Charmed By Two

CAPTAIN PRICE 🤚 IN MODERN WARFARE III

my body sleeps on your boredom

SUGAR DADDY!PRICE X READER

18+ | sugar daddy/baby relationship. age gap. (implied) mafia au. dom!Price. (slight) dubcon breeding. breeding kink one so insane you can hear Mormons applauding in the distance. contraceptive control. implied financial control. rough sex. infidelity*. dad!John Price. cheating (not between reader and John). Old Money Rich.

What you have with Price is entirely transactional.

His job—the nuances of which he keeps out of the bedroom, the bed—eats up the bulk of his time, and you—pretty little tchotchke that warms his sheets, keeping him cradled between soft thighs, head nestled on the enticing swell of your chest (weary heads and all, you suppose); a homecoming he can sink his stress into—lap up the scraps.

It's an arrangement that works for both of you, really.

Your rent is paid. Closet bursting with clothing. Always tripping over more shoes than you know what to do with. Food in the fridge. Financial worries are swallowed down quickly when they arise (along with a whiskey-tinged glob of spit when he grips your throat and tells you to open wide). He takes care of you. And you—

You take care of him, too.

a simple creature, really: he just wants dinner on the table when he comes over (home), a pretty thing to stare at while he eats, humming around a mouthful as you prattle on about your day (non-negotiable—his appetite is archaic, oppressive: the man grunts around a piece of meat his woman cooked for him as her bare feet slide teasingly up and down his leg, and she fills the stifling silence with inane chatter), and at the end of the obligatory meal, he gets to vent his frustrations out on the wet, warm embrace of your cunt as it squeezes his bare cock (also non-negotiable).

It's an effortless synchronicity.

When you need money, you send a picture of yourself in lingerie he bought above a coy pretty please, daddy to soften the grump up, and after a few exchanges of him lamenting the unnecessary purchase (a part of you, wishful, idealistic, clings to the idea that maybe he just wants an excuse to talk to you, to let you lap at more of his time than think he can afford to give), he relents. The money is sent to your account. You walk out of the department store with an ache in your belly that no amount of expensive wine or truffle could ever hope of filling and bags dangling on the crook of your finger, and he gets to thicken in his trousers over the idea of spending his money on a pretty little thing he can bury his cock inside of whenever the mood strikes. A patriarchal sort of preening. Masculine ego stroke. The role of a dutiful provider all wrapped up nice under the hum of ownership, sex.

(Then he really gets his money's worth when he bends you over the settee. Bought and paid for.)

And you're fine with it. It works. It makes sense because this is the only way that the two of you, together, do.

He's older than you are (salt peppers his hairline; wisps of smoke slither out of the tips of wry, umbre curls. No laugh lines, but his eyes crinkle when he smiles). He has a career. A good one. The second bottle of Violet Sapphire he bought on a whim for you after you whined about running out of the first (a gift—sales lady said you'd like it, sweetheart) isn't cheap. Neither are the handbags. The Tuscan leather shoes. The teardrop pearls. A good man, too. Upstanding citizen, and all that—

(the thin line of pale, creamy skin against ripened peach: a married man. a crayon shoved in the pocket of his trousers: a father.

blood under his nails. ghosts in his eyes. the smell of gunfire and madness clinging to his skin: a monster, too.)

—and you barely finished community college. Scraped by with a degree you're almost entirely certain he paid for, too. But you get to float around a meaningless job doing empty, vapid things to fill your days when he isn't around. 

(An ornament doesn't serve a purpose if it isn't being gawked at.)

An imbalance, you suppose. Or a ballad: the timeless tale of a stupid, greedy girl sinking her teeth into a grown man's wallet like a dog with a bone. In his hand, the leash. A tug. Be good.

And you are.

You let him slide inside of you as many times as he wants, and pretend the burnished seaglass staring down at you isn't filled with longing. Kneel on your satin cushion at his feet as he stretches out on his throne, and guides your pretty, empty head to his cock. Good girl.

Always.

Even when you shouldn't be. Even when he's gone for long periods of time. don't wait up, peppering the air as he goes. Nothing but an empty bed. Rumpled sheets. The scent of sex and tobacco. Leather and motor oil. Smoke. Sage and stale sweat on your pillowcase. An ache between your thighs. The tattoo of his teeth seared into your skin. An envelope full of cash (just in case). The card he left behind (anythin' you want).

Little tchotchke put back on the shelf. Tucked away so the reason for that pale strip of skin and the broken crayon in his pocket won't ever see you. A dirty secret. Another skeleton in an overstuffed closet.

Predictable, really.

You know your place in his world even if he doesn't say it.

(until he does—)

Just not in so many words—a paradox considering how much he loves to boss you around, growling commands under his breath (on your knees, open up, suck my cock, pretty girl, want me bad, mm, missed my cock inside your cunt, didn't you? show me how much)—in fact, they don't even come from him.

It comes from the pharmacist when you duck inside to pick up your prescription for birth control, and instead of handing it over, he just shakes his head.

"You don't have any refills for this month."

He's gone for two months.

MayoClinic warns that this is the estimated window needed for the hormones to dissolve from your system. The risk of a pregnancy after this, it reads, is likely.

You ponder that in a penthouse suite, sitting pretty amongst shredded wrapping paper. A Dior Turtleneck Sweater wrapped around your throat instead of his hands. An apology—according to the embroidered card, the tight, messy pen strokes mention something about an unexpected business trip.

The return address on the box is in Liverpool.

It's listed for sale on Zillow. The asking price is just over a million dollars. A family home on a vast plot, it reads. Six bedrooms—five in the main home and an additional inside a detached coach house. A gated driveway. A secluded courtyard with a suntrap. Something called a self-contained annex seems to be the main focal point of the sale. It has five reception rooms and a sprawling garden.

Perfect for a family, it adds.

You thumb the alpaca wool on your knit sweater, and wonder if this is the leash being cut—

Or pulled tighter.

He doesn't bring it up.

And so, neither do you.

It sits like an oafish, gaudy elephant in the background as he walks into the apartment, fingers digging into his tie. Ignored. Dismissed. He grunts when the knot loosens. Shoulders falling lax. Calmed without the clench of something around his neck.

You place his plate on the table when he wanders closer, offering one of those simpering 50s era housewife smiles when his big, bearish hand swallows up your waist. The scent of char and gunsmoke clings to his collar when he leans in, pressing a kiss to your temple. Acrid. Metallic. Beneath it, you catch stale sweat. Animalic. Unwashed man, leather.

And nothing else.

There's old, greasy sweat on his nose. His hair is slicker than usual. Darker. Blood under his nails. Smoke between his teeth when he hums, offering a low, rasping missed you, sweetheart that scratches along your skin.

He didn't shower before he came to see you.

You hide the notion of it behind your teeth, letting it grace your smile with something that feels less plastic, rigid. More real. Artless. Clumsy. Like the dress he sent ahead of himself and the matching pair of designer heels that still sit inside their box. You'd never wear shoes in the house, but John Price isn't a man who does things in halves.

(a purse sits on the settee: a complete set.)

