies on her thigh. He looks ruined, and she can’t imagine she looks any better.

The lower half of his face is flushed and soaked, and she can practically see the tension running through his body.

He stares up at her with flames licking at his gaze, but she looks away, out towards the window and the waning storm.

There’s nothing more she wants to give him.

#diary of a deeply repressed & melodramatic woman #john’s most recent near-death experience made him sink his teeth into the first pretty thing he saw after #the inherent shame of being human #first ever fic #very scared but excited #john price/reader #cod #call of duty #john price x reader #cod x reader #cod john price #john price x you #captain john price #cod mw2 #cod mwii #cod modern warfare #cod mw3

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gofishygo · 8 months ago

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if your price/reader doesn’t have the priest/sacrificial lamb or jaded father figure/stray dog dynamic i simply do not want it. asking for a refund the food has gone cold :(

#that being said i snort all cod fanfiction so idrc #CONTENT IS CONTENT RHAHHH‼️‼️‼️#𓇼｡°🎐#john price #captain john price #captain price #captain john price x reader #john price x reader #john price x you #john price x male reader #john price/reader #call of duty

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ruesol · 1 month ago

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HAND(S)Y - one shot

(JOHN PRICE X READER)

PLOT:

you make the mistake of assuming that your veteran neighbor offered to do your apartment’s maintenance work out of the kindness of his heart (wc: 4.8k)

tags and cw: fem/afab reader, age gap, dubcon, coercion (sort of), explicit sexual content, size kink (again, kind of)

AO3 LINK

—

“And you’re sure the landlord didn’t mind removing maintenance costs from the rent?”

It was all too good to be true. Apartment (almost) smack-dab in the middle of the city, fifteen minutes from your new workplace (even with public transport), and amenities like a gym and grocery stores just a skip away. The rent was a laughable price. Sure, it didn’t include maintenance, but who cares? It’s a new building, and you have an en-suite bathroom.

Sally, the rental agent let out a long, exasperated sigh as she rubbed down her nose bridge. You almost felt bad for pestering her with your concerns, but who wouldn’t feel a little perturbed after suddenly receiving a call about how the apartment they had just rejected for the high rent was now being decreased to almost half the initial markup.

“The owner himself called me this morning. Said he couldn’t find anyone who could afford the rent and decided to take a chance. He’d rather get any kind of profit than have an empty flat eating up maintenance money.” She pulled out her copy of your lease from her shiny leather tote to give you further proof. A little condescending knowing that she had just seen you sign the contract in front of her on your new apartment’s kitchen countertop.

That was another mystery to you—the owner hadn’t met you yet. You weren’t someone of a concerning background, and nor was your criminal history too colorful (only a few slap-on-the-wrist instances of underage drinking), but it felt strange knowing that the owner wanted nothing to do with his own building. Him refusing to meet you even when you requested to speak to him.

Though, you weren’t sure if he’d be as friendly as the rental agent working for him—as rude as she may be. You could chalk it up to the exhaustion of constantly having to speak to people. You didn’t blame either of them. You weren’t much of a people person either.

The rental agent mentioned that your neighbors were quite alright too. A germaphobic old lady and a man in the army—two other people besides you on your floor. Manageable and silent.

It didn’t take you long to turn your apartment into a home. After a couple shopping sprees, you could officially feel the dread of emptiness seep out of you. A quaint one-bedroom apartment with a lovely kitchen unit that, compared to your old place, actually had a working oven. Even the air conditioner didn’t spit out ice after being switched on for too long.

Maybe your standards had been lowered after staying in bad-to-mediocre places with vents filled with mothballs while in college.

It warmed you to know that your start to official adulthood was going to be in a lovely home. Something that truly showed your personality.

Except, you were still waiting on your mattress and had been crashing on the uncomfortable yet artsy couch you bought off of a broke fashion student in some unseen corner of the city. You should’ve known the price wasn’t worth the discomfort when you saw her skip away with a month’s worth of your old part-time pay—notes leaving your account before pennies could trickle in.

–

There were many times when you wished you were a man: at the mechanic’s, comfortably sitting with your legs spread only to shut them close, being shoved and bumped into when using public transport, and now–moving your very new and cumbersome mattress into your apartment.

You heaved as you tried to push it through the door, the floppy heap of cotton and springs discouraging you with every budge. It almost felt like the heavy thing was mocking you. You were a victim of your own high-strung and eager spending.

“You must be the new tenant in 492. I live in 494. Need some help?” The voice behind you was gravelly thick, like moist tar after a rainy day. Your eyes landed on his broad shoulders first. They were held back high like he was happy carrying the weight of the world. Veteran neighbor. From your assumptions and amateur knowledge of the military, formalities were a huge thing for soldiers, so you extended your hand to him to introduce yourself.

Of course, another thing that was very important in the military was structure, so you bit your lip to stop yourself from guffawing at how his large, calloused hand almost engulfed yours. You couldn’t help but self-consciously tuck a small piece of hair behind your ear when you realized how intensely he was staring at you as he said his name–John Price.

A few moments later, you decided to thank John with a glass of chilled boxed lemonade. And for the first time, you were embarrassed at how bleak your fridge was. It was self-explanatory in college with how students don’t really have the money to fill the box to the brim, but as an adult, it was mortifying. It showed you weren’t careful. That you were careless and didn’t know how to take care of yourself, already losing momentum at the beginning of the race. His presence felt large and looming, making your apartment feel comically small. You wondered how he fit into his unit.

The drops of sweat behind your neck pooled down to your lower back as John’s blue eyes darted around your apartment from his seat at the kitchen barstool. With everything being done under obligation, you weren’t given much opportunity to customize your life, so decorating your first apartment felt like a childhood dream come true.

An immature girl. That’s probably how the soldier saw you even though you were one when he was well into adulthood. Probably already climbing the ranks.

“You’re one unlucky girl,” he chuckled as he took another sip of the citrusy drink. Your vision was never the best, but you swore you could see juice droplets drip into his beard.

“What do you mean, Mr. Price?”

“John’ll do, sweetheart,” he said to you through a grin. “You just happened to walk into a trap. There’s always a new problem with this place. I reckon the owner didn’t tell you that, did he?” A child. An immature, stupid, too-new-for-the-world child.

“He even got rid of the maintenance charge from the monthly rent,” you sheepishly admitted while playing with the fraying threads on your shirt sleeve.

“Yeah, that’s how they get ya. Can you afford to break the lease?” Your eyes are too busy staring holes into your sleeve to notice Price’s bright, blue, inquisitive gaze settled on you.

“I can’t afford to find a new place right now.” It felt like the world had chewed you up and spat you out. One hurdle greater than the next. You wondered just how people did not want to give up after coming out of the warm cocoon of their childhood.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he murmured to himself. He could tell you were disturbed by your delayed replies. His long legs carried him to where you stood, heavy thumping boots bellowing echoes with every step. A large hand sits at the back of your neck, your dewy skin sticking to his palm like honey. You were emotional to the point of pliancy, so it didn’t take him much effort to angle your head up to him.

“You tell me if you need any handiwork done. It’ll be our secret,” he cajoles calmly, staring into your eyes. The smell of bitter tobacco emanates from him as his broad body shields you from the light coming in through your windows. Your delusional mind patterns the afternoon sun to create a golden halo around his head. The fulfillment you got from feeling stable after a long time was a different kind of high. But you couldn’t accept it so quickly. Life has the cruel habit of snatching things away when you clutch them in your palm.

“I couldn’t do that to you. You must be so busy–”

His grip on the back of your neck tightened as his face got closer to yours. Blue irises boring into your tired, red eyes as his lemony, sweet breath hits your lips with every long second. “Hey, it’s nothing. I always do my own handiwork.”

“No, John, at least let me repay you,” you didn’t mean to whine, but you couldn’t help it with the way his fingers were now trailing into your matted and sweaty hair. “Course you will. Just give me a little more than lemonade next time.”

–

John was like a phantom after that day. You’d only just miss him as you’d enter your apartment building, the door to his flat swinging shut as soon as you exited the elevator. It felt like he was trying to keep your little arrangement under wraps for everyone–which was funny as you barely saw the other building residents. But alas, one could never be too sure. Maybe John was much more sociable than you.

Summer was as unforgiving as ever. It felt like the sun scorched everything in its path, from skin to paper to puddles of water. A week later, You were compelled to knock on John’s door with a sheepish smile and your t-shirt sticking to your body with sweat. He agreed to your request with a grunt, soon following you into your apartment with a toolbox. He navigated the place like his own, automatically knowing where the troubled AC was. “It’s in the same place in my unit,” he explained with his signature grin, meticulously styled beard lifting with the apples of his cheeks.

Feeling useless, you trudged to your kitchen to put out some cookies and a glass of lemonade as a sign of gratitude. Also the unbearable heat made you want to stick your head in your freezer.

The sound of John’s throat clearing pulled you out of your temporary paradise. You whipped your head only to see his eyes flit from your hips to your face. Your inner voice prayed that he wasn’t standing there for too long.

“I’ve fixed it. Should take about twenty minutes to cool up the place. Are those for me?” He pointed at the plate of chocolate chip cookies you had baked the night before, definitely not preparing for the ‘something extra’ the man was expecting for his favors. You vigorously nod as you drag the cookies and lemonade across the countertop, but the clicking of John’s tongue stops you. “My hands are dirty, love. Do you mind feeding them to me?”

You weren’t sure why your first thought was to put the confection up to his chapped lips, why you didn’t think of letting him wash his hands in your kitchen sink (only three steps away.) You weren’t even sure if he meant what he said until your cookie reached his mouth. He took a big, hearty bite, making brown sugar crumbs rain down your fingers. Your heart quickened at the feeling of his slick tongue grazing the tips of your fingers. His eyes never left yours throughout.

“Thanks, love, I’ll be taking this with me then.” And just like that, your friendly neighbor John Price left with his glass of lemonade, and only then did you realize you were wearing your white cotton see-through shorts with a pair of black panties underneath.

—

John was no longer the phantom you assumed him to be after that day. You’d occasionally see him around the building while collecting mail, buying groceries, or by the bus stop (where he’d stop his car and offer you a lift to your workplace). You were seeing him everywhere. Literally. The only place you didn’t see him was at work. The repairs around your apartment were too many to the point where he was at your place more than his.

The man had this strange talent of almost always materializing next to you. Even down to picking you up from work. It felt strange, but you were glad you wouldn't have to spend money on public transport. The more you could save up, the sooner you could move out. Taking advantage of John’s help wasn’t fair to either of you. It was eating up his spare time, and for you, well, you couldn’t catch a break whenever you’d see him walk in with his toolbox and bulging muscles.

Also because his demands were starting to get more…personal.

It all started when he had fixed your bathroom pipes for you, blasted thing giving out right when you were about to leave for work. You were lucky to have built a good enough rapport with Price that he let you into his unit and freshen up, even offering you his shower. You weren’t sure if the germaphobic old lady would’ve been too keen on letting you even be in a three-foot radius of her.

Price was about to leave your apartment with yet again, more cookies and a whole bottle of lemonade, when he had stopped just before going out the door.

“Everything alright, John?” you asked as you walked over to him, shoving your wallet and your keys in your work bag in a hurry. “Can I have something for my compensation this time?”

Guilt seeped into your bones when you realized that you had been giving him the exact same treatment for everything he had helped you fix. No matter how complex the task.

You had wished your cooking and baking skills were more intricate and refined, but chocolate chip cookies and boxed lemonade were all you had to offer.

Though you could always switch out lemonade for so—

“Give me a kiss,” he demanded. Not even a question or suggestion. Just something branded with molten hot iron onto your brain without your awareness.

“I-I’m getting late. I’ll see you later.” Yes, it was best if you just pretended if you didn’t hear him. You try to brush past him but he’s quick to block your way. “On the cheek. Not asking you to take my lips. Although, I’m not against that either.”

You were really hoping that the last part was a light joke.

“John—“

“You’re getting late and I can’t drive you today.” The man was a brick wall, blocking the entirety of your apartment door with just a slightly wider than usual stance.

He bent down, his face coming into level with yours. He didn’t bother turning his cheek to you for the minuscule possibility of you leaving a sweet kiss on his lips instead.

You glanced down at your watch and the bus was going to be at the stop in five minutes. You could make it in time if you took the stairs and ran.

With an uneasy mind and bite to the inside of your cheek, your pressed your lips his cheek. You try to wipe off the faint tint of peach left behind by your scented lip balm but he’s quick to walk back to his apartment.

Kisses on the cheek soon turn into kisses on the lips. They start off with quick pecks, something you hope to finish as soon as he leans down.

Until one day, he suddenly stamps his large paw on the back of your head and slips his tongue past your lips, savoring the taste of your hot mouth with his.

His citrusy breath lingers in your mouth and ingrains itself in your mind till the next time something goes wrong in your apartment. You aren’t sure when the right time to stop is. On the one hand, John grinds his hips against yours as he makes out with your mouth after fixing your sink, and on the other hand, you barely have enough funds to pay for maintenance and move into a better apartment.

