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thistle-wrote · 17 days ago

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Yes, Please

An expansion of this. Can absolutely be read as a standalone fic, though.

WC: 4k

Warnings: Dubcon turned into Enthusiastic Consent, dumbification, light face smacking, name-calling (couldn't help myself), angst with a happy ending, Overstimulation, come-eating, size kink, sexual harassment on your end, and a bunch of suicide jokes

Crossposted from AO3

Summary: Perving on Captain Price comes with delightful consequences.

You may have gone a little too far this time. He’s refusing to talk to you.

Such a funny thing, getting all the silent treatment that comes with dating and absolutely none of the actual fun stuff—because he’s refusing to date you, too. Any day now, he’s going to squeeze his eyes shut, plug his ears, and go lalalalala at the mere sight of you. That’s practically what he’s been doing about the ‘’inappropriate’’ feelings that emerged within him the second you started pulling your now-regular stunts, anyway. Before those, you may as well have been Peppa fucking Pig in his eyes. Your innocence is entirely fictional, yet it makes you entirely off-limits all the same. He couldn’t possibly stick his dick in Peppa Pig now, could he? Never mind that you were a grown-ass woman with a fully formed frontal lobe pushing thirty. He would probably be all over you if he met you at a pub or something. Shame he met you at work, instead—a new transfer to the base, to his team . So young, so pretty, but the only way he would ever allow himself to appreciate it was as if you were surrounded by polycarbonate panels like an exhibit in a museum. Look, but don’t touch, he keeps telling himself. No matter how much he wants to.

But what if you want to?

Spending your entire workday surrounded by stupid, stinky men who disrespected you like sport for almost a decade, kinda, sorta, completely put you off men. So when you were face to face for the first time with your new captain; hot captain, respectful captain, wonderful captain for the first time—you may have started acting a little unprofessionally to put it very mildly. It must have been the way he gripped your hand when you shook his for the first time, firm and warm, staring deep into your eyes, making you all gooey inside with his gorgeous , welcoming smile. He told you to come to him if you needed anything, and he means anything, which, from anyone else, might have sounded nothing but sleazy, sudden flirting, but from him, it sounded like a promise. A vow . Maybe he had been a knight in his past life. Jerking off with lube made out of honor and principle.

Hand on your heart, you genuinely believed that you’d get over it after a while. All of your silly little crushes dried up and shriveled into dust like Thatcher’s cunt the more you got to know them, after all. This, too, shall pass, you kept telling yourself. It decided to stick to you like cancer, instead. During the month you spent getting adjusted to the base, you observed him like you were birdwatching. From what you could tell, he was strict, but not abusive like most of your previous captains, understanding but not a pushover like the last one that made you transfer in the first place. He was the Golden Mean of men, shining just as brightly, you wanted nothing more than to melt him down and pour him inside you. You only hoped none of this would be showing up on your next psych eval.

Just thinking about what went down just two days ago makes you want to tie a noose around your neck and jump directly into a room-sized human wood chipper. This may come off as a shock now, but you haven’t exactly been normal about him for a while now. You didn’t follow him home in a wig and Groucho glasses, or anything, but at this point, you were starting to think that maybe it would have been better if you actually had. He probably would have laughed.

It was all… relatively innocent at first. You don’t even have to do much when it comes to men, honestly. Just some subtle, playful touchiness will do it once you've gotten relatively friendly with each other to let it pass. All of which were over the clothes, and nowhere near his cock and balls, yet you can see how they travelled all the way down there just the same. But the man must have a will of steel and a chastity belt of the same material because it only managed to coax him halfway. He did , at the very least, lose the cartoon schoolgirl piglet coding of you in his mind, at least, so small victories, you supposed. Too small.

Which brought you to phase two: The views . Not a full-blown creepy guy in a trenchcoat flashing at a subway, obviously. Just enough to notice him noticing you. Read the subtle signs of his breath hitching and his eyes darkening with lust with the little ‘’accidental’’ slips of skin you throw his way, like giving the dog a bone to get it to imagine the steak. On second thought, maybe you shouldn’t be comparing yourself to a slab of meat. Unfortunately, he brings out the worst in you. See, he even has you blaming him for your own lust like Judge Frollo. It’s a wonder how you haven’t burnt down all of Paris yet. Which is where you’re both currently are, by the way.

The city of capitalized love, overflowing with tourists and dog-sized rats just casually strolling through the sea of them like they pay the taxes! Okay, maybe you were exaggerating a little. You did see two rats jump out of a trash can on the first day you were here, though. But really, once the Paris syndrome fades away, it’s a city just like any other. You might have appreciated it a little bit more if you weren’t strictly here for work. Well, the work part was done a week ago, but the paperwork part on the other hand just straight up refuses to get off your dick no matter how many forms you perfectly fill and perfectly sign and perfectly deliver to him.

‘’Not good. Do it again.’’

That’s three more words than what he said when you delivered the exact same report to him yesterday. He’s not even pretending to read them at this point, just keeps sending you in and out of his office like he’s playing ping pong with your paid vacation time. Doesn’t even specify what’s wrong with it, so you can fix it; he just wants you to spend the one week you were allowed in Paris post-mission, cramped inside, wasting away with the same meaningless, never-ending task like Sisyphus, whom you really can’t imagine being happy at the moment.

Because he’s mad at you. Because you went too far. You suppose it would be a bad time to suggest spanking as an alternative punishment, then. It’s kind of what got you into this mess in the first place.