His eyes are dark—pelagic: the ocean at night; all dark, no stars, moonless—and when he looks at you (in the clothes he bought, in the penthouse he owns, cooking the dinner he wanted), something ripples across the surface. A frisson. Underwater quake. Deep and dark, and darkly possessive. Hungry. 

You like the look on him right now. Maybe even more than anything else he'd ever bought for you, done to you, because Price is, above all else, fundamentally human.

He has rules. Expectations. It's rare he's ever driven by instinct beyond anger—that thrilling thing you'd only ever glimpsed when he peeled back the curtain, tearing the skin he wore with you kneeling at his feet and growled into the phone at whoever stroke his ire. He's controlled chaos. Gruff and uncompromisable.

But the look on his face right now splits that staunch control down the middle until it falls, shattering into pieces at his feet.

He growls m’hungry, sweetheart, and you barely have a second to push the risotto aside before he lifts you onto the table, barely sparing a minute to swipe his hand across the surface, sending dishware and untouched food tumbling to the ground with that same little growl he gave to the man on the phone who disturbed him from the comfort of keeping his cock warmed on your tongue all day long. 

You're laid over the jacket he'd thrown down—rich with gunsmoke, tobacco, and something sharp and metallic—legs squeezed together, ankles tossed over his right shoulder.

It's messy. Artless. All animal despite the cocoon of finery bracketed around you.

Plates shake from the jarring force of his thrusts. Cups tip, spilling your glass of Roumier across the table. Something shatters when it hits the ground. But he doesn't stop. Doesn't even notice the chaos happening around him—as if the world ceases to exist beyond the sight of you taking his cock like a good girl. Spread out for his leisure. His pleasure.

He certainly looks like a hellish king as he stands above you. Towering. Terrifying. One hand wrapped around your throat, keeping you still as he slides his gaze from the tilt of your thighs to the tears puddling in the corner of your eyes as he stretches you open with the thick of him. The other looped under your knees, holding firm. Fingers digging into your flesh. Tight. Rutting like a beast.

There's sweat on his brow. His chest heaves. The hand around your throat slides down your collarbones in a damp spill of heat that makes your toes curl above his shoulder. Rough. Sticky with sweat. With you from when he pried your cunt open on three thick, scarred fingers, grunting at the sloppy mess he found between your thighs. Always so fuckin' wet for him.

It wasn't enough, but you think he likes that. Indulges in something archaic, sinister, when he catches the wince on your face as his too-big cock notches against your too-tight hole. Forcing himself inside with a grunt that sometimes sounds like a laugh when you whimper. When you cry and claw at the sheets and beg for mercy—just a minute to adjust, a second to get used to the burning stretch. The poignant ache when he slides down to the root—so deep, you sometimes think you can taste him in your throat.

He gives no quarter then, and he doesn't now.

Price likes fucking you rough. Edging on painful, bordering on too much. It's the juxtaposition, you think, from the way he treats you like a spoiled little princess who has daddy wrapped around her finger to the dressed up little whore he lays out on a table, bends over a settee, and brands your throat with the clench of his paw as he pounds into you like a beast. A little mean, a little cruel—just enough to balance out the rasp in his voice when he hands you his credit card and says buy whatever you want, sweetheart.

(and miss you, sweetheart—when he's tired and alone and already four glasses of whiskey deep; voice ground down to ash from the cigars he burned through. As soft as a man like him could ever get. Can't stop thinkin' about you, sweetheart. Need to see you, sweetheart. Need your pussy. Your cunt. Your mouth. That tight little ass. Want to fuck your throat until you can't speak for days, sweetheart.

(Want to push m'self so deep inside of you that you forget yourself, love. Forget who you are without my cock inside of you. Can't—can't live without me—)

Ash and soot. The next morning, another ten grand sits in your account. A knife slides cleanly, neatly, into your guts when the accompanying text says for listenin' to the nonsense of a drunk old man. don't take it to heart.)

Balance, maybe.

the thin strip of skin on his finger. the broken crayon in his pocket.

Maybe tonight was supposed to be the end. A clean break.

It makes you wonder if she found out about the tchotchke he keeps in his closet. The pretty little thing he begs to stay when he's drunk and alone, and then rips into pieces the next morning when money is promptly deposited into your account. A cruel-edged don't forget yourself, sweetheart.

But he's snarling as he peaks, grunting above you as sweat drips down his brow, heaving. Panting. Lips twisted up into a snarl. Eyes furious. Mad. His hand is a brand over your mound, possessive as he holds you in his palm, feels the way his cock splits you apart. Owned.

Bought and paid for.

Another grunt, and his thumb dips down to rub at your clit, barking at you to come—come on my cock, sweetheart, need to feel it—until you howl, clenching up so tight around him that it rips a molten, liquid purr from his chest. A throaty moan that breaks you into pieces. Tears the veneer of flesh and bone from your consciousness until your body liquifies, spilling out over the table, mingling with the Chambolle Musigny Amoureuses soaking into your back. Wrapped tight around him, as he batters into you without any finesse. Clumsy ruts. Sloppy. Animal. And then—

His cock swells. Throbs.

Over the roar in your ears, you hear him groan low in his throat, deep and brutal; the rumbling of a well-fed bear burying its dinner in the dirt. It sounds like mine now. Like ain't you, mm, sweetheart? gonna keep you nice and full. got all those rooms to fill, don't we—

wishful thinking.

But he comes inside of you. Bare. Raw. Your hands untangle from around his wrist, palm still wrapped around your throat, and drop down to your belly.

Price sees it and groans—

"that's it, sweetheart—"

(ain't gonna be empty for long.)

He's always had this little fantasy of knocking you up.

Used to growl in your ear about how badly he wanted to see you swell with his babies. Little broodmare he'd keep chained to his bed like a queen. Giving him five sons and five daughters because he could never seem to make up his mind on what he wanted—only that it was a lot.

(An improbable thing, really—he might yank on the leash, but you easily talked him down to four; two boys and two girls.)

He comes back (home) some days with fire in his eyes and sets on you like a man possessed, starved. Smothering you into the mattress with the thick of his body, grunting into your ear about knocking you up. Getting you fat and needy with his babies until you forget what it felt like not to be nursing, to be pregnant.

A terrifying concept. Something that made you rush a little faster to pick up your contraceptives, comparing the pill in your palm to pictures online just to make sure they were the same. And maybe at some point, it just became a game.

He'd press you into sheets and fuck you all day long, making you keep count. Each time he came inside of you was another baby to this empty house. A crazy thing, really. Midlife crisis, perhaps.

But you indulged.

Let him press his hairy, thick chest against yours as he folded your knees up to your ears and pounded inside of your aching, messy cunt, gasping out a tally into his sweat-slicked jaw. Laughed as he kept your legs bent and your hips tilted up, eyes riveted to the split of your sore, aching cunt. Growling an awful amalgamation of primal, masculine satisfaction at the sight of him spilling out of you and in anger at the fuckin' waste.

("gonna plug you up next time," he seethed, two fingers buried inside your bruised hole to stem the flood. "Wastin' it all, sweetheart.")

But that was before.