So you endure it.

However, it is thrilling to know that there is a man out there who wants you so much that he growls in your mouth and squeezes your waist and under your shirt as soon as you kiss him back.

–

All your restraints break loose on the day you find your roof leaking. You’re quick to call John, knowing that it only takes two rings until he picks up. The burr of his voice, even through the phone, shackles your feet to the ground. They only move when he tells you that you can stay in his apartment while some of his handy friends check out what’s really causing the leak.

So you gingerly make your way across the hallway, laptop in hand and last night’s dinner in a lunch box as a thank you for John.

All three of his friends are similar to him–tall, burly, thick accents that make them sound like they’re spewing insults with every syllable that escapes their mouths.

The man with the dirty blond hair and surgical mask is oddly fascinated with you, though. His light brown eyes constantly shift between you and John–almost like he can detect that there’s a sliver of an unconventional relationship between you two.

You don’t give him the opportunity to ask when you briskly walk into John’s apartment with your head trained toward the floor.

Since John’s unit is similar to yours, there are not many places for you to work on your laptop besides sitting next to him on the couch. Like most men his age, his apartment is sparse, with no extra furniture than what’s required.

Even his couch feels like it was brought just for the sake of keeping something for guests. It’s comfortable yet small, only big enough to fit two adults. And even then, with John manspreading, you’re shoved into the corner, having to use the arm rest to support your weight on your elbow.

Deep down, you knew your efforts to keep a respectable distance were futile. He had already had his tongue down your throat not too long ago; what’s a little clothed thigh-to-thigh contact while sitting on the couch?

The man is unapologetically himself, with his beer in his hand and his arm extended at the back of the couch. He makes sure to take up space wherever he goes.

The television loudly blares his sports match, and the sound of the referee distracts you to the point where you end up writing ‘what a spectacular goal’ in your work report. You don’t have the courage to ask him to lower the volume, so you shut your laptop and place it on the equally small coffee table in front of you.

“I’m not gonna bite you. Sit comfortably.” The arm behind you nudges your shoulder, and you comply, slowly spreading your legs to the point where your knees touch. He sighs and slides his arm around your shoulder, and drags you closer till you’re entirely pressed up against him.

“Much better isn’t it.”

You nod, and he slides his hand down to your waist and squeezes it. “Use your words, love.”

“Yes, John.”

“Good girl.”

His scent is thick with tobacco and Old Spice as it clouds your senses. He hadn’t moved his hand from your waist and simply rubbed as his fingers slowly crept down to the hem of your shirt.

You can only play with fingers your in your lap as you watch the team he’s supporting score yet another goal.

The match was only background noise now. A distant whirr failing to compete with the churning gears in your mind.

“Come to think of it, you haven’t compensated me for helping you today.”

“...what?”

His hand moves further up under your shirt, resting just below the band of your bra.

“Compensation. My friends are busy men, you know.”

“Oh, right.”

You turn to face him, sweat already pooling at the base of your spine as you lean in to kiss his lips.

But he stops you–squishing your cheeks together with a single hand as he pulls you away and smirks at your flustered state. The hand inside your shirt begins to caress your skin.

“I want something more.” His request reverberates in your skull till you almost go cross-eyed. His heady gaze has a hint of amusement as his fingers dance just beneath your bra, skirting around the band.

“Sit in on my lap.” The burr of his voice has you acting like a mindless zombie as you straddle him, hovering just above his semi-hardened crotch. With a click of his tongue, he pushes your waist and makes you sit directly on top. You gasp, holding on to his shoulders to steady yourself and your sanity.

“That’s more like it,” he says. His calloused hands run up and down your thighs, occasionally pushing his fingers into your shorts and grazing the hem of your panties.

“Did you wear these for me?” he whispers before nipping your earlobe. “Wanted to tease me, didn’t you?”

“I wasn’t trying to do anything,” you reason.

“If you weren’t, then you wouldn’t be sitting on my lap right now,” he counters before his lips latch onto your neck. The collar is tight, not giving him access to your decolletage even when he tries to pull down the fabric.

So he rucks up your shirt and takes it off you, ignoring your weak protests while throwing it away in some corner of his living room. “So soft,” he murmurs into your neck as his hands travel around the expanse of your abdomen, fingers digging into your sides to pull you closer till your chest meets his.

You bite your lip to keep yourself from letting out tiny cries when John sucks on your skin. He chuckles when he notices your chest falling and rising at the pace of a rabbit’s heartbeat. It feels like mockery. You’re giving him what he wants with minimal obstruction, yet he acts like he could take you whenever.

He licks your bottom lip as he orders you to take off your bra and sit on your knees so that your breasts are almost face-to-face with his mouth.

It horrifies you to think about how selfish it would be of you not to help him. The man is a veteran and has many things on his plate. Offering yourself to him on a silver platter after making him do all that labor for you is the least you could do for him.

John only watches you unclasp your bra with shaky hands. He does not make any effort to touch you or even quicken your pace, surprisingly patient. But his lascivious gaze says otherwise.

“Been waiting so long to see this. Had to make it the perfect moment. Ease you in.” His paws are quick to latch onto your breasts as soon as you pull down the straps of your bra. You gasp when he places his mouth on your nipple, flicking his tongue on the pebbled nub as his hands squeeze and push your other breast.

It’s far too late to stop and truly contemplate how fucked up the whole situation was–how easily you had just played into whatever he wanted.

His hands travel down your chest to the apex of your thigh and pull on your shorts. “Take these off too, love. Wouldn’t want you to take advantage of my kindness and not give yourself entirely in return.”

Your hands are frozen on his shoulders, baffled at how brazenly commanding John’s being. Seeing this, he sighs and grabs ahold of your hands in his and shoves your thumbs in your waist band. “Come on, down they go.”

“Look at you, all soaked.” John leers at the wet spot on your panties as you hover over his lap, knees uncomfortably digging into his couch. John pushes his thumb throw your labia and drags it from your slit to your clit, lightly pressing on it. Your nails dig into his shoulder. It was horrifying yet arousing. You’d only ever read stories about heroines paying off their debt using their bodies, but seeing it happen to you, in reality, was another thing.

It was all too humiliating–being so naive that you inadvertently trusted an older man with ill intentions. Your lips were still tingling from the wet kiss he left earlier, all tongue and no mercy. And then he moved to do it again, hot mouth devouring your mewls. His other hand, situated at the back of your knee, moved up to your ass, squeezing along the way and fixing itself underneath the cotton of your underwear. Thick fingers dug into soft skin like a clutched cushion.

“You wanted this to happen, didn’t you? That’s why you’re so ready for me?” he teases as his fingers move faster. “Bet you broke things in your apartment just so I could come in and see you half-dressed.”

“No,” you weakly stammer out.

“Sure, lie all you want. I already know you wanted this dick to fill you up the whole time. Don’t worry, I’ll stuff your cunt, sweetheart–I promise you that.”

He pulls the saturated gusset of your panties to the side and strokes a thick finger up the seam of your cunt. He kisses away your gasp when he enters your hole, hands playing with your nipple as he shoves another finger in, slowly increasing his speed.

You whine as you rub your clit, trying to find some sort of relief, but he immediately pulls out and shoves your hand away, slapping your clit to keep you in line. “You’ll get what you want if you’re patient. Now pull my cock out my pants.”

You meekly nod as tears threaten to spill out your dewy eyes. With ginger hands, you slowly unzip his jeans. His bulge is intimidating, already hard and straining against the cotton of his boxers.

You gasp slightly when you see the damp circle of precome on his underwear. His heated gaze and the intimidating outline of his dick make you shiver in your spot. When you pull him out, you nearly feel like running away. The sheer size of him is nothing you’ve seen before. Most of the people you’d hooked up with weren’t as girthy or long.

John groans as you wrap your hand around him, stroking the tip with caution.

“Come on, don’t be afraid—sit on it.” The timbre of his voice pulls you out of your momentary daze and you gulp.

John’s hands grasp your hips as he slowly pulls you down. He hisses when the entrance to your warm, wet, cunt meets his tip. The stretch you feel as your walls slide down his length is painful, his engorged cock fitting snugly.

“What’s wrong, love? Need a moment?” It almost feels like the older man is mocking you. ‘Have you really never taken something this big before?’

And before you can adjust to his size, John bucks his hip up into you, making you squeak as your body jerks.

“I think I’ll just need to fuck myself into you to fit well, don’t you think, darling?” he whispers in your ear before leaving a scorching kiss on your mouth.

You’re breathless after he pulls away and you nod dumbly, too overstimulated to do or say anything. His thumb strums along your clit, making you weep and wrap your arms around his neck. He rocks on top of him, viscid walls familiarizing themselves with every nerve that bulges out from his cock, slick collecting at the base.

And before you know it, he moves his hand away from your hips, only watching you bounce on his lap like you’re chasing your own high.

“I’m so—so full,” you whimper as John massages your breasts. You feel his muscles tensing under his t-shirt and he pulls you into another heated kiss as he pinches your nipple. You whine, almost at edge, as he tongues your mouth, groaning from the depths of his chest as he feels you contracting harder around his length.

“Come for me, honey,” he mumbles into your mouth, hand going down to your clit.

The elastic knot in your abdomen tightens till it snaps, rendering your spineless as you fall into John’s embrace. You both breath heavily as John reaches his own climax, his spend painting your walls white.

You were too exhausted to worry about birth control at the time.

—

You weren’t sure how long you had slept for, but you were sure that you had been out for longer than an hour considering that you were wearing John’s old military training t-shirt and had a sour taste in your mouth. Your cunt began to ache as you remembered the reason why you were so exhausted.

John is nowhere to be seen, so you drag yourself out of bed, limbs heavy as you crawl across to the foot.

That is until you hear John’s phone buzz at the night stand.

Curious, you crawl back. The thought of privacy briefly crossed your mind before you brushed it away. You’d bared your body to that man. A small text didn’t matter.

Your huffed at what you read. Eyes wide with sleep quickly vanishing by the nanosecond, It was the realtor who’d shown the apartment you were presently living in.

Sally M. : Hello, John. I just wanted to confirm how quickly you were planning on emptying unit 492. I know a few people who want to see it already.”

237 notes · View notes

ceilidho · 1 month ago

Text

fig. 3. heart in flames; baptism by fire | John Price x Reader

MASTERLIST · AO3

The universe hasn't seen fit to give Price a mate of his own. He'll have to take matters into his own hands.

or: the forced mating omegaverse au

tags: Size Difference, Size Kink, Omegaverse, Explicit Sexual Content, AFAB Reader, Stalking, Kidnapping, Heavy Noncon/Dubcon Elements

His appetite is an arsenal all on its own.

It’s always been bigger than him, barrel-chested. All consuming. It’s the reason that John is where he is today, always chasing down something larger than himself. Greedy for what he can’t have. Ambitious to a fault. Promotions and titles and commendations and accolades; they’re all wrapped up in his psychology, into whatever it is about him that wants without end. Without satisfaction.

It’s likely why he ends up being referred to an endocrinologist specializing in hormone disorders in alphas when an overproduction of androstenone turns his ruts violent. Over the years, they’ve been steadily getting worse, even with a partner to help see him through the worst of it, the overproduction of hormones making him a little too mindless, a little too frenzied.

“It’s not especially common for men your age, if I can be frank,” the doctor tells him, flipping through his chart. “Not uncommon, but low enough that I want to send you for a couple tests just to be safe. You’re still unmated?”

John nods. “That’s right.”

It’s not that the option hasn’t ever presented itself, but the timing has never felt right. Even marriage hadn’t sweetened the deal, and maybe that’s why he’s just north of forty-five and already divorced. The fault lies with him alone; he’s man enough to admit that. Maybe if he’d been more attentive, less likely to disappear for months at a time; if he’d swallowed his reluctance and just bit his omega instead of dragging his feet through his marriage like a prisoner marching to his own doom—maybe things might be different.

“Any plans to change that?”

“‘Fraid not.”

The truth of the matter is that, though he’s waited a lifetime for that special someone to cross his path, no one has ever come close to smelling right. Even his ex-wife had only come so close—good enough to turn his head, but not enough to keep him. Or maybe he hadn’t been enough to keep her. These days, it’s hard to say which feels more like the truth.

Sometimes John thinks that it’s simply not in the cards for him. That for whatever reason, destiny or God or the universe or whatever force that decides the fate of all things, has deemed him unfit for the other half of his soul.

It’s just that it’s been—

It’s been a long time without anyone to call his own.

The doctor scribbles something down in John’s chart. “Alright.”

With his rut coming up in just a few days, the timing couldn’t be better. It sizzles like a low grade fever under his skin. He works up a sweat more easily, even a couple flights of stairs leaving the pits of his shirt dark and damp. There’s a little extra padding around his midsection, a bit more bulk on his arms and thighs; his beard a little thicker than usual, forcing him to trim it twice a day to keep it from growing out of control. Even though it happens every year, it sneaks up on him, the added mass making him a bit lethargic in the weeks before his rut.