‘’Is this going to be a thing?’’ You speak before you can think about it— getting snippy with him when you should be handing in your resignation and moving into a nunnery in shame.

He remains silent, as always, pretending to find the stack of empty A4 papers wildly more interesting than you at the moment.

‘’It’s going to be a thing, ’’ you confirm for yourself, feeling a migraine dangerously closing in—if he’s trying to get you to shed whatever feelings you might have for him, he’s even closer to succeeding. It…might even be his plan, actually.

It was supposed to be a much-deserved celebration after a job very well done. The both of you drank the entire squad under the table and sent them to bed by 10 like the drunk little boys they were until it was just the two of you left at the breakroom. You talked very comfortably for the last two hours before the incident. He kept glancing at your shiny, wet lips with longing and leaning toward you every time you got closer to him. You truly thought that you were helping him out when you decided to be the braver one of the two of you and closed the distance between you both.

Up close, he smelled strongly of the good brand of whiskey he popped open and shared for the occasion; you both did. His lips were warm and pursed into a kiss almost immediately upon meeting yours. You saw his eyes flutter like butterflies before you closed yours and deepened the kiss, your hands cupping both his cheeks and tilting his head ever so slightly to give you better access. He wanted this, you thought to yourself at the moment with joy. And then you kept repeating it like a chant for the rest of the day when he abruptly pulled back. Quite literally pushing you away from him with his caveman strength, like it burned to touch you, and quickly stomping out of the room just as gracefully.

You thought he wanted this…Didn’t he? Did you actually just fucking assault your captain? You couldn’t sleep that night, couldn’t concentrate in the morning. Silently cried into your pillow out of shame for eight hours straight and took it out on everyone who dared to invade your pity parade when you began your day at the base. Working . Working through your humiliation, your sadness, your anxiety, rolling the boulder up that hill, hoping this will be the day it quits being a teasing little bitch and crush you into a fine line of viscera on the ground.

You were already half insane before you got in here. Maybe if you quit now, you might get to leave in a straitjacket as opposed to a body bag. Either way, there’s no way you were staying.

“I’ll be asking for a transfer at the end of this week.” You turned to leave, not even waiting to hear his answer, already predicting it: silence.

‘’NO.’’ He shouted behind you a few seconds later, as if he had been tuning out what you were saying before that.

What the hell does he mean, no?

You considered giving him the silent treatment for a change and simply shutting the door behind you on your way out, but he had been starving you from his voice for a little too long for your taste, and so when he dropped the hook—you bit.

‘’Yeah? Why ?’’ Wrong question, back to silence.

This time, when you turned your back on him to leave, there were angry tears in your eyes. The sound of his chair abruptly screeching back halted your hand on the door handle, his voice following shortly after.

‘’Jus’—jus’ sit down, yeah?’’ He didn’t step away from his desk, but stood behind it with his hands raised with the palms down, as if trying to soothe an angry mare. He looked nervous, you noted. You tried not to look too smug at the sight. ‘’We can talk about this.’’

You wanted to strangle him. Oh, now, we can talk? You had to hold yourself back from screaming it at him. It sounded so childish, even in your head. It’s probably why he doesn’t want you. You may as well be a brain-dead teenager doodling Mrs. Price in your notebook in his eyes.

Well, if he wants to play chicken, then you’ll come up with a chicken metaphor on your way to his desk!

You find what you were looking for right as you sit down on the squeaky leather armchair in front of his desk: You’ll make him squawk.

You just need to keep this anger sizzling hot for the entire conversation before shame starts screaming even louder and makes you throw yourself at his feet and apologize a thousand times before he scoops you up from the back of your neck like a stupid wet cat and hurls you out of his office window.

God, you hope he throws you out of his office window.

Now, he’s refusing to look at you.

Makes you wonder why you agreed to this in the first place. You almost make a move to leave again, but when you look, and really look into the pretty blue eyes currently avoiding your gaze, you see the gears turning at full speed behind them.

He’s not ignoring you, he just needs to figure out what to say. Too bad you haven’t got all day, you still have a pointless report to rewrite for the fourth time in two days, waiting for you back home like a wife you’re currently cheating on. You really should get back to her, so you speed this up.

‘’Did you not—want it?’’ You dig your nails into the corners of your nails. You still can’t bring yourself to say ‘it’. Did you not want the kiss, want me ? ‘’I thought you—’’ you censor yourself again. It sounds like the most pathetic thing in the world: I thought you wanted me.

He did. That’s what makes it worse, there was nothing more he wanted than to lie you down on the couch and kiss you until the sun came up that night. You put him in a trance, spinning that glass with a stirring motion, making little whiskey vortexes with a giddy, drunk smile on your face, getting dangerously close to spilling all over your tight white top and getting away with it each time. If it was just lust, he could have chalked it up to his old man hormones acting up around a beautiful young woman who was clearly interested in him. It’s the disgusting little butterflies that dance in his stomach that give him pause each time.

You probably just want to fuck him, he keeps telling himself, you probably have daddy issues.

You don’t want him, you can’t want him. Not in the way he wants you. Would probably laugh in his face if he told you he was thinking about how just today he dreamt about you tonight, can’t remember a single frame to save his life, but it still made him wake up the happiest he had ever woken up in his close-to-40 years of life.

He sighs, really wishing you just sat there for, oh, about ten hours until he could figure out what to say. ‘’It’s not that,’’

So he does want you? You try not to get too happy, waiting for him to continue. Waiting for him to ruin it.