When he'd shower before he came to see you. Sometimes waiting days after he landed before he was back in your bed, grunting around the idea of another trip you wanted him to take you on, pretending to think about it despite the tickets to Egypt already booked. When he'd play house with you. I Love Lucy on the television, dinner in the oven. His hand curled over your nape as you bobbed your head up and down his cock. A dutiful wife taking care of her overworked husband.

Making babies in the dead of night. When he'd grunt say it, sweetheart into your ear, and you'd beg him to give you another one. Tears in your eyes, lachrymal, as you tried to convince your husband that the baby you put to bed in the empty room needs a sibling.

His hand on the leash, but your voice in his ear—paper soft—pleading don't make our child grow up as an only child, John.

(two weeks in Portofino booked. First class. Luxury resort. A Wolf & Badger swimsuit laying on your bed, one with a gold zipper on the front that he wears out by the sixth day and has to run to town to buy you a new one.)

But that was before. When it was just a rich, dangerous man's fantasy. When you had birth control to keep the unrepentant baby fever he had just a dream. Never a possibility. Never a reality.

MayoClinic says the possibility of conception is high.

The period tracker you glimpse on his phone one evening warns that you have two days before it comes.

When you swallow around the idea of it, half dizzy, half sick (six bedrooms), he rests his hand over your nape, tugging on the leash. His eyes are dark again. Midnight blue, almost black. Hadal.

He keeps them fixed on you. A ravenous black hole. Calmly closing the app as if nothing was wrong, as if he didn’t have your cycle locked into his phone. Rough, calloused thumb brushing over the soft patch of skin beneath your ear. Steady and soothing. Like calming a skittish mare. 

Unflinching. Unbothered. Entirely unconcerned when he kicks his foot over the line of what's expected, what you want, and fucks you again that night, bare. Raw. Groaning when he comes. Huffing into your ear about how he'll take such good care of you—both of you.

And when he tucks a pillow under your hips, you drag your hand down to your wet, swollen cunt in a clumsy, enticing attempt to keep him inside of you until he fills the empty space with the thick split of his scarred knuckles.

A performance, you think, when he groans like you gutted him. Bought and paid for. 

That's all this is.

But he doesn’t book a trip for this performance.

And he's gone when you wake (business, he says, in a messily scrawled note left on the end table), but there's a gift bag on the dining room table, sitting next to the stain you left when he pulled out of you. Dried come. Slick. Tinged slightly pink because he was rough with you last night. Hurried. 

The black box inside is an apology for hurting you even though you know he likes it when his come is a little pink as it leaks out of you. When you wince when you sit, and have to press a icepack against your sore, swollen cunt.

(it doesn't surprise you to find a pack already left out for you. coffee in a pot. breakfast warm on the stove.)

But the next thing he left is the real gift.

Divorce papers—already signed by him, the gold band he never let you see on top—sits on a stamped envelope, awaiting another signature. It just has to be mailed out. When you sift through them, the cause for the divorce is irreconcilable differences.

Balm to the shame is the little fact that he hasn't lived with his wife for the last year. The date of separation coincides neatly with that drunken phone call when he told you he wanted to bury himself so deep inside of you that you couldn't breathe without him saying you could. 

Domineering. Grossly possessive. 

He has you already, but that's not enough. 

It'll never be enough.

("wanna—mm, wanna give you everything, sweetheart. and I want everything, too. every part of you. wanna change your fuckin' name to mine—")

You tap your nail against the page labeled custody agreement, not even a little surprised that this docket has everything outlined, itemised. The table of contents says you'll find the prenup on page fifty-six and the proposed split of assets on page sixty-seven. It's thorough and every bit as intimidating and uncompromising as the man is wont to be. 

He's serious.

And John wants his kid. Non-negotiable.

That, too, doesn't really surprise you. Even when you were playing house, he'd always been a rather doting father—

("I don't want them to just have a sibling," he'd growl, firm and immutable, adding (intractable as always): "I want them to have a fuckin' team.”)

The address he gives for his primary residence, however, does give you pause. Liverpool. Chestnut Avenue, Moor Park. Six bedrooms. A guesthouse. 

The envelope is filled out, too. All it needs is to be tucked inside and mailed out. 

Already separated, his lawyer says, neat and tidy, like everything else in the pages. This was the most inevitable course of action, and my client, John Price, is ready to move on with his new life. 

Ready to move on. You scrape your tongue against your teeth, hand settling over your belly as you think about that. It's just—

He's always been a rather obstinate man. Stubborn. Once he gets his head around an idea, very little can change his mind. You'd seen it countless times before, but never this cold. Callous. 

Dismissive. 

Not to you, anyway. Not that you can remember. It's always been silk sheets, gifts from stores that would deny you entrance based on your credit score alone. A new wardrobe. A new place to stay. And that's—

That's kind of odd, you think. Maybe. 

He cut your lease the day after you dragged him home from the bar, back when he was just a bad choice after a terrible night out. Had the locks changed. A new lease in your hands—in his name—and a key under the mat beside a housewarming gift. An expensive espresso machine that would be a little too bourgeois in Starbucks. A penthouse that overlooks the ocean. Members only. 

There's a valet. A gym. A swimming pool. He joked one night that you'd feel right at home with the sauna it housed. Jus’ like a lodge, mm. 

You're not sure how he knew. It's one of those things that he just does. Like your name. The real one you grew up hearing before you moved to the city and changed it to fit in. How many siblings you have. Your parents. Their birthdays. A gift always sent out in your name, arriving just on time. 

All of your old things were donated. You didn't need them anymore—not when he ordered a whole new wardrobe from Loro Piana for you. Handed you his card and told you to fill the house up with whatever would make you happy. 

(Fitting, you suppose, since you barely have to think about anything except how to make him happy.)

He turned in your resignation less than three hours after you fell asleep on your lumpy mattress, worn out after a night of drinking. A night of him. More animal than man. Too tired to kick him out before you passed out under the weight of him still burying you into the mattress, hips flexing as he fucked you again for the third time. 

(the fourth, fifth while you were still sleeping. waking up to the sixth: him inside of you, a slow grind as he rocks in and out; he's bigger than you. too big. with your thighs wrapped snug around his hips, the top of your head barely clips the ledge of his shoulder. he wrapped an arm around your upper back, the other reaching out, gripping the pillows above you. panting into the thick bed of curls covering his chest as he threads his hand over your crown and presses you tighter against him. groaning into your ear. ducking his head down to rasp out how badly he wants to feel your messy little pussy squeeze him tight—

before he leaves, he hooks two thick fingers inside, and fucks his come into you. makes you come on his cum-soaked fingers before he wanders off with a small smile, the scent of tobacco and sex pungent in the air.)

And the ring—

You thought he never wore it because of some misguided sense of propriety. Decorum. The Madonna—a thin strip of pale skin, waterlilies and cashmere, a crayon in his pocket; tabloids dressing her up as a modern day Diana; a divot between his brow that grows and grows and—

and the Whore—

A penthouse. Dior sunglasses. Cucinelli heels. Colombo jackets. Loro Piana outfits that cost more than your parents make in a year. His credit cards left on your bedside table. Trips in a snap of a finger. Luxury a phone call away. 