“We won’t have the results in time for your next scheduled rut, but I’d recommend asking a trusted partner to help you out. And wear protection. We have extra mouth guards and other paraphernalia if you need anything.”

John holds up a hand when the doctor goes to open a drawer. “I’ve got plenty at home. Appreciate the advice though. Any medication I should be taking?”

“I don’t want to start you on anything this close to your rut, but maybe after. I’ll have the front desk set up a follow up appointment for you for two weeks from now.”

He nods, making a mental note.

There are a couple girls he could call up on short notice, but the thought sits like a dull weight in his chest. The decades of casual heats and ruts have left him with little appetite for that sort of thing these days. What he wants—craves really, needs really—is something permanent, something meaningful. John’s been around the block enough to know that he’s looking for something more.

He’s had good ruts and bad ruts. Ruts spent in the warm embrace of another, filling up a soft, wet hole again and again until his spend leaked down their thighs, lost in a daze of pheromones and heat-slick. Ruts spent entombed in his own frustrated lust, mindlessly rutting into a cum-filled fleshlight to slake a thirst that never ebbs, only flows and rushes over the guardrails, dragging him further under.

This one might end up falling into the latter category.

“Right, well, thanks for stopping by, John. You have a good rest of your day, alright?”

“Same to you.”

His nostrils burn the second he walks back into the main corridor, which is teeming with activity, children climbing over their parents’ laps and people still waiting to see a doctor slumped over in their chairs. Two interns wheel a bed down the hall, forcing everyone to scoot to the side and cling to the wall to get out of the way. There’s always too many people in the hospital. Too many smells.

This close to his rut, everything reeks. Congealed sweat and antiseptic; plastic chairs that smell simultaneously of sick and Lysol wipes, confusing his nose. Stale body odour from those in the waiting room on their sixth hour of waiting on loved ones or on an available doctor. It’s a bludgeon to the senses, particularly when they’re more sensitive than usual.

An elevator takes him down to the first floor, which is even more chaotic than the one John was just on somehow. Patients and doctors spilling out of rooms, announcement after announcement blaring over the intercom, and always—always—the sharp scent of isopropyl, astringent against the inside of his nose.

“I don’t understand—did she leave?”

The voice catches him like a fish on a hook on his way towards the main entrance, beadhead soaring through the air and slipping under the surface of the water just as he’s angling to leave.

When John turns around, you’re standing by the front desk with your chin tucked into your chest. You make a pitiful sight like that, with your lips pursed and your eyebrows pinched, and you hold yourself almost delicately, hands gripping the edge of the desk to stabilize yourself.

He takes a deep inhale. Though admittedly he’s not close enough to get a good whiff, your scent is muted, likely dampened by the effects of several painkillers and the anesthetic still running through your system. The stench of pain is strong too, which accounts for the way you hold your body and move so gingerly, the brace on your arm a good indication.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. If she’s not here, she must have left. You could try calling her?” the nurse at the front desk says, almost apologetic. “We can’t let you leave without an escort to take you home.”

“Okay, um…” you whisper, and now your scent is pungent with panic, acerbic. “Let me call her and ask her to come back.”

The sound of your voice is stronger now that it’s had time to travel. Again he feels it pinch him like coming out of a dream.

It’s so unremarkable that John nearly carries on down the hall towards the entrance, nothing about the interaction sticking out.

Something keeps him rooted in place though. Intuition or a sixth sense or finely honed instincts. So instead of leaving, he turns around and walks right back to the front desk, stopping when he’s within arm’s length of you, eyes soaking up the sight of your tensed shoulders.

He doesn’t know the words are going to come out of his mouth until they do. “Lost your way home?”

When you turn your eyes up to look at him, he feels the breath get knocked out of him. Prettier than anything he’s ever seen, the lure at the end of a fishing line drawing him in.

And yet, for as pleasant as you smell, it’s nothing dissimilar to the countless omegas John has come across before. It evokes nothing primal—no deep-seated urge to sink his canines into a plump gland and bind you to him.

You simply smell nice.

It’s difficult to articulate the devastation that courses through him. He’d hoped against hope that it would happen, that someday he would turn a corner and his fated mate would be there, looking at him like what took you so long? But how long can a man be expected to wait? How many years of disappointment can he be expected to weather by himself, his hopes dashed repeatedly?

In less than a second, he makes a decision.

One too many times, he’s hoped for fate to intervene and reward him for his patience. It never has. That responsibility must fall on him.

There’s nothing new about trying to immanentize the eschaton, but John has faith in himself. If fate won’t do what must be done, then he will instead.

“Excuse me?” you ask. So polite.

“Heard you talking to the nurse about your ride home; sounds like you’re in a bit of a fix.”

“Yeah, I…um…” You seem torn on whether or not to keep up the conversation, likely finding his attention a bit intrusive, but gentility prevails in the end. Good. He was just starting to like you. “My friend was supposed to drive me home after surgery, but it looks like she might’ve bailed. She’s not answering my texts, but someone else said they saw her leave.”

“Sorry to hear that. Not fair, putting you in a spot like that.”

“I’m trying to give her the benefit of the doubt, but…uh…” You laugh, a touch derisively. “This is kind of screwing me over. I’m trying to get another friend to come pick me up, but it’s short notice and most people can’t just call out of work at the drop of a hat.”

There’s a vulnerable note in your voice almost masked by the touch of annoyance in your laugh but still plain for anyone attentive enough to hear. John is nothing but attentive.

“Don’t let her screw you over and get away with it,” he says, positioning himself on your side. “Short of someone dying, there’s no reason she should’ve left you on your own after an operation.”

“You’re probably right,” you murmur, too tired to put up a fight. “It just sucks. I wish she hadn’t told me yes in the first place—I could’ve asked someone else and given them more notice.”

“If you’re looking for a way home, I’d be happy to give you a lift.” John shrugs a shoulder when your lips open, the polite refusal already bubbling up your throat rebuffed by his next words. “I’m headed out now anyway. Just came to get some bloodwork done, nothing serious. Wouldn’t be an imposition at all.”

Your eyebrows pull together, teeth sinking into your bottom lip.

“I’m not sure if I should be accepting rides from strangers.”

There’s a teasing lilt there, but also an undercurrent that he’s become familiar with over the years. A tempered kind of caution. One that says the words with a smile but prepares to sprint the other way.

He smiles and holds out his hand. “I’m John.” When you take it, he knows he’s got you. “Not strangers anymore, are we?”

You answer that with a coy shake of your head, giving your name just as readily.

“So, how about it? Can I take you home?” John asks, repeating the invitation. His blood simmers when you take too long to answer.

“Ma’am,” the nurse suddenly interjects from the front desk, taking your attention away from him. It’s surprising how much that displeases him. “Have you gotten in touch with your friend yet or do we have to put you on the list for the drop-off service?”

John can see you warring with the options in your mind, eyes flitting between him and the nurse.

“Actually, I found a ride home. Can I sign out?”

“Mind if I ask what you were in for?”

The drive to your house is mostly uneventful. He plugs your address into the GPS and hits save when something outside the window catches your attention.

“It was just a little procedure.” His ensuing silence must make you nervous because you volunteer the reason for your stay after just a few short seconds. “Carpal tunnel release. My job involves a lot of typing, so I couldn’t keep putting it off; can’t wait to go back to living normally.”

He clocked the splint and the bandage around your hand and wrist when he approached you at the hospital, but it’s good to put a label on it. John makes a mental note to look up the post-op protocol for carpal tunnel surgery when the two of you get home. It’ll help him to better understand and address your needs in the coming days and weeks, and what he’ll need to watch out for when his rut finally sets in.

He’ll clue you in on all of that later when he’s had a chance to explain himself.

“Shame that your friend didn’t stick around to get you home. Probably still in a bit of pain, aren’t you?”

“Not yet. The painkillers they’ve got me on are really good.”

“Hm. I bet.”

You’re not that loopy despite being on painkillers though. More tired than anything.

“I probably could’ve planned this better. I didn’t even get groceries before leaving for surgery.”

“You want me to stop and pick you up a couple things?”

He can see you turn to look at him from the corner of his eye. “Are you sure?”

“I’ve got time. Do you know what you need?”

You rattle off the couple items that you need and John merges into the left lane while listening, heading towards the nearest grocery store.

He makes you stay in the car while he goes in to pick up a couple things, his number plugged into your phone in case you need him to rush back. The few items you rattle off aren’t sufficient enough for what you’ll need over the coming weeks, so John takes the liberty of purchasing a few extra things. Cured meats, fruit, a box of pastries for breakfast, and a couple frozen microwaveable meals. Baby wipes, lotion, and a multivitamin. All the essentials for a rut.

There are things back at his place that he’ll need for his rut, but he’ll ask Simon to pick those up whenever he has a chance. It’s why John gave him a spare key after all.

When he wheels the cart out of the store, he comes around by the back of the car, popping the trunk before you have a chance to see the sheer amount of bags in his cart. There will be a time later to talk you through what’s going to happen.

“Sorry if my list was complicated,” you apologize when he gets back into the front seat, the cart in the corral. It doesn’t change where things were already heading, but it makes him look at you a bit differently. There’s a sweetness to you, one he hadn’t noticed before.

He likes it though.

“Wasn’t complicated in the least,” John says, brushing off the apology. “Just took me a while to find everything. Didn’t mean to keep you waiting.”

Your eyes crinkle when you smile. “I’m not in any hurry.”

John’s always liked docile things. Sweet, simpering things with nervous eyes and gentle demeanours.

Moreover—

what isn’t already tamed is his to break.

You’re a cagey thing as well though. At least, you get cagey when John gets out of the car and follows you up the front stairs on your porch instead of hovering a safe distance away. He keeps the subterfuge up by only carrying in the bags with the things you requested, leaving the rest in his car for now.

“I really appreciate all your help; I should be able to take it from here though,” you tell him at the door, the key still tucked in your hand. Your voice is infused with enough gratitude that a duller man might let it stroke their ego while you slipped inside and out of their grasp.

John smiles instead. “Wouldn’t be doing the right thing if I let you go without making sure you got to bed safe and sound. Open the door, sweetheart.”

He can see the hesitation on your face plain as day. Every instinct telling you not to let a man into your house, much less an alpha.

But inevitably you let him in.

Good girl.

The house is saturated with your scent. He has to take a deep inhale right off the bat, committing your scent to memory. Without the overwhelming stench of antiseptic and sickness from the hospital, your scent is cleaner, richer. Preserved in amber.

There’s something faint underlying your lived-in scent though. He can’t quite name it, but it sits on the tip of his tongue like a tune he’s heard before.

“Mind if I put these away for you?” John asks, lifting the grocery bags in his hands.

“Oh—yes, thank you. The kitchen’s that way.” You point towards the back of the house.

John carries the bags with just your groceries to the kitchen and unloads everything one by one into the fridge. The meager contents of your fridge speak to a frugal, solitary existence, and suddenly the faint smell permeating through your house has a name. Loneliness.

A man hasn’t been in here in quite some time, if ever. Every single inch of the house has been scrubbed with your scent, not a trace of any former occupant remaining. No roommate or close friend or boyfriend.

“Nice place you’ve got,” he comments when he walks back into the living room to find you fiddling around with the cushions on the couch, arranging them to make yourself a cozy spot to lie down.

You look up at the sound of his voice and smile, faintly flattered. “Thank you. I’ve only had it a year, but uh…I’ve been doing my best. Also—thanks again for driving me home. And stopping for groceries.” Your lips go round like you’ve remembered something. “I still have to pay you back by the way. Wait right here.”

“Let me go get the rest from the car first,” John says.

“There’s more?” you ask, surprised.

He nods. “I got you a couple extra things—on me. I hope that wasn’t too much of an overstep.”

You chew your lip but ultimately the uncertainty melts from your gaze the longer he stands there waiting for your approval. “…No, that’s…that’s fine. You didn’t have to, but thank you.”

His overstep is just a toe over the lip of the door, but it’s still a foot keeping the door from closing.

On his way back out to the car, John happens to glance down while passing the table in the entryway and finds, much to his delight, your phone resting casually beside the vanity tray. It sits there like you purposefully left it for him to take.

If not you, then fate.

With deft fingers practiced at lifting, he pockets your phone, and then heads back to the car for the rest of the groceries, whistling the whole way there and back.

You start to look at him a bit differently when he brings in the second round of groceries. The number of bags hanging from his forearms must strike you as odd, too many for what you asked him to pick up. John doesn’t bother making any excuses though.

He can see your trust wavering, pulled out from the water and left belly up in the air, gasping for breath. It wouldn’t be hard to fix it. It wouldn’t be hard to go about this the right way—leave you with your groceries and pain meds, tuck you into bed before seeing himself out, and then waiting a couple days to ask you out for coffee. To leave now would mend your trust entirely.

He considers it even, never one for turning down a potential strategy without considering its merit. But his alpha digs its heels in when he contemplates leaving, pushing every inch of its weight into rooting him in place.