‘’It’s,’’ Hardware parts, deep sea fishing, Nascar—there’s no way he’s into Nascar. ‘’You don’t.’’

‘’What? ’’ You wonder at what point in all the many times you quite literally sexually harrassed him did you give the message that he repulsed you to your core like a dog turd baking on a sidewalk, or worse, a republican.

‘’You don’t .’’ He breathes it out, crosses his arms on his chest and leans back, as slowly and as further away from you as he can without making it seem like he’s still scared of girl cooties. He looks like he truly believes what he’s saying, too, looks like he’s resigned himself to this ‘’fact’’ a long time ago.

You feel like you’re about to laugh like you’re going to die from it: You’re not the teenager; he is!

‘’I don’t want you?’’ You repeat his words back to him with an incredulous smile, which only gets wider as you watch him startle like a spooked deer with every slow step you strut towards him.

You put a hand on his chest and push him further back when he attempts to make a move to get up from his chair, and keep it there. Loving the way his muscles tense up under his shirt, his breathing grows heavier as you trail it down even further.

‘’Wha’ are you—?’’ He cuts the question short with a tiny gasp, squeezes his eyes shut, and throws his head back on the headrest as you start rubbing your palm up and down on his bulge over his pants. This was just about the worst decision you’ve made this week—possibly your entire life, but the way he looked at you right now, flushed in the cheeks, fucked-out in the eyes, pink lips parted open; the only thing he left in your brain was the aggressive urge to find out what he looked like when he comes. You’ll deal with the consequences later, you think.

You feel sick, but he feels so good. He was hard when you got there, so you decided not to waste any more time and pull his zipper down. You can see his cock twitching expectantly over his underwear more clearly now. Blue. It’s cute. You hear him groan your name, not title, and move to grab your wrist, holding it in the loosest grip known to man.

‘’You don’t—’’ Enough with that. You smack his hand away before he can finish speaking, and pull his leaking, twitching, angry cock out. He hisses deliciously when you get down on your knees and wrap your entire fist around him. Try to, anyway. He’sreally fucking big.

‘’I want you.’’ You tell him gently, moving your hand up and down on him squeezing beads of precum out of his slit as you get even tighter at the top. He shakes his hand and lets out a strangled sound, gripping the armrest so tight it looks like it was about to burst into splinters if

he kept it up. He can’t possibly think about that at the moment, though, his mind is empty—he can only feel, and it feels so good, and he hates it.

He feels like he’s taking advantage of you somehow, as you jerk him off in his office without a single go-ahead from his part—looking like you want to make out with his cock. God, he hopes you won’t, because then he would not be able to stop himself if he ever felt your mouth wrapped around him, he’d have no choice but to fuck your face like his own fist and feed you his entire load and make you say thank you when it’s all done. And then put a gun in his mouth for ever treating you like this. You should probably hide his bullets before you get it through his thick fucking skull that you would love for him to treat you like this.

‘’I want you .’’ You tell him again, put your face closer to his cock, hoping to catch anything he gives you with your mouth—his balls tighten at the sound of your voice, bursting with adoration. You’re looking up at him with just the same reverence, he comes right as you put your mouth on his tip. He growls out a yes as he coats your lips with his cum and feels like he’s about to burst again when he watches you lick it all up.

You get what you wanted, he looks just as beautiful as he comes as he does when he isn’t.

You wonder how he’d feel inside you. You bet the first stretch would be torturous. You want to find out.

He’s touching your head, you muse, like he would a cat’s, or more accurately, a dog's. Quick and gentle pats on your scalp before he rests it there. He’s so awkward about it, too. Like, he doesn’t allow himself to simply ride the afterglow, he just emptied his balls in your mouth, and he’s acting like he tried to shake a fist bump.

‘’Why did you think I wouldn’t want you?’’ You bring him back to earth. It’s a good question that, depending on his answer, is going to determine whether or not he suffers from brain damage.

‘’Gut feelin’’’ he lies. He clearly still can’t believe you actually do. Or he’s trying to make you snap into round two to show him again. In any case, you’re more than happy to oblige.

Your knees crack very unsexily as you get up off them, but it looks like he didn’t even hear it with the way his eyes seemed to lock in on your movement alone like a motion detector. You plop yourself down on his lap and smile as his hands find your waist reflexively.

He moans into your mouth when your lips find his for the second time. This time, however, you’re going to hold both his hands with yours and lock your fingers together so he can’t pussy out of your affection again. And he’s tasting himself on your tongue. Still, you keep him there, his mouth on yours, and your tongue on his until you feel him harden under you again, embarrassingly.

You let his hands go free for a moment, silently giving him the final decision. His hands travel

down to your ass and onto your front to undo your pants and that’s when you jump on him.

You’re completely naked on top of him before your useless happy brain can register—legs spread around both of his thighs, and body tilted back to rest on his desk, twitching like a bunny in heat.

He rubs his cock on your folds, pulling away just before he can make contact with your clit.

‘’Whore,’’ he smiles, smacking your cunt once, twice, three times with his cock, getting it wet. You should probably use a condom, but you left yours in your bag, and you doubt he keeps any in his office. You’re just going to have to rely on the pullout method and hope the next time you do this, you’ll be on the pill so you can take his load inside you, too.

‘’Inside ,’’ you whine. This is probably payback for all the shit you pulled trying to get him to this point, but you’d really prefer to take your punishment in the form of spankings instead.