(his voice pitched low. a smoldering rasp. stay, sweetheart, don't go. don't leave—)

—the divot melting into a brooding, heated stare. Desire drenched across his brow; want so thick, so palpable, you can feel his need throbbing between your legs. Dissolving into ash after, when he loops an arm under your body, cradling you close to his sweat-slicked chest as he leans against the headboard, smoking a cigar. Basking in the scent of sex. Satiety. Your finger curling around a thick whorl of damp, coarse hair. Content. 

It’s selfishness. Teeth digging into the man, refusing to let go. But beyond that, you know you’re good for him. 

Better for him, you think, and jog the papers on the table, right above that ugly little stain, to neaten up the pile. 

It takes five minutes to slip them inside the sleeve, peel the adhesive off of the sticky tab, and walk them down to the mailbox just outside of the lobby. Five minutes to initiate a divorce. 

If you had any qualms about falling into bed with a married man—not that he really gave you much room to think about it since he never showed up with his ring, just the mark of her around his neck like a noose; a constant guessing game—it’s put to rest when the metal flap snaps shut. 

Shame feels like an elephant. Something in the background. Ignorable. 

And besides—

(you place your hand over your belly and hum)

—you have other things to think about, to worry over, than a crumbling marriage.

He must have gotten the notice that you mailed the documents because a text comes later that night. Simple. Succinct. 

Good girl. 

The elephant slinks away into the moonless night as you pull open the catalogue of engagement rings he left on his bedside table, and circle a few that catch your eye. 

All of them sapphire. The same blue as the broken crayon in his pocket.

(The period tracker on his phone chimes a few weeks later.

You don't even bother peeking over his shoulder to know you're late.

You have more things to worry about, after all. Like moving to Liverpool next week when his divorce is finalised, and planning a wedding for the spring.)

i cannot get over how low his jeans are here

The Mountain Is You

Ch. 1:  I've become a figment of my imagination

Dom!Ghost and Dom!Price x Sub!Reader

I'm making this one official. (Chapter 2!)

CW: Dom/sub, bondage/discipline, pain play, spanking.

Explicit/NSFW/MDNI

Ghost had been the perfect introductory level Dom.  You’d started visiting the office of Life Connect 141 after a referral from a friend, and he’d had many of the qualities you’d been looking for in a partner. 

He was anonymous and discreet.  With his mask on, you never had to worry about bumping into him in the grocery store or bringing your car into the shop and finding out the man operating the nut driver had whipped your ass raw and called you his perfect little dove as you gargled incoherent sounds around his fingers. 

He was quiet, too, and had a way of making you feel comfortable.  His commands were issued in crisp, clipped tones that were easy to follow and get right.  Yes.  No.  That’s it.  Again?   You even heard his voice in your dreams and used it to ground yourself when you needed motivation or a tether to the present.

You replayed your most effective scenes in your mind in the same way you imagined some people pictured the ocean or listened to bird songs.

The pulsing heat of your backside tucked tightly in a pencil skirt, combined with his languid ‘good girl’ echoing through your mind, was enough to make your panties wet in the middle of a board meeting or standing on the platform at the train station.

And his aftercare was more than sufficient.  Although, to be honest, it bordered a bit on the cold side.  Rehearsed in a way that felt like he was only going through the motions.  Counting the minutes before whispering, “That’s my time, hon,” in your ear as he helped you to your feet.

He was there for you, but he didn’t need you.  It was you who sought out his services.  He’d done his job when you left feeling refreshed and confident to tackle whatever chaos awaited you in the world outside his office.  He was a professional, and you were a client. 

He wasn’t cheap, either.  Your self-care budget had taken a backseat to more pressing responsibilities, and it had become more and more difficult to make an appointment.  He’d become quite popular and needed to be booked further and further in advance.  You didn’t always know if you’d be in the right headspace when he was available, but you didn’t want to give up your place in the rotation. 

But it wasn’t for any of those reasons that you called to cancel your future sessions and take your name off the last-minute openings list.  He didn’t do anything wrong.  It was all you.

You’d trusted Ghost, worked up a relationship where he knew what you wanted and gave it to you exactly how you liked it, with a sniper’s precision.  At least until your latest session, when you desired something a bit...more. 

Work, and life in general, had been especially stressful.  A guy you’d started seeing from the gym had turned out to be a complete creep who stood you up on your second date, and spammed your phone for three days when you didn’t accept his apology or his offer to reschedule.  And your assistant had left for an unexpected medical leave and her temporary replacement didn’t know how to answer the phone. 

You were patient.  You were kind.  You were tired.  And now, on top of everything else, you needed to find a new gym.

It’d been a few months since you’d been in to see him, and you were severely overdue.  It was a recipe for disaster that, had you been a more experienced Sub, you may have been able to avoid.  Never go to bed angry?  Never visit your Dom when you were on the edge of spiraling out of control.

You were in your usual position, bottomless with your hands bound with his silk tie behind your back, ass presented to him on the faux leather sofa and your black lace panties in your mouth.  The mirror in front of you gave a view of the mirror behind you.  A 360 degree look at the crimson blood flowing hot under your fevered skin, the Hitachi vibrator strapped between your thighs and the dark figure at your back orchestrating it all. 

Everything was perfect.  Except that with each crack of the leather crop against your tender surface, you didn’t get any closer to the relief you sought.  You’d hit a wall, right on the cusp of that rapture you chased like a fiend.  Like a starving animal running down a faster prey with the last of its strength.

Pain had always been a curious thing for you.  Walking barefoot on the beach, the sharp rocks and shells against the arches of your feet were tactile and exhilarating.  The punishing ache of a deep tissue massage was more satisfying than the gentle glide of hands on your skin. 

There were times your whole body felt like an itch you couldn’t scratch.  That it needed to be flayed off or burned away, grown anew like antler velvet or snakeskin.

When he counted his twentieth whack, and you weren’t there yet, you whimpered with frustration.  The slickness at your core dried up, and the precipice of your orgasm disappeared from reach.  Just as you teetered at the top of the mountain, you slid back down to the bottom with a hopeless crash.

“Color, pet?”  At the unfamiliar sound of your distress, he stiffened behind you and moved quickly to pull the fabric from your mouth. 

“Green,” you pleaded, tears flooding your eyes unbidden. “Please.  Give me a few more.  I was close.”

“We already did three rounds of twenty.  I can’t go any further today.”  He kept his voice hard and controlled.  “Don’t want to scar this sweet, perfect ass.”

He slipped a glove off one hand and reverently grazed his knuckles over your welting hide.

“I’m renegotiating.  Please!”  You weren’t above begging.  Not like this.  Not when your blood ran hot enough to burn and sweat dripped between your breasts in desperation.

“No.”

“You think I’m weak, is that it?  That I can’t take it?”  Your ire sprung from your helplessness.  Not the physical surrender that you’d craved, but the impotent kind that left you empty and unfulfilled.

“Careful, dove.  Talking back to me like that.”  He slid his gloved hand along your cheek to cup your chin, turning you up to look at him.  Deceptively gentle as he gritted through clenched teeth, “You know better, don’t you?”