It doesn’t want him to leave; and truth be told, John can’t bear the thought either.

The little trust you extended evaporates more and more as the minutes tick by and he shows no sign of leaving. You dance around it for a while, cautiously hopeful that he might be inadvertently overstaying his welcome, and John watches your descent into hopelessness from the corner of his eyes.

It’s only when he helps himself to a snack from the fridge and turns the television on that you break, sweat beading on your upper lip.

“John, I think maybe you s-should leave.”

The confidence you muster up to even just say that impresses him. It takes a lot out of you though, your body sagging when the words come out of your mouth, so much tension building up in your muscles that it literally weighs you down.

The hand with the remote drifts down to his side. “What do you mean, sweetheart?” John asks.

“Well, I’ve—I’ve got it from here.” You switch to a more diplomatic tone, likely wary of worsening the situation you’ve gotten yourself into. Aware that you’ve invited him into your house, that your safe space now has another resident. “I don’t need any more help.”

Though not as close to his rut as he will be in the coming days, the sentiment still makes him bristle. You don’t need any more help. Rich considering you let a strange alpha take you home not half an hour ago.

He places the remote down and advances on you briskly, all of a sudden, quick enough that you only notice when he’s right in front of you, surprise overriding your fight or flight response.

John cups the back of your neck with a big hand and tilts your head up until he can see the puffy, virgin mating gland sitting in the crook of your neck. Thumbs it too, ignoring the way your eyes go wide and horrified, and the way you try to wriggle out of his grasp until he tightens his hand around the nape of your neck.

“Of course you do, sweetheart. Can't have you wandering around like this—wrong person might try to take advantage.”

Fear makes your pupils dilate. It stinks too, the stench wafting off you. A bit of initial unpleasantness is expected though, and understandable. It’ll be a lot to help work you through the worst of it, but it’s nothing he hadn’t already internally committed to.

“You’re—you’re not going to leave?”

John shakes his head and smiles.

Smart girl that you are, you don’t jump to screaming and shouting. Not that the urge isn’t there building in your chest, but you know the odds are stacked against you. You’ve already let him in.

Your breathing picks up though, and your lip trembles. An anxious swallow follows, then another, throat too dry for you to speak.

“Why?”

“C’mere, sweetheart.” John takes you by the hand, careful to avoid the bandaged one, and pulls you to the couch, where he takes a seat. “We can only have a frank conversation about this if you promise to be polite and wait your turn to speak. Clear?”

Your lips twitch with displeasure but you nod.

“My rut’s coming up in a week.” He catches you before you spring back up to your feet, yanking you back down by your arm. “No, don’t try to run; this is happening, love. My rut’s coming up and I’m staying here for it, okay?”

“I can stay someplace else,” you offer weakly, voice breaking.

His smile verges on pitying. “No, sweetheart. You’re staying here with me for it.”

Your scent goes sour. Ammonium sulfide and allicin. His nose would wrinkle if he’d been expecting anything less than your reaction, but you conform, as always, beautifully to his expectations.

“You can’t…make me go through a rut with you.” Your throat constricts around the word rut.

“Yes, I can,” he says simply because that’s what it is. Simple.

In a world of people riddled with guilt complexes and victim mentalities, he stands alone. He has no qualms about taking what’s owed to him, or with shaping the world according to the version of it that lives in his head. That’s how history is made.

He can’t judge others for their nature the same way he can’t fault himself for his.

“I thought you said you were in the army.”

“I did.”

“Isn’t this…—this is against the law then, isn’t it?”

“You’re thinking of American law, sweetheart.” He doesn’t bring up any similar protection against forced billeting enshrined in English law. Best to not get lost in the weeds.

There’s a tick in your eyes that betrays you. John readies himself for a chase when your eyes glance over his shoulders towards the door, but you discard that plan as quickly as it entered your brain. Weighing the odds and finding them not in your favour.

“I have friends,” you blurt out. “Family. People check up on me.”

“That’s fine, love. When they do, you’re gonna tell them that you’re taking a week off to rest and you don’t want anyone coming by in the meantime.” When you don’t respond, clearly thinking something different, irritation flickers in his chest. “Wanna know why you’re going to do that?”

“…Why?”

“‘Cause you know this could go one of two ways. We could either have a nice time together and I’ll be on my way afterwards…or I could bite that little mating gland of yours now and we can take that option off the table.”

There’s no point in telling you that he’s already made up his mind about that part. The allure of hope is too tempting; he has to give you something to latch onto.

“Do we understand each other?” he asks.

Your initial hesitation tells him all he needs to know. This won’t be an easy conquest or a city handed over to spare its citizens pain—you won’t hesitate to put up a fight.

“Okay.”

John makes himself at home like a fox laying claim to a rabbit’s burrow.

Siege warfare. A lifetime in the military has made him well versed in poliorcetics. He knows of how the Romans once conquered the city of Fidene by launching false attacks from four different directions at four different times before breaching the city through a long tunnel that passed under its walls, and how Alexander captured the city of Tyre by building a kilometer-long causeway and besieging it for seven months.

Your phone was the first thing to go, confiscated lest you got any funny ideas about calling someone to rescue you. Not that you need rescuing; in the end, you’ll see that this was in your best interests too. The next thing to do is your laptop, tucked away out of reach until you’ve proved yourself to be trustworthy.

He cuts off all trade routes and replaces them with his own, Simon showing up at the door the following morning with supplies. When you spot a man at the door, you must think saviour before foe, because you pound on the window facing the porch. At least John had the foresight to lock you out of the foyer before he opened the front door.

Simon cocks an eyebrow. “Noisy mouse, ain’t she?”

He shrugs. “She’ll learn. You got everything I asked for?”

“Check ‘n tell me if I missed anything. I ‘aven’t got time to get anything else today, but I can come back tomorrow.”

“Good man, Simon. Give me a minute, alright, lad?”

John gives the bag a cursory check, but just as he thought, Simon didn’t miss anything. He never does.

Simon helps him install an electronic lock on the front door from the inside before heading off to work and John spends the next ten minutes programming it while you stare through the foyer door helplessly. The back door gets the same treatment later on, effectively rendering you a prisoner in your own house.

Then he takes stock of the property.

You’ve made yourself a perfectly respectable home. It has all the charm of a simple family home, nothing like his ancestral estate on the Welsh border; there’s something real here, something designed with comfort in mind. You’ll have to live with summering there and wintering here in the city, but he won’t ask you to abandon the life you’ve made for yourself here. The stove’s at least thirty years old—one of those old brands made to last, likely passed down from a family member or bought secondhand.

But John takes stock of the layout of the house because the longer he’s there, the more his instincts tingle.

As well-decorated and maintained as your house is, it doesn’t feel ready for a rut. Too many hard edges and wide open spaces. Before humans became accustomed to single domiciles, instinct would’ve made them search far and wide for a burrow or cave comfortable enough to ride out their cycle.

Like nest building for omegas, den making is inherent to alphas. It’s programmed in his DNA. Even out in the wild, he’d know how to make one—know what materials to look for in the absence of soft pillows and sheets—and feel that same urge to make a space suitable for his mate.

Everything in its right place.

He starts by pulling the mattress off the bed frame and dragging it to the corner of the room. It makes your room feel like more of a den, a place to hunker down in, and that’s only reinforced when John pulls out every blanket and pillow from your linen closet and drapes them over the mattress. You don’t have blackout curtains, but he solves that by pinning a few sheets up on your blinds until barely any light passes through.

Preparing for a rut is a little like preparing for a storm. One has to batten down the hatches to ready themselves for the worst of it. He installs locks on the cutlery drawers and stows the knife block away in the highest cabinet, locking that as well. He thinks of the worst case scenarios and plans accordingly.

You don’t seem to appreciate his efforts though.

“Why are you—” you start and then abruptly stop, swallowing. “Please stop rearranging the furniture.”

John pauses, putting the couch down gently so as not to damage the floorboards or upset you with any sudden noise.

“Well, love, I’m not about to let you do all the backbreaking work, now am I?”

That response doesn’t seem to satisfy you, expression still twisted into a scowl. “Neither of us has to do any work. Why are you moving things around in the first place?”

“You really don’t get how these things are done, do you?”

Embarrassment makes you snappy. “No, and I don’t have to because it’s my fucking house either way. Stop moving my furniture.”

His eyes go half-lidded. Anger courses through his veins like floating down a lazy river. John has never liked being told what to do—it’s a personality quirk that’s been both a hindrance and a help to his career, but in his love life, he’s never allowed that sort of thing to fly. The dissolution of his first marriage speaks for itself.

He lumbers around the couch towards you and you flinch, walking backwards in the opposite direction. He’s quick despite his size though, hand reaching up and cupping the back of your neck before you hit the wall behind you, and all you can do is stare up at him towering over you nervously.

“Careful, sweetheart,” John murmurs, holding you firmly enough by the back of your neck that you whimper, only one hand able to press against his chest in an effort to push him away. The other you cradle limply against your chest. “Keep running your mouth like that and I might need to find a better way to put it to use. Ever had your mouth knotted?”

Nothing headier than the idea of pushing to the back of his omega’s throat and letting his knot expand until it’s trapped behind your teeth, keeping you locked on his cock until it’s softened enough to pull out.

He stores the idea away for later. It wouldn’t do to knot your mouth for the first time during his rut when he doesn’t have the wherewithal to take it slow and keep you centred, but it’s an idea he’ll have to return to at a later date. When he has time to sit you on his lap and comfort you after something so intense instead of thinking only of his own urges.

Rut isn’t a completely mindless state of being. Even in the thrall of his rut, John will still have enough cognizance to make somewhat informed decisions. It would be dangerous if alphas were susceptible to any influence during such a vulnerable period. Anyone could take advantage of someone in that state.

There are some things that he doesn’t have complete control over. The closer John gets to the onset of his rut, the stronger the urge to scent his territory gets.

It starts off relatively innocuous. He touches things more. Grips the doorframe when he enters a room and brushes against the wall when he turns a corner. Anything to leave a trace of his scent behind. But as the days progress and the urge to mark what’s his grows to monstrous proportions, the manner in which he chooses to do so shifts in kind.

“Did you piss in the shower?” you seethe, fists clenched when you storm into the living room where John is seated at the couch watching Casablanca in black and white.

He grunts. Nods.

“You could’ve turned the water on to rinse it out,” you hiss. “Or used the toilet.”

“Not the point,” John says.

“There was a point to pissing in my shower?”

“Never spent a rut with anyone, have you?” That pleases the lazy beast inside of him, but he’s not in any mood to explain himself. That’s what books are for. He prefers to teach through example.

“What does it matter? That still doesn’t mean you can piss in my shower.”

He takes a swig from the bottle in his hand. “Then you won’t wanna go around the side of the house.”

The screech gets all tangled up at the back of your throat, only the memory from the last time you sassed him staying your tongue. John can only smile to himself as you storm out of the room.

For all your resistance, he knows you’re not entirely immune to his presence, same as how he can’t shake the gnawing need to bury himself in you as deep as he can get. He’s a prime specimen of alpha—all thick muscle and dark tufts of hair, belly spilling over the top of his jeans and new notch on his belt from the mass he’s tacked on the weeks leading up to his rut. He’s been around the block enough to know his appeal.

It’s why John doesn’t worry when you hiss and spit. Views the fuss you put up akin to foreplay, a little rough-housing before the situation gets serious.

There are tells after all. It’s the way you look at him when you think he’s not paying attention. Furtive glances from the corners of your eyes. Shifting your hips in your chair when he sits across from you at meal times and spreads his legs wide, knocking his knees against yours. Eyes going hazy and lingering on the bulging muscles of his arms when you watch him move the furniture around in your house.

He thinks sometimes about dragging you into bed early. Getting it out of the way now and getting you used to his touch before his rut sets in. It would be a kindness, in a way.

But he relishes getting to see you squirm, the pseudo-heat sinking in day by day and making you more persuasive, less likely to bolt when your hand finally heals. Your instincts will do half the work for him. All he has to do is wait.

Besides, the greater the effort, the sweeter the reward.

Midway through the week, when his rut is close enough to be a thorn in his side but not close enough to have earned him the right to refuse to come in, Laswell has him come in for some inane reason.

John still doesn’t trust you enough to leave you alone though, so he calls Simon and asks him to babysit you for a couple hours. Not a half hour later, the man’s on his doorstep, hands by his sides and expression deadpan. Even out of the service, he’s still a good soldier.

It’s what makes Simon his favourite sometimes, though he’d never tell a soul. John knows it’s not right to play favourites with his men, but in the privacy of his own mind, he can face reality.

“I won’t be gone long, sweetheart, but Simon’s gonna watch you while I’m out. You gonna be on your best behaviour for him?”

Your eyes cut to Simon and they look dangerous. Calculating. His lips almost twitch in amusement under his mustache.

“Sure,” you say instead of arguing. It’s more of a red flag than if you had.