‘’Greedy whore,’’ he doubles down and enters you as he pulls you in to kiss all over your glaring face.

It. Fucking. Burns.

No amount of mental preparation you had to give yourself makes up for the actual feeling of his cock inside you. He’s not even halfway in yet and yet he managed to reduce you to a whiney weeping slut all the same.

Because it fucking burns. And you fucking like it.

His first few thrusts are slow and careful not to hurt you too much, never going all the way down to the base. You’re putty in his hands, gripping your ass to bounce you down on his cock right now. Gone is the confident little minx who trapped and milked him for all his worth in the same chair he’s currently fucking the life out of you—and he’s not even being rough.

Your eyes roll to the back of your head when he starts thumbing your clit, rolling it side to side and circling it like a vulture above your tender body, ready to devour it.

Wanting to get back a little control, you sink yourself down on him all the way. Getting full-body chills when you see a glint in his eyes, he can go fast now. And go fast, he does. Starts pistoning himself into you, uses your body like a fuckdoll. He grunts and groans in your ears, seemingly mesmerized at the sight of your breasts bouncing with each hard thrust into you. Not that you notice—a little too busy squealing like an idiot, seeing white spots dancing in your vision like an omen of what he’s going to paint you with, hopefully very soon. Because you feel way too close to coming and don’t want to think about all the embarrassing noises he’s going to pull from you if he keeps fucking you through and after your orgasm.

It’s not fair. No man should fuck this good. No man can fuck this good. Yet here he is, proving you wrong again and again, one slam of his cock into you at a time. He lightly smacks you in the face as your head droops down, squishes your cheeks until your lips form a pucker, and drags you towards him to kiss you like he’s afraid to break you. Ironic.

It sets you over the edge. What can you say? You’re a romantic at heart. You dig your nails into his shoulders and start riding him through it, moaning directly into his mouth. He lets you take the wheel, puts his hands back on your waist, and makes you bounce on it to your heart’s content. Once you start showing signs that it has started to feel too much, he gently pulls out of your throbbing cunt and slips it right between the buttcheeks he’s been groping for the last half-an-hour.

You attempt to make a sound of protest, but he shushes you gently, ‘’Relax, love, not putting it in today.’’

You wrap your arms around his shoulders and hide your face in his neck, giving him full control—showing him that you trust him, even if you are a little confused as to what else he can do there instead. It all gets clearer when he smooshes your cheeks together and starts fucking between them.

Hotdogging, you chuckle, it’s a funny term.

It doesn’t take too long for him to reach his peak as well, spilling all over your ass with a hoarse drawn-out groan. You turn your head around just so, so you can catch a glimpse of it in action. It looks like an erupting volcano on an island. You refrain from relaying this observation to him so as not to kill the mood. Then again, you’re both finished now—you decide to tell him after all.

He snorts, ‘’Right, love. I’m sure it does.’’

He cleans his cum off of you with the jumbo-sized napkins he keeps in his drawer, right next to an unopened box of condoms.

‘’Forgot they were there,’’ he says, looking to his side, away from your eyes narrowing in suspicion ‘’Gift from the plonkers,’’ Plonkers?! ‘’Thought they were being cheeky.’’

‘’And why were they being ‘cheeky’, Captain?’’ He flushes at the title, liking it a little too much when you say it to him naked.

‘’You weren’t exactly being sneaky, sweetheart.’’

Shit. You’re really fucking embarrassed now, hope they didn’t see anything. But, wait—

‘’So then why did you think I wasn’t interested in you?’’

You got him there, he clears his throat a couple of times, and tries squeezing out a lie that, at the very least, was not going to sound too obvious.

You have some mercy on him ‘’Do you believe that I want you now, at least?’’

He thinks on it for a bit, chews on his answer. He still doesn’t believe you want him the same way, but what the hell? You can get there eventually.

‘’I do,’’ he raises your knuckles to his lips to give them a kiss like a true gentleman who just fucked you in a way that set feminism back fifteen years.

‘’Good,’’ you give his knuckles the same treatment and watch him melt, ‘’Now let me off, I still have your bullshit report to finish.’’

‘’Oh, that?’’ He smiles sheepishly ‘’Just send any of the old ones, they were all good.’’

You’re going to kill him.

‘’I’m going to kill you.’’ He grabs both your fists before they can make contact with his chest and twists you around to put you in a headlock, kissing your forehead in apology as you wrestle playfully under him.

‘’Shh, shh, shh, none o’ that.’’ He deepens his voice on purpose, knowing exactly what it does to you ‘’If I take you to that muppet tower, will it be all good?’’

You give it some thoughtful consideration, ‘’It’ll be a good start.’’

He can’t wait.

Taglist, aka everyone in my comments who asked for part 2, sorry for the delay: @queent20-21 @viviansvault3 @simonriley09 @trashy-pandas123 @laduenadelswing @vampflth @mischievousprincess01

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thistle-wrote · 18 days ago

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Johns Bird

F!Reader X John Price CW: Age gap relationship, kind of Dub-con, major manipulation on John's part, emotional abuse, coercion, explicit sexual content, power imbalance, controlling behavior, JOHN IS TOXIC AND A TOTAL ASSHOLE PLEASE NOTE THAT BEFORE READING.

Pt two to this because one person asked me for it and I give into peer pressure very easily.

John shut the front door behind him, locking it as he entered his home. He knew where his bird was; she’s always in the same place when he got home.