“What are you going to do about it?”  A fresh flare of anticipation fluttered through your belly, and settled low, where your bare cunt cradled the head of the vibrator.  

Fathomless eyes narrowed back at you with calculation from the openings of his mask.  The skull painted in place of his face sized you up in a fraction of a second before he let his hand fall away.

You squirmed under his scrutiny, clutching the smooth, hard plastic tighter between your thighs, rutting against the only point of contact you had left.  Willing it to be more and feel better than it did.

He sat silent, watching you struggle for what seemed like hours as your shoulders cramped and your knees shook from the constraints of your position.

“Help me?”  You begged again, running your tongue along your pouty lips.  Hungrily eyeing the zipper of his black dress pants.  “I’ll do anything you want.” 

Finally, he fisted a handful of your hair, pulling tight and sharp.  The sting both too brief and too late.

“You know the rules.”  The sympathetic slant of his head and the soft honesty in his tone pulled you out of the scene once and for all. 

You did know.  For all of its merits, Life Connect 141 also had its limits.  It was a business, and it came with strict guidelines.  No sex and no blood.  No exceptions.  Safe, sane, and consensual.  Sanitized and structured. 

Except none of those things were going to get you where you needed to be at that moment.  So, you did something you never thought you’d do.

You tapped out, muttering your safe word and pulling the plug.  He’d never given up on you before, but the clock had run out, and any further discussion was just a waste of his precious time.

The only indication he’d even heard you was a curt nod of acceptance and a clipped, “Alright,” as he untied your hands and rubbed some life back into your arms.

“Dove?”  He was concerned, and probably looking for his own reassurance.

Too humiliated to melt into his thick, tattooed arms, or to accept his offered ice pack for your battered backside, you simply dressed silently and shook him off with a faked smile.

“I’m fine.  Really.  See you next time.”  With not an ounce of truth.

You didn’t know the etiquette for breaking up your Dom, so you were surprised when you got a call barely an hour after you’d canceled.  Thinking it was a last ditch sales pitch to keep you as a customer, you let it go to voicemail.

But instead of a generic, “What can we do to keep your business,” you were greeted with Ghost’s voice instead.

“It’s me.  I’m just sorry that things ended the way they did.”

Why was he apologizing?  You’re the one who'd made a fool of yourself.  Pushing him for things he couldn’t give you.  As if you were more than just a transaction to him.

“I’d like to take you out for a drink.  There’s someone I’d like you to meet.  He can do more for you than I can.  I think you’ll like him.  I wouldn’t trust my best girl with just anyone.”

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes at that, even as it curled your toes.  He probably said that to all his Subs.

“Call me back.  Please?  His name’s John.”

Captain John Price in Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 09/??

Old Man!Price has a thing for pretty little things.

He'd be the type of soldier to randomly pick up a dandelion or random weed flowers, inspecting it closely before crushing it in his calloused palm as if he was not admiring it a moment ago.

And you're no exception.

Pretty and perfect. An invitation for corruption as if you're begging to be ruined, shown no mercy and totally under his control. You're perfect for it, almost too perfect as if reality is playing a cruel trick on him by putting you into his arms. It was too easy, very easy but John doesn’t complain. He knows better than to fuck up a good thing by overthinking. 

John holds your nose closed, stopping you from breathing for a moment. He tsks you at your feeble attempt to take his whole length and currently you are paying the price. Eyes glaciated with struggle, slobbering down his length, your drool dripping onto your tits- a perfect display of submission, compliance. 

“I told you you couldn’t take me all the way but you just had to argue with me, didn’t you?” John says, his voice dark and glazed with authority. 

You let out a pathetic, muffled whimper, your gaze filled with apology and regret. He lets go of your nose allowing you to get a breath of air as you pull away from his cock breathing heavily and babbling a series of ‘I’m sorry’s’. 

John sighs as tears roll down your flushed cheeks.

“I’ll give you one more chance, dollface. Open wide.” 

You part your lips hesitantly, scared of disappointing him. John pushes his leaking cock past your lips, your tongue instinctively darting out to lick the tip, gathering his pre-cum as you savour the taste of his salty goodness. A soft moan of satisfaction leaves your mouth as you try your best to take him fully. 

John shudders, groaning, his eyes screwed shut. Damn it, he didn’t want you to do that, he was gonna end up cumming and at his age, there was no way he could be ready for another around straight after. 

He grips the armrest trying to think of anything else other than his pretty babe sucking his cock so bloody well. 

Ponies… Beer… Shit- No, beer makes me horny… the SAS… military life… my birdie sending me a boudoir album on our first anniversary when I was away- Lake… Lake house… Holiday… Birdie in lingerie… pretty boobs, soft, warm… Wait, no- Ah, fuck…

He gives up as he feels the impending coil about to snap. Grabbing the back of your head, he shoves his whole length in not caring about your comfort. Your nose nuzzles against his dark bush, musky scent engulfing you. John cums, cums so hard that it makes you gag and spill out of your mouth. 

You pull away panting, swallowing what remains of him. Looking up at him, you raise an eyebrow at the sudden loss of John’s control. He laid back, spent and heaving with his arm covering his eyes. 

“Let's go to a lake house, Birdie.”

Sleepy Price commission for @oasislake76 💤

CAPTAIN JOHN PRICE IN CALL OF DUTY: MODERN WARFARE (2019)

Small continuation to this. @nightunite @beloveds-embrace I remember your interest in Price’s divorce, so here we go

Thinking thoughts about ex-husband John, who’s never there, who’s married to his work in the best and the worst sense of the phrasing. He misses birthdays and Christmases and Valentines and everything in between.

He promises-promises-promises, kisses the crown of your head, eyes tired and deeply seated in the web of his crow’s feet — dark blue of his irises so unreachable it feels like choking when you try to even try and touch the bottom of it.

Pressure changes, pressure threatens to burst your eardrums, pressure promises to make you sorry for trying to push through it.

John sighs and turns away, shoulders a rough square, tension already lacing through him because yeah, of course, luv, not like he doesn’t know that he’s missing your anniversary.

Yes, he knows. Yes, he gets it, sweetheart, he really does, but didn’t you know who you are marrying?

He is not even angry, exasperation of his tone slicing through your chest and it almost feels like condescension — the way he keeps patting your head and trying to kiss it better, like a spare kiss and a kind word would suffice for everything he didn’t live up to.

Like it can reinstate your trust in him after another cancelled date and another lonely dinner when he swore he’d get a day off and never did.

Honestly, he has no one but himself to blame and all things considered some people would say it’s a miracle you lasted this long with him.

It’s wonder you loved him so much you forgot that you need some love too. A true miracle you always loved him and never looked the other way, god knows he had to fight a lot of potential suitors for your hand before you decided you want him.

Angry, stubborn, moody and controlling him.

You picked him up as an explosive sod in his mid twenties and made him the man he is now, carefully manoeuvring through the triggers of his and making him smile when it all felt like a big load of shite.

Why did you even settle for him?

Why does he now feel like you settled for him — a closed off git who spent his whole life proving that he’s worthy of respect and his rank and responsibility.