The five hours he spends away from you are excruciating, and his temper suffers for it. These days, at his own insistence he’s been relegated to something of a desk job, but that still comes with its fair share of responsibility. There are certain strategic meetings that he can’t simply decline to attend, and though the hours pass by fast enough, he can still feel your presence like an itch at the back of his head that he can’t seem to scratch.

When he gets home, the itch finally dissipates.

“How was she?” John asks.

“Biter.” Simon holds up a forearm where your bite mark sits livid red against his pale skin. The imprint is deep, nearly piercing right through flesh near the canines.

John whistles. “She did a number on you.”

Simon shrugs, unbothered. “Left the door unlocked and she tried to run. Fast on her feet.” Never did have his head on straight, that one. John feels no pity for the omega that’ll be his one day, but he has some sympathy.

He won’t discipline you just yet. That’ll be a project for another day—after you’re mated and hitched—and he can take his time training you. For now it’s enough that you’re still tucked away inside the den, not quick enough to outrun his lieutenant.

Simon leaves with a few crisp bills folded in his back pocket and John claps his shoulder on the way out.

The time is coming though. Every day pulls the sun thick off the horizon, the water dragging back from the shore. Soon, there will be a wave.

John knows his rut has started when he wakes up one morning as grumpy as a bear fresh out of hibernation.

The first thing he hears is the sound of his stomach growling. Food. His first conscious thought. His stomach aches something fierce, like he hasn’t eaten in quite some time, even though John vaguely recalls eating supper the night before (though for the life of him he can’t remember what).

His mind processes all of the information around him slowly and sluggishly, not in a hurry to make sense of anything. His vision still works perfectly fine, but his brain takes awhile to register what his eyes are seeing. Only base impulses make any sense. He sniffs the air to help guide him towards a food source.

Something warm-smelling comes slinking out of the bathroom quietly. His head snaps in its direction and it freezes in its tracks. Prey.

He sniffs again. No, not prey. Something different.

Standing up feels strange, like he’s out of his body. It’s too big somehow. Heavier than he remembers it being. The thing trembling by the doorway doesn’t move as he lumbers over, smart enough to know not to run. He wouldn’t be able to stop himself from chasing it down if it tried to get away, prey or not.

It flinches when he drops his head, the bridge of his nose brushing against its temple. His scent’s all over this one. He must have come or pissed on it at one point, marking it as his own. His scent clings to its skin, buried deeper than the epidermis.

It shifts to one foot.

“Don’t…move…” he growls, tensing up. It tenses up too, breathing out short, shaky breaths.

“J-John?” it says, voice like a bell in his head. It knows his name.

“Hungry,” he says instead of asking how it knows who he is.

“I…I can make you breakfast.”

He herds it away from the bathroom door instead of answering, staring it down as it walks backwards down the hall and into the room that smells strongest of food.

The house smells of him only vaguely. It smells mainly of the thing he herds into the kitchen, warm and spicy like cinnamon or cloves. There’s a faint trace of his scent though, as if he’s been here for enough time that it isn’t wholly foreign. His hackles raise at the thought of not being in his own territory though.

But this must also be his. If you’re his, then your den must, in turn, belong to him.

You scurry around the kitchen gathering all of the ingredients for breakfast while he stares from his chair, eyes tracking your every move. Part of him waits for you to try and bolt, on edge when you open the fridge and the sound makes his ears twitch. His muscles sit bunched under his skin, ready to pounce and chase.

When you put the plate down in front of him, you make as if to take a step back, clearly meaning to give him some space. That won’t do. A firm hand on your forearm rectifies that; he pulls you down onto his lap before you’ve had a chance to register what’s happening.

“Whoa,” you gasp, all turned around.

The first piece of bacon he tries to pick up slips from his fingers. The next one he manages to pick up goes straight to your lips. “Eat.”

“I’m not—”

“Eat.”

Your cheeks bulge around the mouthful of bacon and eggs when he lifts another bite to your mouth. You chew quickly, swallowing before it’s fully chewed, nervous that his loose hold on his temper might slip. Only after you’ve had a couple filling bites does John allow himself to eat as well.

Some of his sense of self comes back with time. The pieces start coming back together. Your name, where he is, what you’re doing here. It comes back as his belly fills.

His nature doesn’t allow him to feel pity, but you should at least know what’s ahead of you.

“It’s starting today,” he tells you, breaking the silence. You go stiff in his arms and then swallow the mouthful of food you’d been chewing.

“Today?” you repeat, your voice slightly hoarse.

“Rut.”

The word hangs in the air between him and you. John can almost hear your heart start to double in rhythm.

You nod and whisper, “Okay.”

The thing behind his eyes stares you down. It watches you chew and swallow your food until there’s nothing left on the plate, until your lips are tacky with grease and you have to suck your teeth to dislodge the trapped bits.

With his belly full, other needs take precedence.

It starts with him pressing his nose to the crown of your head, gliding it down to your temple and sucking in lungfuls of your scent the whole way, imbibing your scent. Spicy and musky; still pungent with sweat from the night before since you haven’t had a chance to shower yet, nothing to distract from your true scent. It makes his cock throb against his thigh.

He drags his nose down your temple to your cheek, nuzzling against the side of your head. Rumbling when you go still, turning your head away from him when he tries to go for your lips, denying him again.

It agitates him.

“Kiss me,” John growls. Demanding, not asking.

He pinches your cheeks with his grip and twists your head towards him. The little resistance you offer flickers briefly before being snuffed out when he slots his lips against yours.

What starts soft turns feverish in a matter of moments. Lips gliding and tongues twisting; the bridge of his nose pressed uncomfortably against yours, the whole kiss a mess of ache and teeth and hungry, greedy need. Spittle drips down your chin and you whine into his mouth when his beard scratches at the sensitive skin around your mouth.

Need prickles at the base of his spine. For days now, he’s kept his hunger contained when all it wanted was to run rampant. He’s been so good to you—given you days to ready yourself for what was inevitably to come. He never tried to conceal the reason behind his presence in your house.

And now it’s all coming to a head.

John slides you off his lap and down onto the floor under the table, planting his feet on the ground and lifting his hips to pull his sweats down, letting his cock flop out against his belly, heavy with blood.

“John, do I have to…?” you whimper, trailing off like even saying it out loud might jinx you.

“Want your mouth on my knot,” he says bluntly.

Your eyes are sparkly with tears when he looks down, big and wide and helpless and it somehow just makes him even harder. When you sniffle, a bead of precum dribbles down his shaft.

“Get it nice and wet,” John grunts, pushing your face into his dick. “It’s going inside you soon enough.”

“Please—” you whisper.

“It can go in dry too,” he warns.

Your tongue pokes out of your mouth reluctantly, face all scrunched up and petulant, but eventually you do as you’re told. Shy, kittenish licks around the base of his cock, right over his knot. Lazy pleasure ripples up his spine, each drag of your tongue over his soft knot making his vision go blurry and his breath get heavier. Practically panting by the time you kiss a particularly sensitive spot on the underside of his knot.

“My hand’s getting tired, sweetheart—mind taking over?”

He doesn’t wait for you to answer, letting go of his cock so that it droops, batting your nose on the way down. The affronted look on your face nearly makes him snort.

Your fingers curl around his cock, lifting it up. It looks brutish in your hand, ruddy and thick, precum leaking from the flushed head and dripping onto your head. If he were a decent man, he’d peel your hand off his cock and replace it with his own, get himself off with a rough, dirty tug instead of leaving that responsibility to you. Spoil you instead with gentle love making, all sweet talk and slow thrusts, decadent, languid kisses pulling your attention away from where it hurts.

But John isn’t a decent man. Not even a good man.

He lets you lick and kiss it all over until his knot is wet with spit. Every so often your teeth graze his knot, forcing a violent shudder up his spine, and he snarls down at you, teeth bared to get the message across. Don’t push too far.

He’s indulgent to a point.

“Suck it too,” he rasps. The hand on the back of your head tightens, angling your face until your lips are stretched around his rapidly filling knot and you have no choice but to gently suck the puffed skin of his knot, your nose pressed against the thatch of hair at the base of his cock.

His cock aches the longer you kneel there mouthing at his knot. It’d be nice to paint your face with cum—your tongue to start and then your cheeks and chin. A little on your forehead too just to mark you as his. He’s close enough to the edge that it wouldn’t take more than a few well-placed sucks, but his knot is already big enough. Any more and he won’t be able to fit it in you at all, at least not for another hour or so.

He clamps his hand around the back of your neck and pulls you off, a string of spit still connecting your lips to his knot. “That’s enough.”

You frown, bottom lip jutting out. “You didn’t like it?”

That soothes the tension in his shoulders a little, makes his lips twitch under his mustache.

“‘Course I liked it, sweetheart.” The weeping tip of his cock is enough evidence of that.

“Why—why’d you stop me then?”

“I’m gonna come soon, honey, and I’d like the first time to be inside you.”

Your eyes go wide. “Oh.”

It’s a challenge getting you onto your hands and knees after that, divesting you of your clothes too. He very nearly has to wrestle you down to the ground, but exerting even the slightest amount of force makes you instantly acquiesce, likely realizing that you won’t stand a chance fighting him. He shushes you when you choke back a sob, kissing the back of your neck soothingly.

At least, he hopes it soothes you.

John runs a hand over your rump and between your legs, finding your center damp and hot to the touch.

“Well, that’s a bit more inviting,” he says approvingly. “Been wet this whole time, sweetheart?”

You shake your head desperately, shoulders hitching with your quiet sobs. When he dips two fingers into your hole though, it’s soaked. Squelches when he pulls his fingers out and thrusts them back in.

If he didn’t have more pressing concerns, he’d be tempted to turn over onto his back and tug you down onto his face. That thought lingers for a moment and then takes root.

“Hold on, love—gotta do this first.”

The mattress springs back when he drops down onto his back. Your back arches when John grabs you by the hips and drags you over his mouth, your knees planted on either side of his head, one higher up than the other from being dragged down the bed.

“Wait, you never said—”

The crack across your ass interrupts you. He flexes his hand and then palms that same ass cheek, rubbing over the hurt. If you swear at him, it doesn’t register because his eyes are locked on the slice of heaven between your thighs, transfixed by your dew-slicked lips parting for his gaze.

“That’s better,” John murmurs, then digs his fingers into your hips and pulls you down onto his face.

The smell of your sex is drugging, mind-numbing. Musky and warm and fragrant. The hood of your clit is drawn back to expose the swollen bud and it calls to his tongue, a call which he answers in kind, gliding the flat of his tongue over it and smiling to himself when it twitches.

It satisfies every carnal urge breathing fire and brimstone in the back of his mind. His tongue saws up the seam of your cunt, parting the soft, delicate petals before drawing one into his mouth, humming around the mouthful. The vibrations must feel good because your whole body jolts in his arms.

When he sucks your clit into his mouth, you nearly wrench yourself right off his face, hands clawing at the bedsheets. Firm hands dig into the flesh of your backside and pull you back down though.

“Mm…you gonna cum, sweetheart?” he rumbles into your pussy, his words muffled.

“I—I’m gonna—oh…oh…—”

Music to his ears. He can tell it’s right around the corner when your breathing goes staccato and your thighs squeeze around his head, forcing him to move one of his hands to keep your legs spread. He can feel your hole clench around his tongue, hips jerking sharply.

He loves watching a pretty girl come. Loves feeling it on his tongue even more. It doesn’t take much to work you up to it either, likely on a hair trigger since he bolted the doors to your house shut and made himself at home.

Your upper body collapses onto the bed when you come, hips undulating over his tongue subconsciously, like you can’t help but chase your release. And who is he to deny you when you’ve been such a sweet girl?

John scoots down the bed to slide out from under you and sits up, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, smearing your juices from his mouth to his cheek, drops clinging to the bristles of his beard. Trapped there, he’ll smell it for days.

Good. Better for him if he can.

Taking his place behind you again, he reaches down between his legs and lines his cock up with one hand, the other holding your hip steady before pressing in one inch at a time, a smooth, slow glide to the halfway mark. You squeeze him like a vice, pussy all clenched up like a fist, too wound up and stressed to relax enough to take him to the root. Even coming has barely loosened you up.

He topples over you until his chest is pressed to your back. The skin on your back is sticky with sweat, a tremor running through you and making you shake.

“Easy, sweetheart,” John murmurs into the side of your head, planting a kiss there for good measure. The skin over your knuckles pulls tight when you fist the sheet beneath you. “Can you relax for me?”

“N-no?” It’s said like a question, like you’re looking to him for reassurance, like you need your alpha to help you relax, to loosen you up.

It’s why he feels no guilt for the situation that you’re in. Trapped under your alpha, about to take his dick to the root. What would you have done if he hadn’t been around to take you home? Any matter of tragedy could have befallen you.

“I’ve got you.” Talking both to you and himself.

There’s nowhere for you to go but further up the bed when John forces the rest of his cock into you, gaining more ground with every thrust. That’s how soldiers make strides in new land, conquering new territory with every advance. Rigor and momentum.