“Hi, little girl,” John spoke, entering the kitchen, leaning against the granite countertop. For a second, he looked down at his feet, noticing he’d tracked dirt through the house. That’s fine. She’ll clean it up.

“Hi,” came her mumbled response as she looked up at him, smiling. She never seems to get tired of his homecoming, never irritated by the prospect of constantly cooking for and cleaning up after a grown man.

“What are you cooking, pet?”

He began crossing the kitchen, standing behind her to wrap his arms around her shoulders, effectively trapping her in.

“Just chicken.” Truth be told, he couldn’t actually care less what she was cooking, it’s always good and as long as he doesn’t have to do it, he’s satisfied.

“Good girl.” She has always responded well to soft cooing and praise. He watched as her little cheeks flushed, and her lips quirked upwards. God, he loved her. He had been so patient, waited so long for her that once he got her, he took what he wanted all at once.

“I wanted to ask.” She began wiggling underneath his grasp, turning to face him.

“Mhm,” John hummed, looking down at her big doe eyes. She’s been so good since he got her. She does what she’s told, she doesn’t fight, she doesn’t argue.

“I want to go out with my friends tonight.” Immediately John felt his mood sour. He hates her friends. Does she not remember how they ended up in bed together all those months ago in the first place? Her friends left her alone in that bar. Stupid girl she doesn’t know what’s good for her.

She, of course, noticed the change, a very perceptive little thing. “Shouldn’t be going out, love,” John added. If he spoke to her too sternly, she cried. If he was too lenient, she didn’t behave. He’d found a way over the last months to keep her where he wanted her, without her babbling or tears flowing.

“But it’s Emma’s birthday and...” John watched her words die in her throat. She doesn’t typically beg or plead, especially not when John gives her the look he just had, the furrowed brow and hard stare. Doesn’t she realize he saved her? Doesn’t she realize he’s all she needs?

“Now, bunny rabbit, what kind of man would I be if I just let a sweet little thing like you wander around drunk and alone with a bunch of girls?” John has learned a lot of things in his nearly 40 years of life. One of them: you don’t just simply allow girls who look like her to go out by themselves. John may be many things, but he’s not stupid.

“But I can handle myself.”

“No, love, you can’t.”

Despite her frustrated expression, she conceded and went back to cooking dinner like a good girl. He hates seeing that little pouty lip she gives him. It’s not that he doesn’t trust her, no it’s not that at all. It’s just he doesn’t trust everyone else. She’s spacey, she doesn’t pay attention to her surroundings, and anything could happen to his sweet thing if he’s not watching her.

…………………………

As the evening went on, she was quieter than usual, she doesn’t often act like a brat, John Price doesn’t do brats. But despite his authority and desire to simply do what is best for her, she does pout. Although not in the way most do, it’s still pouting. The quiet way she sat on the couch reading her book, not tucked under his arm, not chatting his ear off.

“Birdie girl?” John said, lighting the cigar in his hand, watching her as she sat peacefully.

“Yes sir?” Her gaze moved from her book to his eyes. Eye contact. Good fuckin’ bird.

“You going to stop pouting anytime tonight?” The question, while rhetorical, was more of a demand for her to wipe the pout off her face than anything.

“I’m not pouting.” She whined. Like nails on a chalkboard, that tone. He’s not being mean to the girl; he’s just protecting her. She has to understand that.

“Come sit.” He didn't leave much room for argument. He just leaned back further into the couch, manspreading a little bit more, giving her a place to sit.

Despite her clearly being upset with him, she listened, putting her bookmark in her book and setting it down on the arm of the couch. She crawled across the sectional to find her spot on his lap. He took a drag of his cigar before speaking, not bothering to try and keep the smoke from her face.

“You know why I don’t want you to go?” John asked, placing his free hand on her thigh. She simply shook her head. John took that as his cue to explain. As much as he believed she should just trust him, shouldn’t need an explanation, he’d give her one if it would stop her attitude.

“Your friends aren’t good to you, bird. They leave you alone. Remember when we met, all those months ago? You told me you wanted better friends; you got me instead. I am here to protect you, to keep you away from things that could hurt you. That means away from your little friends, and away from the wandering eyes of the men who’ll no doubt be in that bar.”

“But I…” She started before John quickly interrupted.

“Let me finish, little girl” she nodded, letting her head fall to rest against his shoulder. She may be upset, but she’s still his sweet bunny. John moved his hand from her thigh to her head, resting it against her hair. He spoke again.

“I know you want to have fun, but I have to keep you safe, love.”

“I know.” She nodded against his shoulder. The resignation in her voice was enough to chub his cock. Such a sweet girl.

“We can have fun at home, you know,” John said, taking another drag from his cigar, this time blowing it directly into her face. She likes it.

…………………………

There was always one surefire way to both keep his woman happy and make sure she’s being good. Who needs friends or birthday parties when you have a bed you share with your boyfriend, pretty girl?

“J-John.” She tried. She failed. John may be at least a decade her senior but he’s not old; he can hold out a long time if that means keeping her quiet.

“Can’t even talk, huh?” John let out a condescending chuckle as he continued to rut into her. Her knees pushed to her shoulders. God, she’s so pretty like that, overstimulated and tired.

He couldn’t help the groan that escaped his lips when, for the fifth time, he felt her walls tighten around him, squeezing him as her eyes rolled back and her body spasmed.

“There you go, puppy.” He cooed at her, truly like a little pet. She acts out sometimes, but in the end, she always ends up right back here, doing exactly what he tells her. She let out a soft little whimper at the overwhelming feeling.