And you.

God, it’s been years and he’s still not sure if he really is worthy of you.

John stares down at the divorce papers on his desk and feels something very similar to hurricane unfurling in his chest, rage pounding inside his head, panic icing our all warmth that was there, ring on his finger suddenly so slippery he has to curl his fingers into fist.

Can’t risk losing it. Not when he’s already losing you.

Simon watches him sometimes, John notices, but Ghost never says anything or perhaps, he does, just not to John. Small mercies.

John can’t help but feel a twinge of acidic envy at Simon getting along with his bird so well — his pretty partner picking up the behemoth of 141’s lieutenant.

Simon’s partner who always murmurs something in his ear and Ghost’s eyes crinkle in the corners.

Simon’s partner who seems content with how things are and with how often Simon is absent and Price just doesn’t bloody get it.

Simon works almost as much as he does, Simon is always away, Simon is never home for holidays.

And yet Simon’s partner says “yes” to a proposal and grins like the happiest person in the world whilst standing at the altar.

And yet Simon’s now spouse is bringing him snacks and is kissing his jaw and doesn’t fucking plan to divorce Simon.

Drives John right up the fucking wall, it does.

But there is no way he’s going to ask his lieutenant why his marriage isn’t failing, why his spouse seems to still love him. Why John’s doesn’t.

John drags his feet through the whole proceeding, John watches you with heavy bottomless eyes but stays stubbornly silent because okay, that’s your choice.

You want to get rid of him so badly that even wedding vows aren’t stopping you? Off you go then, he’s not gonna tie your leg to a kitchen table and lock you in the house.

John just scoffs and looks away but still hides your car keys in his fatigues so you don’t leave after another fight.

John murmurs “alright then”, but doesn’t sign the fucking papers because “I’m sorry, love, I lost them” and asks for the seventh copy.

John nods and says he’s letting you go if that’s what you want, but he doesn’t take off his ring and shakes his head when you offer to give him back your engagement one.

Yeah, it was his mom’s but it’s yours now, alright, love? Always yours.

He’s yours.

John is the wickedest man there is because he says one thing thinks another and does the third one.

And never never admits what the fuck is going on, because he can’t, because there has to be something wrong with him if even his lovely spouse is running.

Because John must be sinking if even his better half doesn’t think it’s worth staying and he doesn’t say anything but just stays in the kitchen while you are shuffling around the house.

Drinks the same cup of earl grey for hours on end, twirling spoon in it mindlessly, nervous tremor to his left wrist getting harder when his head gets a little too dark.

You hover in tne doorway, eyes deep with something he isn’t sure how to reach and it would be so easy if you said something like always. If you made the first step so he doesn’t have to.

But you just stand there, awkwardly shifting weight from one leg to another before you finally leave upstairs to get ready for bed.

Feels just like another defeat for John and at this point he is not even sure he knows how to play.

His tea gets cold the longer he sits on a wooden chair, lower back aching in protest but he just stares out of the kitchen window in the darkness of the night.

John says he can do this, John says it’s nothing, John says that he will sign it all.

John promises-promises-promises and still crawls in your bed, wrapping arms around you and breathing in your scent.

John whispers sweet quiet things in your skin, pleads you to reconsider, murmurs that he can’t do it without you.

He presses his forehead to your shoulder and scoops you up in his embrace, covering your whole body with his (come morning, he’ll pretend to be thoroughly asleep when you pull yourself out from underneath him just to be able to leave the bed).

Price still kisses your temple before work, press of his lips to your skin is more of a ritual than a routine, a second nature of his to love your whole being.

Price sits at his desk for a good hour before realising he hasn’t been writing a single fucking thing, he just can’t.

Not when his stomach churns at the thought of you right now packing up your things.

Of you leaving the house and leaving him.

Simon watches him carefully and at this point, it’s bloody annoying, can’t a man at least go through the divorce in peace?

Ghost huffs air out, rolls a fag between his teeth, tilting his head to the side — eyes heavy bottomless nothing, eyes the colour of graveyard soil, eyes-dark-holes that lead to a darker place of Simon’s head.

“Thought you didn’t want to divorce ‘em.”, Simon hums out like it’s a fact, like John hasn’t been missing every important date and important thing for the past few years.

Like John has been a good husband that deserves to have good things and deserves you.

Truth to be told, even before he became captain, John never fucking deserved you.

Could have lived a thousand lives and never earned the right to call himself your husband.

Still did though.

(Doesn’t matter if he deserved it if he really fucking wanted it, right?)

John rubs his eyes, pressing the heels of his palms down until the kaleidoscope of his ganglion cells doesn’t start to dance with flashes of colour.

Fucking hell, what is he even doing here? How did things turn to be so complicated?

“I don’t.”, he doesn’t realise he has said it out loud until he pulls his hands off his face and Ghost is still watching him with the same unnerving intensity.

He will get his lieutenant sunnies on one of these days and will never have to deal with this headache of a gaze.

“Then why do you?”, Simon asks like it’s simple, like it’s a fucking fairytale that Price can fix with a snap of his fingers or a kind word or a kiss of true love.

What’s the point of his true love if he’s not sure you can even feel it?

“How do you do it?”, John asks instead, words tasting like acid in his mouth, scraping his tongue and tender insides of his mouth, bleeding down sickening weakness down his throat.

His father would have smacked the taste out of John’s mouth if he heard the way he sounds right now.

But Ghost is not his father, Ghost just watches him silently, the only indicator that he even heard the question is a raised eyebrow of his. This cunt.

“Your spouse.”, John adds grumbling, dragging his feet through the whole conversation because god, he hates having talks. “They seem to be happy. Mine’s aren’t. ‘ts like I’m snuffing out their fire”, admitting it is even worse than thinking.

Admitting it is his personal defeat, his biggest flaw, his grandest fuck-up. Admitting it is a weakness.

Yeah, he deserves this fucking divorce all right. Miracle you put up with his arse for this long.

Ghost watches him with annoying understanding, with something almost akin to amusement, the same way you watch a dog run into clear glass doors repeatedly and then whimper on the porch in confusion.

“When’s the last time you talked?”, the question catches John off guard because it is so…normal? He honestly expected more silence or something more obscure but instead he is just awkward again.

But before John even gets to answer, Simon adds “Actually talked, John. Not snapped at each other like a pair of miserable toads”

Price has half a mind to tell Ghost to go fuck himself and his fucking talks but coincidentally Ghost is the one of them who is not going through the divorce, so John shuts his fucking gob.

“Think when you two actually connected like people. You’ve been together longer than some live in our line of work, sir”, Simon presses a cigarette butt down the ashtray, thin thread of smoke still rising off his desk.

“But when you are together this long you start forgetting that the other party can’t read your bloody mind. Goes for both of you by the way”, he chuckles, crossing arms over his chest, muscles rolling under the dark sweater of his.

“Reckon it’s third time they’ve been wringing you through it, isn’t it? Why’d you think they won’t back down now? What changed, eh?”

Price keeps rolling this pep talk on repeat the whole day, his mind a broken record speaking with the voice of his lieutenant and watching him from inside out with your eyes.