The flesh of your ass ripples with every thrust, hips clapping against your cheeks. He drives into you with a single minded intensity, grunting through each thrust. Reason falls to the wayside. All that matters is knotting and breeding the omega under him.

Your cries echo through the bedroom in bright, clean bursts.

He feels virile, potent; it’s his alpha running hot in his veins and his body thick with muscle and the way you all but disappear underneath him, just a sweet and soft omega for him to use and breed. Back arched just enough to let him sink in as deep as he can get.

“John—” you wheeze. “T-too deep. It’s—unf, it’s, ah…it’s too deep.”

“Full, honey?” he grunts.

“Y-yeah,” you respond, whimpering through the word.

“I know, baby,” he says consolingly, contradicting his own sympathetic tone when his next stroke nudges against the seal of your womb. “Not very nice of me, is it?”

“Noooo,” you moan.

“Yeah, not very nice.” His laugh is breathless, mean. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

Coherency is a luxury that slips from his fingers as quickly as it came. Like a shroud falling over him, it cuts him off from everything but what he touches. Even your mating gland is forgotten in his fervour, its siren song going mute against the backdrop of the blood pounding in his ears.

His knot pops quick. Half a dozen more thrusts in and he feels it thicken and swell until he suddenly can’t pull out. It punches the breath out of him, making him bear down on you, trapping you both on his knot and under his weight.

“Oh—oh—oh—” you gasp, overwhelmed.

He hooks his chin over your shoulder and plants his hands on top of yours, twining your fingers together, an intimacy so staggering that he can feel it thrum through your body, your frame trembling underneath him.

Knot thoroughly plugged inside of you, he can only grind his hips forward, nudging that same tender spot over and over until your pussy draws up nice and tight around him, dragged unwillingly to another orgasm. He sees stars when your channel squeezes around his cock, milking him for all he’s worth.

Overwhelmed, your heart rate spikes and your scent intensifies, permeating the room and lodging itself into the deepest recesses of his being. Your hands claw up the mattress, ripping the sheet off the left corner, and you yelp when you realize that you can’t pull off his knot, truly trapped.

John’s hindbrain interprets your squirming as trying to get away and he reacts instinctively, forcing you down to the mattress until your arms collapse under you and pinning you there with his body.

“Where d’ya think you’re going?” he growls, mouth pressed to your ear.

You shudder, walls tensing up around his knot and making him spurt another wad of cum into you.

“Oh god,” you whisper, grunting softly when he forces more of his weight onto you, the mattress depressing under your combined weight.

Sticky, tacky skin. Laboured breaths. Dark. Tunnel vision. Everything narrows to a single point. In the crook of your neck, your mating gland pulses. He presses his tongue to your neck and drags it through a trail of salty sweat.

The vice grip around his knot has him swimming in and out of consciousness, vicious instincts clawing up his throat. It thins the barrier between him and his alpha, one no longer distinct from the other.

“Are you—are you going to bite me?” you ask through panted breaths.

His alpha considers it. That’s what he is now, at least. Its consciousness has usurped his, or moulded with his, or risen to the ranks of human. It tilts its head through him though, two beasts sharing a body and an appetite.

It runs its tongue over its lips. He does the same.

“Not yet.”

Voracious.

No matter how many times he cums or makes you cum, it’s never enough.

He still has to rest though. Much to his consternation, the body demands it, so he falls asleep with you resting against his chest or under the crook of his arm with your fist curled over his belly, and wakes to the damp clutch of your centre pressed against his thigh from when you rolled over in the middle of the night. Then wakes you up by grinding your hips down against the hard line of his thigh, sweet talking you through an orgasm that leaves you thick-tongued and cross-eyed.

Days pass that way. Blunt fingers; rake of tongue. Skimming his mouth over the valley of your tits and down the channel between your legs, gorging himself on the slick dripping from your pulsing hole. Scraped a bit raw from his beard, so he’s careful now; spreads your folds with his fingers before thrusting his tongue all the way in.

He comes back to himself every now and then, some memories easier to recall than others:

Your cheek smushed against the shower wall, hands clawing at the tile while he drives into you from behind, rivulets of water running down your body.

The feeling of your throat flexing around his shaft, your eyes watering when your nose nearly grazes his pubes. Pulling you off his cock to let you breathe and leaning down to press his forehead to yours.

Pinching your cheeks to open your mouth after cumming in order to watch it melt on your tongue.

Indulging in kisses messier than sex itself, lips going swollen and numb, eyes so masted that they’re barely even open. Each glide of your lips liquid and svelte.

Always wanting more and more and more.

Heavy footsteps following you into the kitchen as you scurry around looking for something to eat, wary glances thrown over your shoulder to keep track of him. Always keeping him in your line of sight. Smart girl; clever enough to know not to turn your back to a predator.

Occasionally, he loses track of you as a person again, thinking of you like an extension of himself instead. Your name disappears into the recesses of his mind, replaced by concepts like omega, mine, pup—

You cover his mouth with your hands to muffle his words and he bites your fingers one by one until you pull them away.

And it keeps—

going and going and going and going

—thoughts shaking loose from his head, one by one; hours disappearing into thin air, nothing real except the omega on the end of his knot. When it whimpers, his chest puffs out and his breathing goes laboured, his only concrete thought to fill it with more of his cum, make sure that it takes.

It will, if John gets his way.

And he always does.

Another season over, this one different from the rest.

You’re still in bed when he surfaces from his rut, low back cracking and popping when he sits up. His muscles will ache for days after this, the aftermath of any good rut lingering in the body longer than the rut itself.

John scrubs a hand down his face and cracks his jaw open for a good yawn, stretching everything out. When he looks down by his side, he finds you curled into yourself, cheek resting against the back of your hand, sleeping soundly.

You’re so tuckered out that your toes don’t twitch even when he drags his finger down the line of your back, stopping at your sacrum. The slope of your ass underneath the bed sheet is tempting, inviting him to part your legs and settle himself between them again, but he’s put you through enough over the past few days.

Later, he’ll want to check between your legs and see how much of his cum is still painted between your thighs. Either way, he’ll have to run you a bath with Epsom salt for you to soak in.

That’ll have to wait until after breakfast though.

Right on cue though, his stomach growls. No amount of preparation for a rut is ever enough—not once has he ever come out of one feeling refreshed. It’s always aching joints and empty stomachs and bruises where bruises usually shouldn’t be. His age only makes it all the more noticeable.

His future ruts won’t always be this way. Not when his hormones are tempered by his omega’s corresponding heat. In the future, proximity and cohabitation will align your heat and his rut cycles, making the whole ordeal far more pleasant. One to stabilize the other. You’ll put in for leave at the same time and slip into it quietly, like slipping into a gentle, welcoming stream.

That’s a thought for another time though. For now, John pulls himself out of bed and saunters towards the bathroom, intent on running a quick shower before fixing himself something to eat.

He takes a brisk shower under cold water, scrubbing his chest and letting the soap run down his legs for no longer than ten minutes before shutting off the water. It’s a shame that it washes your scent off of him, but he’ll rectify that later when you’re up.

The smell of bacon frying in the pan permeates the kitchen, the sound of it as emblematic of morning time as birds singing in the trees or the soft sound of the radio on in another room. A cool breeze spills in through the cracked open window.

It’s nearly time, but not quite.

He waited because he wanted this to be deliberate. Intentional, as everything he does always is.

It wouldn’t have been as meaningful in the throes of his rut. Easily chalked up to instinct or error, rather than seen as intended from the very beginning.

An hour or so later, you start to stir. Though his instincts aren’t as sharp as they were in the midst of his rut, he can still hear the bed creak in the other room.

The bedroom is bathed in light when he returns. In the center of the bed, you’ve turned over onto your back, the light cascading over you making you look almost angelic. His heart throbs in his chest.

One day, he might even love you.

“You awake?” John asks, resting his knee against the edge of the bed and slowly climbing over you. When you blink a couple times and nod, he leans down to draw you into a slow, drugging kiss.

The taste of your mouth is familiar now; he’s tasted it so many times over the past few days that it’s etched into his memory now.

“Hm? Yeah,” you sigh, then meet his eyes. You must register something there because you pause, squinting up at him. “Are you… Is it over?”

John nods. It’s easier to just say yes than qualify that the rut hormones haven’t fully left his system yet, still present though in much smaller quantities. He’ll still be quick to anger for the next few days, in no shape to return to work just yet, but eventually his system will flush those lingering traces of rut and he’ll be back to his normal self.

You smile, relieved. “Okay…that's uh, that’s good. Do you…do you mind if I rest a bit longer before I leave?”

“‘Course, sweetheart.”

He palms the side of your face, brushing the wispy baby hairs out of the way. All his life and he’s never seen something prettier than you.

“In fact,” John murmurs, canines aching when he runs his tongue over them. “You can stay as long as you’d like.”

You must catch the double meaning in his words because your eyes go sharp. “Huh?”

His eyes flicker down to your neck and it hits you like a battering ram.

It’s too late though. He gathers your wrists in his palm when you try to bat at his face, immediately going into struggle mode, and pins them down over your head with ease. With his other hand, he holds you by the neck and turns your head to one side, exposing the delicate skin of your neck.

“John—wait, no, no—waitwaitwait, please—you said—”

Legs kicking out, back nearly arching off the bed, you put every last bit of your fight into trying to throw him off, only for him to force you back down, barely a grunt passing his lips. Then he ducks his head into the crook of your neck.

“John—John, please!”

John bites down.

Under his teeth, your gland splits.

The moment of connection is just as divine as he imagined. When your gland breaks under his teeth and your blood oxidizes in his mouth, his world reconfigures itself around this new reality, one where you flow through his veins like blood and swim through his mind like thought.

He sees now what he missed before. All this time, he’s assumed that fate has railed against him, intent on him remaining alone.

What he understands now is that—

(you whimper under him and arch up into his body, saliva gurgling in your throat)

—fate has always been on his side.

After Ragnarok, the earth will once again bob out of the saltwater, dregs of ancestral seafoam lapping at the sides.

(he gnaws at the Yggdrasil’s roots)

In this life, nothing has ever been handed to him because he has needed to fight for it. Of course fate would have taken that into consideration when creating his mate. Baptism by fire. He never would’ve been satisfied with simply being handed his intended mate. He needed to leave the imprint of himself like chiselling into stone. Maker of his own fate.

When he pulls back, teeth unlatching from your shoulder and blood leaking from the wound, you stare up at him through misty, filmy eyes, tears scorching hot lines down your cheeks.

He can appreciate the shock this must come as. You thought you’d get off scot-free after all—just a few days of being fucked and knotted and then sent on your way—not kept like bounty from a sacked city. You are a prize though. His hard earned prize.

His moral compass doesn’t allow him to see this as a pillaging. Not when his actions are led by his heart.

You raise a shaky hand to cover the wound on your shoulder, wincing when your fingers brush the raw skin there, coming back saturated in blood. “You—you bit me.”

John hums. “It’s alright, sweetheart; it’s over now. Nothing to worry about anymore.”

“You said—you promised you wouldn’t,” you bleat.

He shakes his head, voice still soft when he responds. “Never said I wouldn’t, sweetheart.”

“You said you’d leave. You promised you’d leave.”

“Aw, honey, you wouldn’t do that to an old man, would you?” He lies down beside you, pulling on your heartstrings like a marionette. Plenty have called him a decent soldier, but no one has ever called him a good person. “Why make me leave when you could have someone in your corner instead?”

Tears like diamonds on your cheeks. You’re the most beautiful creature that John has ever laid eyes on; there’s no wonder why he had to make you his. Had he turned around in that hospital and walked out that door after hearing your voice, life would have been less complicated but it would have been dull, colourless. He would have woken up today with his mind at ease, but his heart would have been empty.

Now though—

“We’ll be good for each other,” John says, moving his hand over your throat, loose fingers simply resting there. Just enough to feel the thrum of your pulse under his palm. “I’ll prove it to you.”

He feels you swallow beneath his palm. It is easy to see why you might doubt his words.

But in the back of his mind, his alpha purrs, satisfied for once in its life, and when he tightens his fingers around your throat, you go still, all of your trust gathering there in the palm of his hand. He can live with that.

So long as he has you, he can live with anything.

#ceil writing #cod x reader #price x reader #john price/reader #price/reader #john price x reader #john price x you #captain price x reader #captain price x you

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kopypate · 4 months ago

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Imagine Professor Price scolding college student reader but she’s so desperate for his approval (and a passing grade).

Think about it. You’re failing his class but instead of them having sex and getting a better grade. It’s just very long, borderline inappropriate tutoring sessions. It’s DEFINITELY crossing some sort of line, but he’s just trying to help so it would be rude to decline. And I mean, you’re not doing anything so, is it that bad?