“Don’t start fussing now, baby. You wanted to have fun, remember? There you go, that’s a good girl.” She was too fucked out to respond; she just babbled some incoherent nonsense. Despite her brain obviously having shut off, her eyes glazed over, and small tears of pleasure pricked at the corners. His pace was unrelenting, brutal.

She needed a reminder, on occasion, exactly why she behaves for him. “Come on, pretty. You can give Daddy one more.” And she did, two more actually. He continued to push himself in and out of her sweat cunt until he could no longer hold out.

“Gonna fill you so full, sweet girl.” John groaned as he released himself into her. He felt her tight, puny little grip on his shoulder as he did.

Once his hips stopped rocking into her, he pulled his now softening cock from her pretty hole, watching as the remnants of their “love" leaked from her.

When he pulled her to lay on top of him, he let out a satisfied sigh as she snuggled into him.

“No more asking to go out, I can give you everything you need right here.” She nodded, he knew she’d heed that warning.

…………………………

CoD Masterlist

#captain john price x reader #john price #cod x reader #john price x reader #john price x you #price x reader #price x you #price/reader #cod #cod smut #captain john price #captain john price x you #captian john price #captain price #captain price x reader #call of duty #call of duty modern warfare

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thistle-wrote · 20 days ago

Text

For: @numberoneartisanwizard

I just want a story about John being a father please!!🙇🏻‍♀️🙇🏻‍♀️like how is he going to handle his child if they had a tantrum, especially in public Or his child being naughty.

(Dividers made by me)

John with his son, Luke ~

"Luke Price!" John shouts, dragging the "u" more longer than anyone else.

John Price isn't the most sympathetic person when he goes to sleep. No. Sleep time for him is sacred. He can get very grumpy is just the slight inconvenience affects his schedule.

It's why this is the third time this week that his toothbrush isn't in the bathroom. And he knows the deal here.

"What?" Your seven year old casually says as he—again, casually— walks to his room, who happens to be next to John and your's.

"Here, now." John's tone is short, clear.

"Wassup?" His son says, hands in his— rocket space themed—pajamas pockets.

John's standing in the bathroom doorway of your room, shirtless, and absolutely done with the day—and it’s barely past 9 p.m. His plaid pajama pants hang low on his hips, his hair an unruly mess.

“Where is it?” He stares him down.

Luke blinks. “Where’s what?”

John’s jaw flexes. “Don’t.”

You’re curled up on the bed, half-asleep, book in hand. You look up the moment you hear that tone. That’s not a drill-sergeant shout. That’s the worn-thin, late-night dad voice that means someone’s just made one very poor choice.

John crossed his arms. “My toothbrush. Where is it.”

Luke hesitated, shifted his weight and glanced behind him like he was making sure an escape route was still viable.

John followed the glance. "Luke,” he said slowly, turning to face his son.

Luke opened his mouth. Closed it. Then tried again. “Okay—I used it.”

"You used it?” John’s voice was level, but his eyebrow was climbing into dangerous territory.

Luke nodded, then mumbled, “On Max.”

John stared.

“He needed a good brushing!” Luke defended, his little hands flying. “Mum said dogs get plaque too!”

“Oh my god,” John muttered, dragging a hand down his face.

"Max’s teeth were all… yucky. And he licked me earlier. And you also said hygiene is critical to operations. So I fixed the situation." Your son explains.

You’re already wheezing with laughter, turning your face into the pillow as John freezes like a statue.

“You brushed the dog’s teeth. With my toothbrush.” he repeats.

Luke shrugs like he’s being perfectly reasonable. “He eats socks. And cheese. And he found a Babybel wrapper under the couch—”

John puts a hand to his chest. “That toothbrush was new. She still had the tag on her!”

You lose it, laughing so hard you have to sit up, tears in your eyes.

Luke tilts his head. “She?”

You smirk, leaning on your elbow. “Wait—so your toothbrush gets a name, but I don’t even get a proper pet name? We've been together for 10 years”

John squints. “What? I call you love.”

“That’s basic.”

John sighs, rubbing a hand over his beard. He handled wars, negotiations, attacks... He handled all that (still does), yet this feels worse than anything. Because there's no manual, no school—hell, don't even training—on how to handle a situation with a seven year old.

There was a beat of silence. Then John pointed to the hallway.

“Go. Bed. Now.”

“But—”

“Now!”

Luke scampered off mumbling something about It’s called sharing... And He liked the minty part...

John turned toward the bed, deadpan. “He used it. On the dog.”

You reached for his hand as he sat at the edge of the bed, sighing deeply like a soldier just back from war.

“You survived,” you said, teasing.

He grunted. “Barely.”

John with his daughter, Sarah ~ Years later...

“No,” John said flatly, holding the massive unicorn plush out of reach with his left hand while deciding the kind of toilet paper he needed. “This thing is bigger than you. We’re not bringing it home.”

“But I need it,” his daughter—of only six years old—declared, hands on her hips, chin tilted high.

“Need?” he echoed. “You said that about the flamingo with roller skates yesterday.”

“That was different.” She narrowed her eyes. "She begged me to take her home with me."

John blinked. “It’s a stuffed bird.”

She didn't budge.

“Put it back,” he said giving it back to her, trying to stay calm. Firm. Soldier-mode. “Final answer.”

He gave her The Look. The Dad Look. The one that had made grown men freeze on the field.