When was the last time you talked to each other?

When was the last time he asked you about the book you were reading? When was the last time you asked him about the op he came back from?

What changed?

John rubs his face, anxious sharp coils crawling up his arms to his heart, tremors getting worse before he has to physically force himself to stop and take a breather.

Not as young as he has been once, can’t just power through it anymore.

John shifts his weight from one leg to another, standing in front of the front door to your house and hates his own arse because what is even going on with him.

Price doesn’t want to think about the possibility of house being empty when he steps inside.

He will burn this bridge when he gets to it.

John gets inside and slowly pulls the heavy boots off, carpet cushioning his steps to the kitchen, warm glow of it welcoming him the same way your arms usually did.

You sit with his cup already filled up, steam rising off of his Earl Grey, something in his chest clawing from inside out in the open.

You don’t say anything but just raise to your feet and get ready to leave. So he can have his evening sit down with a cup until you fall asleep.

So you can hover for a moment longer in the doorway like the ghost of your own marriage before taking your leave and pretending later that you don’t melt into John’s embrace. That you don’t curl into him at night.

Price watches you, eyes heavy and dark, fingers of his right hand twitching involuntarily.

Here it comes. Now or never, John.

“Would you…do you want to have a cuppa with me? I bought these biscuits you seem to fancy, saw them on my way home, I—”, oh for fuck’s sake and now he’s rambling. This is just prime, John, that’s exactly how you were supposed to sound.

He coughs in his fist trying to mask the embarrassment, available hand still gripping the poor baggy of biscuits like it might run if he doesn’t do it.

What does he even think he is doing, offering his spouse fucking biscuits halfway through their divorce? He’s gone mad, that’s for sure.

“You are probably tired though. Must have had a long day with…everything.”, he adds softer, eyes down in his cup. Giving you an out.

Giving himself an out.

No need to have all these awkward conversations with your emotionally inept husband if you get divorced, right?

He’s a fucking coward when it comes to you. Always has been. Maybe that’s part of his “charm” you bought into?

“I can stay for a cup.”, you murmur quietly and plop himself down next to him. No cup in sight, John’s cheeks aching in a way that feels entirely too unnatural but your eyes crinkle and god, you are the prettiest, aren’t you, sweetheart? “Gonna make me one or you plan to stand there and look handsome?”

Teasing snaps him out of it, force of his smile just getting harder and he must be beaming at you like a proper idiot. But you don’t seem to mind too much.

Maybe you still like him after all.

“Just a moment, love”, John says, kiss to your cheek making his heart flutter, warmth spreading in his chest when you ravage through the baggy and bite off half of the biscuit.

Got them right this time, didn’t he? Seems like he’s still good for something.

John spends his whole life proving to himself that he deserves you and never asks whether you think he does or no.

John knows how to make your tea since your third date and knows what kind of biscuits his love fancies since the second one.

John decides he’s going to marry you on the first date you two have.

There is something bittersweet in brewing tea for a spouse he will always love and will always fail.

Because that’s what he does, because he never learned how to talk it out and he isn’t sure a daft old dog like him can learn any new tricks.

Coward’s way out.

No need to watch him claw his chest open and present you the infected wound of his heart if you get divorced, right?

Yeah, he never deserved you. But he always wanted.

John presses a dozen kisses to your face while he moves around the kitchen.

Each one a haste warm thing, more of a breath on your skin then actual touch.

That’s as much as he can muster up of actual tenderness without crumbling at your feet and swallowing his pride.

It all feels like a dead end. Like there is nowhere to go from here, he’s looking straight in the wall and he’s never been one to barrage through the obstacles.

Maybe that’s what was lacking. Maybe that’s why Simon’s spouse still loves him.

“You are thinking awfully hard there”, there is no malice in your voice, only quiet laughter and it spreads through Price’s achy bones like hot bath water, bubbles raising to his thorax.

Prettiest fucking thing you are with laughter like a hundred bells. Absolute darling.

John hums quietly, eyes meeting yours and he has a thousand different blunt questions that wary in degrees of hurt and confusion but you are still here.

Sitting in your kitchen, sipping tea he made for you, wearing his bloody sweater.

His spouse, his love, his partner for life.

“I got really lucky, didn’t I?”, it’s a rhetorical question, but there is choking tenderness the size of Jupiter in John’s mouth and he isn’t sure how to tell you that he’d kiss the soles of your feet every day the same way he kisses your forehead.

That bathes with you felt holier than any baptism, that he was closest to god when he was with you, your fingers combing through his hair like he’s something precious. Like he’s something you love.

John doesn’t know how to express the enormous amount of love he feels when you smile at him, when you yell at him, when you push back and snap your fingers in his face, his cheeky treasure.

John doesn’t think he earned the right to pleadask you to reconsider.

“I got more than most people ever did”, he murmurs softly and laces his fingers through yours, softly squeezing — callouses of his hands rubbing on the skin of yours.

There is a small twitch in the muscle of your jaw, your eyes intense enough to make him sorry if he tries to push harder and reach the bottom of your head.

“What’s that?”, your voice cracks the same way it usually did when you’d catch flu, cough ravaging your throat, rasp weaving itself in your vocal cords.

John looks at you for the first time in a very long time and there is no exasperated condescension in his eyes, crows feet of his eyes melting into a smile so gentle you feel like crying. This bastard.

“You.”, he murmurs, thumb circling the knuckle of yours, eyes soft in a way they haven’t been in forever and this is so unfair, he could ask you anything and you could never say no when he does it like that. “I got you.”, he adds quietly and his smile gets gentler. “Even if I never deserved to, I just want you to know that I always wanted it. Always wanted you. Always will”

John holds you like your are precious fragile thing, his skin warm from holding his cuppa, palm cupping your face when he angles your face up and kisses your brow.

Like it’s a goodbye.

“You deserve to be happy, love. You deserve to feel loved, not just know that you are”, Price says and wipes away a stray tear of yours, his eyes creasing in the corners to hide the redness of them, sharp lashes wet with something he would never admit.

Weakness that bleeds down his throat and chokes him out. Tenderness he never learned because men aren’t about the sappy talk.

John thinks one thing, says another and does the third one so he never mentions that he knows you have the stack of copies of divorce papers in your nightstand and never mentions that he left a signed one on top of them.

You deserve better than silent signature and stubborn husband.

You deserve better than him. But god, if it doesn’t kill him to admit it.

Just one more thing John Price will never talk about.

Masterlist

This was supposed to be a drabble, but the spirit of horny John Price possessed me. Completely unedited with a very abrupt ending... Oh well - sex pollen incoming!

John Price x Reader

*18+, Minors DNI*

Divider by @/cafekitsune

You'd been John Price's secretary for the better part of the last half decade. You'd been with him since he'd first made captain and had formed an excellent working relationship over the years, the nearly seamless teamwork of two people who knew each other inside and out. There'd been a time close to the beginning when you'd wondered if the two of you could have been something more, but it never progressed past the occasional flirtatious comment during a late night paperwork session.