After official hours are done, he tells you to come to his office and shut the door. Or maybe he would somehow convince you that there’s nothing wrong with a little one-on-one tutoring session at his place. Then it’s just an hour and a half of him sitting dangerously close to you. Bending down close between your neck and shoulder to check your work. Putting his arm around the back of your seat and giving you words of “encouragement” (literally just calling you a good girl. lowering his voice and telling you how smart you are, meanwhile his hand is getting lower and lower…)

Price is nice and all though, but he’s still a Professor first and foremost. He expects some level of success. Will give stern, disappointed looks when you get something wrong… lots of slight scolding. Disproving, almost patronizing words fall from his lips that make you more anxious and embarrassed the more he speaks.

“We worked so hard on this and you’re still confused? You can do better.”

“I thought we are figured this out already. These are the basics. Try again.”

“If you’re not going to take this seriously, then it may be best to rethink a few things going.”

And think about even with all the tutoring sessions you FAIL the next exam. You would be able to feel the disappointment radiating from he as he teaches in your next class session.

#john price x reader #someone get the tranquilizer #john price/reader #john price x reader insert

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pricetagged · 5 months ago

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Just thinking about the sheer, impotent fury of an injured Price waking up strapped to an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar house. Reader found him bleeding out and dazed, see, and dragged him to her cabin through muck and mire so that she could help. He's so strong and so stubborn that she has to keep him restrained, for his safety and hers :/

Why can't he just relax? She'll take such good care of him.

And while she bustles about, he fumes. Clenched jaw and furious eyes as he tries to cool his blood and play the long game.

#she'll get what's coming once he feels better :')#haha idk i dont write enough unhinged reader #nor do i put the boys in enough Scenarios (tm)#anyway yeah #báirseach rambles #báirseach writes #price #john price x reader #john price/reader #john price x you #cod imagine #cod x reader

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inkbybambi · 2 years ago

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Breathe You In

summary: dbf!john price shotguns his cigar with you words: 5.2k rating: e warnings: smoking (cigarette/cigar), age gap, shotgunning, pet names and praises (darling, good girl, pretty girl), handjob, blowjob/deepthroating, cunnilingus, fingering, price is a consent king, panty stealing. please let me know if i missed something! notes: oh my god, this is pure filth. as always, minors dni as this work and my blog are 18+. dbf!trope makes my brain go fuzzy. enjoy!

He finds you in the bathroom, blowing smoke out the open window, half-empty pack of cigarettes by your side on the counter you're perched on, lighter tucked inside.

You're frazzled as he opens the door — as is he, assuming no one would be in the bathroom.

It's a habit you picked up from too many nights out with friends. You don't like how it tastes, but it's comforting and familiar and so you seek it out when overwhelmed or nervous.

And you are.

Captain John Price, your dad's best friend since before you were born.

He came over unexpectedly — or, unexpectedly to you, your father seems to have been anticipating him.

He's dressed down in civilian clothes — you've mournfully never been able to see him when he's in his gear — but he looks like a god damn Greek god. He's so fucking attractive, you're convinced it's ruining your life.

Boys have asked you out, here and there. But none of them have that beautiful mustache or eyes that crinkle in the corner when they smile or the ability to look fucking delicious puffing on a cigar.

You want to devour him.

You need to.

"Sorry, love," and you have to suppress the shiver that crawls down your spine at the pet name. "Didn't realize anyone was in here."

He lingers in the doorway, before stepping in and closing the door behind him, going to wash his hands.

"I could've had my panties down," you say back.

Jesus fucking Christ, what's wrong with you?

He seems to be biting back a smile, turning off the water and drying his hands. His eyes catch yours, glittering in the light, darker than before.

"Wouldn't that have been a sight," he muses, pulling a cigar from his coat.

You swallow and shift as you feel arousal leak out, panties growing wetter by the second. You bring the cigarette back to your lips with a shaky hand, barely inhaling before you're coughing out the smoke, tears pricking your eyes at the sting.

He tilts his head as he regards you. You're beginning to feel like prey.

"May I?" he asks, nodding his head towards where the lighter is tucked into the pack, as he slips the tip of the fat cigar between his lips and fuck, you want to see his mouth against your pussy, licking into you and smearing your cum all over his stupid, attractive mustache and —

"S-sure," you squeak, fumbling for the lighter and holding it out to him.

He looks downright predatory as he steps into your space, slotting himself between your slightly parted legs, forcing them open so he stands between them easier.

He's so fucking close.

"Go on, then," he says, a bit muffled, rolling the cigar with his teeth to settle it in the middle of his mouth, dark eyes never leaving yours.

You put the mostly-smoked cigarette between your teeth and use both hands to flick the lighter.

It takes an embarrassing amount of times before you get a steady flame going. A large hand wraps around your wrist as he holds the lighter steady, bringing the tip of the cigar down to light it.

You watch, enchanted, the tip glowing red. He leans back, one of his hands falling to settle on your knee as he uses the other to hold the cigar, taking it out to blow the smoke to the side.

"It's a nasty habit," he says, cigar back in his mouth as he pulls the dying cigarette from your mouth, the butt tinged with your lipstick.

"You're one to talk," you say, slowly and carefully bringing your fingers up to slip through his belt loops, pulling him that much closer.

He moves willingly.

"You ever smoke a cigar?" his voice is deeper, rougher.

You look to him, doe-eyed and glassy, voice soft.

"No, never."

He makes a noise of thought low in his throat and it goes straight to your cunt. If he presses just a bit closer, your hips would be flush together.

His hand — warm and comforting — slides up the base of your throat to hold your jaw, fingers pressing into the hinge.

"Open up, darling," he murmurs. Your mind goes blank, white noise in your ears and static in your head. You immediately open your mouth, and he makes another noise in his throat. It sounds like approval.

"Good girl," he says — purrs — and you know he feels the way you swallow at the pet name, the praise. He crowds in that much closer and you feel the outline of his cock, half-hard, in his pants. You inhale through your nose, fingers tightening in his belt loop.

He inhales the cigar deeply, the tip burning a bright red, orange, yellow, and he pulls away and keeps his mouth sealed. He holds the cigar to the side, as not to burn you with any falling embers, moving to slant his lips over yours. He blows the smoke into your mouth, tongue pressing against yours for only a moment before he's pulling away, closing your mouth.

He nods towards the window after he deems that you've held it for long enough, and you blow out a small trickle of smoke. Heat licks at the base of your spine.

"How's it taste?"

Fuck if you know, too busy remembering the feel of his lips against yours, the way you felt his cock harden as he licked into your mouth. But the taste lingering on your tongue is heady — earthy and spicy and like something you abso-fucking-lutely should not be doing.

"I don't know," you whisper, other hand going to his waist to cling to him, legs tightening around his hips. "Better," you add on, eyes dark and needy as you press into him.

He feels the heat of your cunt through your panties, the way you're sopping into the cotton. You're wearing a dress, one that shows off the tantalizing line of your collarbones, the dip of your sternum to your breasts, a slit in the side that shows a flash of your thigh when you walk.

He wants to fucking destroy you. Sink his teeth into every available inch of your soft, sweet flesh. He wants to make the mark so deep that it bruises for days, possibly scars. He wants to know what your skin tastes like, especially between your thighs. Wants to hear the way you cry and whine and beg for him, and he would give in so easily.

A man of his caliber, steadfast in the chaos of war and operations, thinking on his feet and willing to do whatever it takes to come out on top — he's brought to his knees at the prospect of having you, pressing you into his bed every morning and leaving you pliant and satisfied. The pleasure lingering just long enough to tide you over throughout the day until he gets home and gets to fuck you again, bury himself in your wet heat and watch as his cum spills from your puffy pussy, all slick from his mouth and spend.

He hums in this throat, bringing the cigar back to his lips to do it again. You straighten up that much more, eager as your eyes flit to his mouth, mouth already open in anticipation. He'd laugh at your eagerness if he wasn't so hard.

He moves his hand to wrap around your throat, watching as your eyes darken from the pressure. His mouth is on yours once more. You paw and grip at his shirt, as he moves to cradle the nape of your neck. He tilts your head to the side to seal your mouths together.

All pretense is dropped.

The cigar falls forgotten into the basin of the sink, a growl in John's throat as his free hand goes to your waist, fingers pressing in enough to bruise. He licks deeper into your mouth, your brain going fuzzy from the slick heat of his tongue dragging against yours.

He bites and nips at your lips, soothing it over with his tongue, and you dare to do it back, eyes fluttering open as you capture his bottom lip with your teeth, biting ever-so-slightly.

His eyes are nearly black.

Trailing his mouth down the curve of your jaw, he situates you enough to pull your dress up to bunch around your hips. A pathetic whine leaves your throat as he pushes you away enough to pull the straps of your dress down, exposing your breasts to his eager mouth.

"So fuckin' beautiful," he pants against your collar, your head tipping back to give him better access.

You reach for his belt, cock pressing hard against his zipper. An animalistic sound reverberates through him as the clink of his belt echoes through the bathroom, the only other sound buried among sharp, short breaths and groans.

"Darling — " he starts, moving as if to draw your hands away. A noise of protest stops his movement, as he pulls back to look at you, trying to clear his mind enough to talk.

"You don't have to," he says, voice wrecked but so, so soft.

Your fingers continue their path, belt unbuckled, deft movements opening the button and carefully pulling the zipper down over the prominent bulge.

"But i want to," you whisper back. You'd give him anything he wanted, if he asked.

He takes a good, long moment to study you, palms surprisingly soft as they cup your face, looking for any signs of hesitation. The sincerity shines through so clearly in your eyes, bottom lip trapped beneath your teeth as your fingers dance around the waistband of his boxers.

You'll stop if he wants you to. You’ve never been with someone who’s cared so much about your comfort, but his eyes are warm and a smile pulls at his lips, and your heart thumps a little harder between your ribs.

You lean up enough to drag your mouth over his jaw, kissing the tip of his chin, his beard tickling your lips. "Please?"

He swallows hard, exhales through his nose before his fingers thread through your hair and pulls you in for a heated kiss, more teeth and tongue than before.

"Go on, darling," he mumbles against your cheek, and he feels the smile that stretches on your lips as you push his boxers down enough to free his cock. You look down with rapt attention as your fingers curl over his length, thick enough that you can't touch the tips of your fingers together. He's hot in your palm, and he's so fucking big. Your pussy clenches at the thought of him inside you.

"Yeah?" he asks against your jaw, seeing your hand around him. His tip leaks pre-cum, and you drag your hand up to draw your thumb over the slit, watching as it spreads.

"Yeah," you reply, dazed, unable to stop touching him.

He grips your hand to pull you off, chuckling at the pathetic noise you whine out, his name dripping in a tone that makes him ache. He doesn't say anything, and you lock eyes as he laves his tongue in a stripe over your palm, damp as he brings it back to wrap around him.

You pump your hand, adjusting your grip a few times until his breath hitches, burrowing into your neck and grazing his teeth along the column of your throat. You tilt your head to press your lips to the side of his head, gripping him more firmly and starting a rhythm of steady strokes.

"'ve thought about this," he confesses, gripping the counter beneath you. He's trying not to fuck up into your hand.

"Did you get off to it?" you're breathy and dizzy, torn between focusing on how his dick feels in your hand — something you've been wanting for a while now — and the way his mustache and lips feel against your skin. It's awkward, and your rhythm falters here and there, but he isn't complaining.

"Absolutely, I did," he answers, and it thrills you. Pre-cum steadily drips from his slit and gets mixed in with your strokes. It's obscene, the sounds his cock makes as you get him off. He's breathing and groaning right against your ear. You think you could cum from the noises alone.

"Christ," he grits out, teeth more insistent on your jaw. "Doing so well for me, pretty girl. Feels so fucking good."

The praise warms you, making you eager to please, eager to be good.

He drags his mouth from your jaw down to your throat, nipping and licking over the skin until he groans, and you feel his dick pulsing in your palm. He grips your wrist for you to stop. You do, but you tighten your hold on him as well, not willing to let go just yet.

"'m gonna cum, darling, fuck," he growls into your shoulder, trying to gain his composure. It's been so long since anyone touched him, and he's almost desensitized to the way he fucks his own fist. The fact that it's you with your hand wrapped around him, possessive and needy? He's surprised he's lasted this long.

"Mouth?" you ask quietly and he has to blink to clear his vision, pulling back enough to see your eyes, nose brushing yours.

"Hm?"

"Can you cum in my mouth?" you offer again, and he damn near spurts all over you at the suggestion. "Easier to clean up," you rationalize.

You're not wrong, but god damn.

Price takes in a steadying breath, then pulls back to look at you, face cupped in his hands. Your eyes sparkle, lip caught between your teeth and you blink up at him with glassy, wide eyes. He pulls you in close to kiss you, far softer than anything before. He takes his time licking into your mouth, savoring how you taste — the remnants of the cigar is faint, but it’s there. It isn’t frantic or urgent, and it makes your heart ache. Your free hand rests on the side of his face as you kiss back, trying to convey something you don't quite wish to name.

He drags his lips from yours, smearing them across your cheek and down your jaw, to the sensitive skin behind your ear. He bites gently at the lobe, voice rough and accent thick.

"Right. on your knees, then."