Sarah blinked.

And dropped to the floor.

Like. Dead weight. Plop.

“NoooOOOOOO!” she wailed, legs kicking wildly. “You never let me pick anything! I’m just a little girl in a world full of sadness!”

John stood frozen, clutching the pack of toilet paper he’d been seaching for. The words slowly processed in his brain.

Did she just say—a world full of sadness?

People walked by, offering him the kind of glances usually reserved for emergency situations—some sympathetic, some mildly amused, some very clearly relieved it wasn’t their kid.

Further down the aisle, a young store employee in a neon vest pretended to tidy a shelf but was absolutely watching the spectacle unfold.

John gritted his teeth and stared at the ceiling for strength.

“Get up,” John said through gritted teeth.

“NO.”

“You are not doing this here.”

“I am doing this here! I LIVE HERE NOW.”

He crouched, leaned close. “If you don’t get up right now, you are grounded.”

Her eyes narrowed, teary but calculating. “Fine. Then you don’t get hugs anymore.”

John stared at her, stunned. “You’re—threatening me?”

“I’m emotionally negotiating!” she shrieked.

John groaned and stood up, running a hand down his face. “I’ve led teams through enemy territory with less resistance than this.”

She flopped again for dramatic flair. “ I want the Unicorn!

"You have a dozen of stuffed animals!" he barked without thinking, completely unraveling.

A pause.

More silence.

John took a deep breath. “Right. That’s it. Let’s go. No unicorn, no toilet paper, no nothing. We are going home.”

His daughter screamed in protest—an opera of despair—and grabbed the nearest shelf in protest like a protester chaining herself to a tree.

“No! Daddy, NO!"

John carried her like a sack of potatoes, screaming into his ear.

She finally quieted once they got to the car.

Sniffling, arms crossed, cheeks red and blotchy.

John sat in the front seat, eyes blank, hands on the wheel.

“Deep breaths... Deep breaths." he muttered to himself.

His phone buzzed.

You: Everything good?

He stared at the message for a long moment.

Then replied:

John: She staged a coup over a stuffed unicorn. I lost. I don’t even know who I am anymore.

He looked in the mirror at her in the back seat—now quietly singing to herself like nothing ever happened.

She met his eyes.

Smiled sweetly.

“Daddy?” she said, innocent as sunshine.

“What?” he said flatly.

“I think you should take a nap when we get home,” she said matter-of-factly, kicking her little feet in the back seat. “You look like your head’s about to explode.”

John blinked, staring at the dashboard like it might give him the answers.

John exhaled. Slowly.

How did one go from clearing buildings with breachers to losing an argument to a six-year-old in light-up sneakers? Well, more like a manipulative, scheming, tiny sorceress with pigtails—and the emotional range of a Shakespearean villain— six years old.

He rubbed his face. He wasn’t even mad anymore.

He was… impressed. Horrified, but impressed.

He finally turned the key. The engine rumbled to life beneath his hands.

“Can we get ice cream?”

He blinked, head turning slightly.

“I was very brave,” she added, completely serious.

John didn’t answer. Just stared at the road ahead, trying to remember who he was before this moment.

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thistle-wrote · 20 days ago

Text

Tattoo Artist

CW: oral sex, small descriptors used for reader when I felt it necessary i.e. the tattoo artist having tattoos. reader is referred to by a nickname. Authors note: And before you ask, no I do not condone the tattoos price has on the homecoming skin, as an American traditional tattoo GIRLY those are simply an insult to tattoos.

The song I was listing to whilst writing this

Despite what most think, John has tattoos. Mostly hidden in places you can’t easily see. Truthfully, he probably would have had far fewer had it not been for Little Petal.

It’s just when John’s dad died he wanted a tattoo to commemorate his life, you know how middle age men get when their fathers pass. So he booked a session with a local artist, the shop had great reviews; it was clean and busy, and he figured now was as good a time as any.

Never in the entirety of John’s life has he been so instantly captivated by a woman. Covered in tattoos and piercings, she was gorgeous and immediately incredibly friendly. He learned she owned the shop and had gone to art school. For what it was worth she absolutely knew what she was doing.

All in all, it took her barely an hour to draw his tattoo, make his stencil, and have it permanently etched into his muscular thigh. I mean how long could two dates possibly take anyway? And that’s really how it started. Before he even knew what he was doing, he was booking another appointment a few months out, with the promise of allowing her to actually draw him something this time. He could have taken her right there, just seeing the way her face lit up at the prospect of mild creative freedom.

When he returned for his next appointment, this time with a brand new scar and an embarrassing amount of excitement for a grown man, he settled in her chair. She flipped through drawings she’d made for him, drawings she thought would “fit your vibe” all traditional style but not the kind that bored; a street lamp with moths circling it was the one he ultimately decided on.

John was a very tough man. Hell, the man gets shot at for a living, but he didn’t expect the little petal to be able to inflict so much pain. Of course, he was tough about it, barely flinching.

“Does it hurt, then?” She asked him amidst her stabbing color into his side.

“Not bad.” He remembered murmuring to her as her needles dragged across his skin.

“Doesn’t hurt me one bit.” He chuckled at her cheesy joke, but the little smile on her face was enough to make his thoughts go awry.

It wasn’t long before he wasn’t just tattooed, but was one of her regulars. After a few years, his entire left leg was mostly covered. Apparently, when you become good enough friends with your tattoo artist, she starts to tell you things like, “I’m not doing that, John, that’s ugly.” And “No, that fits better over here.”