No, you'd resigned yourself to a professional relationship with John years ago, no matter how fast your hear beat whenever you thought of his broad shoulders or strong hands. You told yourself it wasn't his voice you heard in your head when you touched yourself at night, that you didn't see the flex of his forearms as he moved his fingers in and out of you playing like a flim behind your closed eyelids.

You'd always assumed John had a partner tucked away somewhere, some pretty little wife to run his house and keep his belly full whenever he was on leave. You'd never seen a ring, but you'd heard Ghost make an offhand comment to Soap about "the missus" once. It made perfect sense - of course someone as good and dedicated as John would have a significant other waiting in the wings. It made it easy to bury your feelings - you'd never pursue a married man.

But you know what they say about assuming. You couldn't stop the phrase from flitting through your mind as you sat in the briefing room with the members of the 141 minus John. As they told it, he'd been compromised on the most recent mission with some kind of bioweapon and was currently in the infirmary for observations. He'd been asking after you since they'd arrived back in base, begging the other three men to track you down and bring you to his bedside.

"Shouldn't you be ringing Mrs. Price instead? I'm sure she’d want to know her husband was compromised."

A brief silence settled over the briefing room, and Soap and Gaz shared a strange look before glancing at Ghost.

"Price don't have a missus. 'Sides, he's asking for ya. We've wasted enough time already anyway - let's go."

The soldiers were on their feet and out the door before you could process the bomb they'd just dropped. John was single? Who the hell was "the missus" then? You scrambled to your feet and darted down the hall behind them, one arm bracing your chest to keep it from bouncing as you jogged to catch up.

They made it to the infirmary a few minutes ahead of you (damn their longer legs), and you could hear the murmur of their voices alongside John's low baritone. You could hear them laughing inside - that was good at least. John's laughter cut off abruptly as soon as you pushed the door open, his eyes cutting directly to where you stood in the doorway.

You almost thought you imagined the flare of his nostrils as if he was scenting the air, but you couldn't brush off the immediate tent that had formed in the bedsheets.

"There y'are, Dove! I've been dying to see ya all day."

It was your turn to look questioningly at Ghost, but he was sheparding the two sergeants out of the room, drawing the curtain around the bed, and giving you a thumbs up as he shut the door to the room. You swallowed as you heard the click of the lock. You were alone in a locked room with a compromised soldier - he could do anything to you here, he could hurt you, and no one would be the wiser.

"Stop standin' in the doorway like a stranger. Get over here before I have to come get ya."

This was a John Price you hadn't seen before - his cheeks were flushed, pupils dialted, and he was grinning like a madman. What was that bioweapon?

"John?"

He moaned at the sound of his name on your lips, his hips canting up slightly as you stared incredulously at him. Surely you were dreaming - you'd fallen asleep with your fingers buried between your soft thighs before you could orgasm. This had to be your brain's way of working out the lingering frustration of your unsuccessful wank session before bed. This couldn't possibly be real life.

"Please, Dove. I need ya - 'm so hot and everything aches. Just need ya to touch me, just for a second."

He was getting redder by the minute, a line of sweat starting to bead on his brow, his mouth falling open into a pant as he pushed the base of his palm against his erection. You couldn't stay here - you spun on your heel, intent on leaving as fast as possible when you heard a whimper behind you.

"Sweetheart, please. I feel like I'm dying over here."

You couldn't face him - this had to be a cosmic prank. It had to be karma for a past life; the universe dangling the man you wanted the most right in front of your nose as he begged you to touch him.

"John, I can't. You're sick - I'll go find a doctor or something."

You didn't wait for a response as you began to rattle the door handle. Did it only unlock from the outside? The crinkle of a paper under your foot caught your attention, and you looked down to see what was under the toe of your shoe.

Price got hit with a bioweapon making him extremely reactive to anyone he's attracted to. We figured it might be why he was so insistent on seeing you. It should wear off in about 12 hours - see you then.

You were going to find a way to kill Lieutenant Ghost. He'd broken about 15 different military protocols locking you in here, and you'd ensure he was court-martialed as soon as you figured out how you were going to escape.

A scorching heat at your back pulled you out of your vengeful reverie. Somehow, John had rolled out of bed and crept up behind you while you were reading the note. His palms were burning against your skin as he kneeded the fat of your hips.

"Always loved this fat arse, these pretty thighs. I’ve gotta sit on my hands sometimes when ya come into my office to stop myself from grabbing at ya. Just want to get a nice handful..."

You gasped as his hand slipped down the curve of your hip to grip your ass and squeeze, the hot length of his cock pressing against the small of your back. He slipped his muscular thigh between your legs and shifted you forward until your hands were pressed against the wall, using his broad shoulders to cage you in.

John was quickly starting to eclipse the world around you until he was all that was left. You couldn't stop the little whimper that tore up your throat as he bounced you on his thigh, his hands coming up to grip your chest. You could tell by the glide in your underwear you were already wet, almost past the point of reason now the man you'd wanted for years had his hands on you.

You didn't stop yourself from grinding back into him as his hands wandered across the planes of your body, gently caressing every curve and dip, pausing to stroke the rolls of your stomach tenderly.

"God I love you, Dove, but I can't wait anymore."

You whined as he slid back, the sweet pressure from his thigh dropping away as he fiddled with the button on the front of your trousers. You knocked his hands out of the way impatiently - he wasn't the only one who couldn't wait. John moaned as you finally ripped your trousers and underwear down your legs to pool on the floor at your feet.

"The shirt too - I need to see all of ya."

It was all the encouragement you needed to tear the rest of your clothes off, leaving you completely bare to John's tender gaze.

"So pretty, and all mine."

A switch seemed to flip with those words, and he was on you in an instant, his lips bruising and insistent on your own as he tugged you down to the floor. The juxtaposition between his fire on your front and the coolness of the tile at your back was intoxicating - you were going to fuck John Price.

"I'm not gonna be able to take my time, not the way I want, so you gotta promise me we'll go slow next time."

You gasped as he slid two fingers into you without warning. "Next time?"

"Yeah, next time," John was rapidly loosing his presence of mind, his words coming out in a growl as he scissored his fingers inside you.

"What kind of man would I be if I didn't make sure my missus was satisifed?"

You were the one Ghost was talking about - he'd been talking about you. The idea John talked about you enough for you to be seen as "his" had you unspooling, and you cried out his name as your orgasm rocketed through you.

He didn't wait for you to catch your breath before lining himself up with your entrance and sinking in, sighing in contentment as your walls gripped him.

"Thank you, Dove. You always know how to make everything better."

His eyes were closed as he rocked above you, setting a punishing rhythm as he chased his own release. Your eyes were hazy as you looked up at him, your fingers trembling as you reached up to trace his lips. They parted as you touched them, the tip of his tongue darting out to taste the salt on your skin. It didn't take him long to get close, only a few dozen thrusts before he was growling into your shoulder as he came, panting your name into the crook of your neck.

He seemed to come back to himself as you stroked his hair, blushing and stuttering as he apologized for taking you on the floor like an animal.

You couldn't stop yourself from giggling as you looked up at him. "You can make it up to me in the bed. You did promise me the next time would be slow. After all, you've got to take care of your missus, right?"