He steps away just enough for you to slip from the counter to the floor, eyes dark as he watches each moment pass, not wanting to miss a single thing.

As you settle on your knees, he tucks a few errant strands of your hair behind your ear, ensuring nothing obscures his view of you. He cups your jaw, thumb brushing over your bottom lip as you brace your hands on his thighs, blinking your hazy eyes as you try to focus on his face instead of the way his cock hangs so close from where you pulled him from his boxers. You draw his thumb into your mouth with your tongue, and he presses down, a firm pressure. Your lips close around the digit, gaze never wavering as your tongue swirls around it gently before sucking, his breath catching.

"C'mon darling," he says softly, drawing his thumb from your mouth and spreading the spit clinging to it across your lips. "Don't make me wait too long."

You grip the base of his dick with one hand, taking a moment to lick around the head, gathering the pre-cum that drools from the tip. You dip your head down to lick a broad stripe from the base to the tip, drawing him into your mouth.

He groans low in his chest, one hand bracing on the counter while the other threads back through your hair, gripping on the side of a little too painful, but it feels so fucking good as you open your jaw further to accommodate his size, feeling each inch push into your mouth and to the back of your throat.

"Mind your teeth, love," he notes, voice raspy and hoarse. You take a chance, grazing your teeth lightly on the sides of his cock, and his fingers tighten further.

"Careful," he admonishes, the heat in his eyes licking down your spine. "Be a good girl for me, yeah?"

Fuck, you'll do anything he asks if he continues to call you that.

You pull off his length to lap at the head with small kitten licks, keeping your eyes on him, making sure he's watching when you take him back into the wet heat of your mouth, fingers digging into his thigh more firmly for balance.

You take him as far down your throat as you can manage before you choke, using your hand to pump what doesn't fit in your mouth. You move your mouth up and down his cock, working in time with your hand, each glide coating him in your spit, making it easier to take him.

He can't take his eyes away, pleasure numbing his system, entranced as he sees how good you take him, so eager to please. Your mouth feels divine, the tip nudging the back of your throat, feeling the way you swallow around him.

"That's my girl," he praises as you take more and more of him each time, until you're able to remove your hand entirely and press your nose to the thatch of curls at his base.

"Jesus Christ, look at you, so fuckin' beautiful," he grits out as your throat pulses around him. You choke and sputter, pulling off him entirely, breathing heavily. Your mouth is a mess, spit dripping down your chin, his cock soaking with it.

"Don't hurt yourself," he breathes out, carding his fingers through your hair affectionately.

"I want you to..." but you're too embarrassed to say, never having been in this position before. Never wanting to do it before.

Price is patient, waiting for you to continue.

"Want me to what, pretty girl?" he rumbles when you need more prompting. "Don't be shy," he adds, content with cupping your face and taking in how you fit so nicely in the palm of his hand.

You shift uncomfortably, before your eyes linger on his cock, dripping with your spit and the last remnants of your lipstick. You feel empty without him in your mouth.

"Fuck my throat," you voice, doing your best to keep your voice steady.

He looks proud — why had you been so shy in the first place? — thumb brushing over your cheek. He seems to be debating for a moment, before he squats down to your level, grip firm on your jaw as he draws you in for a filthy kiss before he's standing back up, pressing the tip of his cock against your lips.

"You tap my thigh twice if you need me to stop, yeah?" he asks, and the authority in his voice makes heat pool thick in your belly, aching to be filled. You nod, tongue sticking out to taste him.

Before you're able to get your mouth back on him, however, he pulls you away. You whine low in your throat in protest, but his hold is firm.

"Tell me."

"If I need to you to stop," you begin, leisurely stroking his cock — needing to always be touching him — "Then I tap your thigh twice. sir," you add on as an afterthought but he snaps, pushing the head of his dick back in the welcoming heat of your mouth.

"Gonna fuckin' ruin me, I swear," he growls, keeping a firm grip on your hair and waiting for you to drop your jaw, driving into your mouth when you do, slipping deeper with each thrust.

You grasp his thighs, never breaking eye contact. Your eyes water the deeper he gets, but you'd rather cry your mascara off before tapping out.

His thrusts are rhythmic, measured — the sound of him fucking into your mouth bordering on pornographic. He pushes you down further, until you're choking, gagging, tears and saliva spilling down to your chin. Your nails dig in hard, but you don't tap out.

"Oh, fuck," comes his choked-off moan, hips snapping harder, rougher. Pre-cum coats your tongue with each thrust, until he's burying himself fully down your throat, your nose pressed against the base of his cock.

It's wet and messy and you gurgle and cough around him, but you love it. His resolve is cracking.

"I can cum in that pretty mouth of yours, yeah?" he checks one last time, shuddering as you only moan in agreement.

He pulls back until the head is resting on your tongue. You open your mouth so he can watch as he jerks the rest of his length quickly, a few more times before he spills against your tongue. Thick streams of his spend coat your tongue. He thrusts weakly as he cums, riding out his orgasm, a frisson of pleasure sparking through him.

He pants as he withdraws his softened cock.

"Show me," he commands, and you obediently open your mouth enough to show him the cum gathered on your tongue, preening at the noise of approval that rumbles deep in his chest.

"Swallow."

You close your mouth to obey, licking the edges of your lips for good measure, before opening your mouth again so he sees.

"Good girl," he rumbles out, swiping your bottom lip before tucking himself back into his boxers and jeans. "C'mere," he says, reaching for you to pull you up, crowding you against the counter.

You wince as your legs protest, aching with how long you were on your knees, but then you're being sat back on the counter, pulled into Price's warmth as he kisses you again. You grip weakly at his shirt, letting in him relish the taste of himself clinging to your tongue, cradling the back of your neck.

"Such a good girl," he says, fingers dipping beneath the hem of your dress to hook into your panties, dragging them down your legs and over your ankles, stashing them in his pocket.

You'd flush if you weren't so embarrassingly turned on, wondering and wanting to know what he plans on doing with them.

He pushes your dress up over your hips, spreading your legs to expose your glistening, sticky folds — desperate — and drops to his knees.

"Look at you," he says, breath fanning on your thighs, teeth nipping lightly at the skin there. You whimper, one hand on the edge of the counter to keep you steady, the other moving to grab onto his hair, silky and gorgeous and feels so good between your fingers like every other part of him —

You try to focus on him, fucked-out before he's touched you, raising your hips to entice him closer, needing his mouth and tongue. He presses his lips to up closer, stifling a laugh, and you'd make some bratty remark if you weren't so worked up.

He looks at you as he laves his tongue over your slit, drawing up between your folds before circling your clit. Your nails scratch at his scalp, head falling back as your mouth opens in a silent moan, panting out breaths.

John's warm hands grip at your thighs, keeping you still, licking leisurely between your folds and clit, a pleased hum low in his throat that you feel, sparks spreading through your veins.

"J-John," you whine out — soft, so you can't be heard — and his eyes snap to you, focused and determined. "Please," you add, trying to draw him closer with the hand tangled in his hair, feeling like you're going to fall to pieces.

He presses a kiss to your hip, before he buries his mouth in your folds, and you keen. His grip on you tightens, his nails digging in hard enough to leave indents. You can't roll your hips like you want — need — entirely at his mercy as he licks through your folds, occasionally swirling around your clit, sucking on it lightly.

It feels so fucking good, biting your lip hard enough to taste blood to stop yourself from crying and moaning out. You settle for shuddering breaths, blearily blinking down at him, moving your hand to the nape of his neck, keeping him close, delirious with pleasure, never wanting it to end.

His tongue pushes into you and your grip on the counter falters, slipping and falling back, head knocking against the mirror. You whimper for an entirely different reason, pain blossoming where your head hit, and you're almost brought to tears when John pulls his mouth away, standing up and gathering you in his arms.

His lips are shiny with your slick, arousal coating his mustache, eyes blown black. He cradles the back of your head so gently, careful with his touch as he straightens you, tilting your head back to look you over.

You've never been one to pout but you are now, bottom lip out as you grip at his shirt. Your palms are sweaty, but his shirt isn't slick like the counter. You feel like you could cry if he doesn't get back on his knees, finish what he started.

"Y'okay?" he murmurs gently, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head, down your temple, to your cheek, nosing your face to align with his, taking advantage of you pouting by nipping at your bottom lip before easing you into a gentle kiss.

You nod in reply, his free hand skimming up the length of your thigh, the fragments of arousal still swirling through your body.

"Want you to fuck me," comes your shy request. You've no idea why you're shy — his dick was in your mouth minutes ago and he was eating you out like he'd be happy to die between your legs — and yet.

He presents you with his middle and ring finger, pressing them against the seam of your lips.

"Suck."

You're hesitant, if only for a moment, but it's enough of a moment for John.

"Be a good girl, now," in that fucking throaty drawl, and you're helpless, opening your mouth to let him do as he pleases with you. A satisfied smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, as his fingers drag over your tongue, pushing to the back of your throat.

Wrapping one hand around his wrist, you watch him through glassy doe-eyes, swirling your tongue around his thick digits as best you can, swallowing and drawing his fingers deeper.

"There we are, sweetheart," he praises, and he feels your unsteady breath. "Not so hard, hm?"

You want to bite him, whine and whimper and cry until he fucks you with his tongue or even the fingers shoved down your throat or his cock that's sitting half-hard back in his jeans.

But you don't, because you're a good girl.

Strings of spit connect his fingers to your lips as he withdraws them, and he marvels at his drenched fingers. He drops his hand between your legs, circling your clit, causing you to grip at his arm.

"When I fuck you — and I will fuck you — " he starts, voice wrecked and low and addicting, "it's going to be in my bed so I can hear all those pretty sounds you make and fuck you until you're ruined."

H captures your mouth in a filthy kiss as he pushes his fingers in your cunt, buried to the knuckle. You cry into his mouth, his tongue licking against yours, swallowing the sound. His fingers are so thick, stretching you better than any toy you have hidden away in your bedside drawer.

He lets go of your head to lean down onto the counter, crowding into your space further, anchoring him. You pull away from his mouth to wrap your arms tight around his back, fingers gripping at his shirt, burying your face in the crook of his neck. He drags his fingers in and out, making you feel every inch.

Your teeth make home in his shoulder, finding it damn near impossible to stop the noises rising in your throat, little whines and moans, feeling like fire is curling in your belly, sparking hotter and hotter with each thrust.

He hooks his fingers up, easily finding the squishy part inside your cunt that makes you see stars.

"Oh, you like that," he says. Not a question, because you can hear the smug fucking smirk pulling at his lips.

He thrusts his fingers hard, alternating between hitting that spot and pistoning his fingers, dangling you over the edge of an orgasm. You'll never be able to use your own hand again — now that you've had your blood ripped open and devastating pleasure injected into you.

"Such a pretty fucking cunt," he growls against your temple, moving his thumb to press against your clit. "So wet for me, so needy." He switches to hit that spot inside you with each thrust of his fingers, thumb circling around your clit.

"Fuck, John," you pant against his neck, thighs trembling as he draws you closer to your orgasm.

You can't say much more than that, dragging your teeth along the exposed line of his neck, mewling as you damn near drown in the pleasure.

"Want you to soak my fingers, baby, show me how much you need it."

It doesn't take more than a few more thrusts with his fingers deep inside before you're clawing at him, pressing your face to his chest. You try so hard to bite back your moans, but white-hot pleasure shoots through your entire body, vision going black and starry as you gush around his fingers, cumming harder than you ever have by yourself.

The pleasure comes down to simmer, grip loosening, coming back to your senses. He slowly withdraws his fingers from your cunt, your arousal dripping down to his wrist, under the band of his watch.

You watch as he licks the evidence of your orgasm off the back of his hand and between his fingers, before drawing them into his mouth to suck them clean. His eyes never leave yours.

He drags them out as slowly as he dragged them from your cunt, savoring every drop he could get.

You grab for the front of his shirt, boneless and sated, and he comes willingly as you bring him in for a kiss, happily tasting yourself on his tongue. He takes the time to kiss you, softer and softer until you inhale a breath and let it out, body no longer strung tight.

With a kiss to your cheek, he leaves you sitting on the counter as he rifles through the drawers and cabinets until he finds a washcloth, dampening it under the faucet.

Carefully — and so, so gently — he cleans up the sticky mess between your thighs, almost reverent in his touch. He moves to clean his mouth next. He pulls you from the counter after, helping you steady yourself and dress you to look presentable, but keeps your panties tucked in his back pocket.

"You okay?" he checks and you think you're in love with him.

"Perfect," you reply, throat a bit scratchy, nuzzling under the curve of his jaw.

Opening the door, he guides you out first, palm warm on your lower back. He moves to go back out to your parents, while you're determined to crash into a post-orgasm nap.

He pushes your hair back behind your ear, leaning down low enough to murmur, ensuring no one else but you can hear him.

"One of these days, I want to know what my cum tastes like dripping out of your cunt."

He leaves you like that, his signature smirk painted on his lips, turning and walking down the hallway, while you stare at his broad form retreating, wondering how soon you can get him back between your legs.

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