At some point, he also started receiving unexpected and sporadic text messages from her. Texts like, “I saw this cute cigar shop in London, made me think of you.” Or “I drew you this, thought it would fit perfectly on your knee.”

John has had his fair share of women in his life, he wasn’t exactly sure just why he was so into her. Maybe it’s the sweet, soft way she spoke. Maybe it was how she was so passionate about her work. Maybe the way she joked and teased him, or possibly it was just simply how incredibly herself she was.

John made his way into her shop one Saturday afternoon, the door chiming as he stepped through the threshold. The scent of patchouli filled his nose. She was an eccentric little woman, from the black walls to the leopard print furniture.

He stepped up to the front desk, eyeing the little trinkets she had sat atop it, listening for the soft patter of her platforms against the hardwood. When she poked her head from the back room, she offered a sweet smile.

“Hi, hon.”

“Hi, petal.”

They’d done this dance time and time again, proper etiquette and professionalism were long gone. He watched as she turned back into the room, a wordless request for him to follow. He did, his boots clattering on the floor as he made his way through the shop. He immediately sat in the corner chair, watching the bird flit through her stack of drawings.

“Okay listen,” She began, holding out a hand to silence him as if he’d been about to interrupt, which he hadn’t.

“You don’t have to get it if you hate it but, I drew this pinup.” She pulled out a white sheet of paper and held it out to him. John reached for the sheet, looking it over. He wondered for a brief moment if she’d done it on purpose, if she’d even realized exactly how much the cartoon woman on the page looked like her.

“It’s great, love,” He hums, still looking it over but letting his eyes meet hers for a moment. No, there was no way she’d done it intentionally, she wasn’t the egotistical type to brand someone with a picture of herself.

“Cool,” she mused, already planning. “thinking on your inner thigh. We can do it high enough that people won’t see her when you’re in shorts.” That girl was always thinking ahead. She has a real knack for this, not just the drawing or design process but the placement too.

“Yeah, okay, pretty,” John said simply, leaning back further into the chair. He let her run around the shop, scanning her drawing, then printing and cutting out the stencil. When she returned, stencil in hand, she looked at him with that cute little frown she sometimes got.

“Take your pants off, John.”

God, she didn’t have to tell him twice.

“Right to the point, huh?” He chuckled. She'd always taken his jokes well, so he felt no need to apologize for the comment.

She gave him an eye roll, one more of amusement than anything. He unbuckled his belt, pulled off his boots followed by his jeans, setting them on the chair. He plopped himself onto the table, and she, completely comfortable by this point, started pulling him into the position she wanted, moving his leg to her desired spot.

John liked his tattoos, he really did. But in that moment, he was instantly reminded why he kept coming back. It was the way she pushed the leg of his underwear farther up his thigh, making marks on his skin to correctly line up his stencil, or her casually commenting “You’re so hairy,” as she ran the pink disposable razor over his inner thigh.

“I’m a grown man, petal,” he responded, with a small chuckle.

This tattoo, the one she seemingly didn’t realize she’d drawn of herself, the one he was allowing her to permanently mark on his skin. This might be the worst decision of his life, he suddenly realized, not because it looked like her, or because he’d regret it; he’d learned over his almost forty years of life that regrets were worthless.

No, it might be the worst decision simply because he hadn’t thought about how high up it was, how close her hands and her face would be to his crotch, and how he was absolutely going to get hard whether he meant to or not.

After she’d shaved his thigh, applied the stencil, and properly sanitized his skin, she began to tattoo. She chattered away as she always did, John nodded along, trying to listen. But the man might as well have been fighting demons, not because it hurt, either.

John just hoped she wouldn’t mention the bulge in his underwear, or better yet, maybe she was too busy to notice. After she’d finished the outline, she stopped her machine, moving to change needles and pour her caps of color when she spoke.

“Got a pain kink, John?”

He was momentarily stunned by the way her eyes gestured to his cock. He would never have expected a joke like that from her; sure she teased him but this was a first. He laughed.

John had half a mind to tell her to go screw herself, or sarcastically agree. But he figured if she could say something that should be considered inappropriate for a professional, he could say something incredibly inappropriate for a client.

“No, bird, got a pretty girl's face inches from my dick kink.”

She smiled. No way she thought that was genuinely flattering. She had to trust him more than he’d realized not to immediately get upset. So, like the civilized adult man he wasn’t, he kept going.

“Got a thing for their mouths round it too.”

At that, she didn’t squirm, flinch. Or even make a grossed out face. She laughed, the kind of laugh a girl gives when she knows she’s about to get some.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

John thinks he must have, at some point, been some kind of saint in a past life, because that is the only way he could possibly imagine something so great happening to him: his tattoo artist stopping mid tattoo to wrap her lips around his cock.

The entire afternoon was a haze. When his tattoo was done, her breath now smelling faintly like cum, he let out a satisfied sigh, admiring his fresh ink in the mirror.

“Looks like you, ya know.” He mused, meeting her gaze. She looked momentarily shocked, as if she seriously had not intended that.

“Good,” she replied with a smirk finding its way to her lips. “Marking my territory.” Oh, she had no idea how right she was.

My irl CoD Trad tat

CoD Masterlist

#captain john price x reader #cod x reader #john price #john price x reader #john price x you #price x reader #price x you #price/reader #cod #captain john price #captain john price x you #captain price #captain price x reader #captian john price #cod smut #call of duty

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