Think I Need Someone Older

Captain John Price in Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 04/??

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?"

More Than Temporary

Valentine’s Day Special

pairing: John Price x Shy!Introvert!Reader

synopsis: You never expected John Price to be anything more than a fleeting moment in your life—something warm but temporary, a quiet dream you’d wake from eventually. But when he overhears your fears of being nothing more than a passing phase, he decides to prove you wrong—starting with Valentine’s Day.

warnings: Fluff, mutual pining, insecurity, self-doubt, Price being the most patient and loving man alive, lots of soft domestic moments, implied intimacy, Valentine’s Day romance

word count: 1943

a/n: This one’s for all my fellow overthinkers, especially when it comes to love. Happy Valentine’s Day!

You’d always been the kind of person who preferred the background.

Quiet corners, neatly organized files, the soft hum of printers, the faint shuffle of papers—that was your comfort zone. Military administration suited you well. You blended seamlessly into the routine: processing reports, organizing schedules, ensuring the logistics of war ran smoothly from behind a desk. People came and went, their names etched into documents you processed, their faces blurring together over time.

Except for him.

Captain John Price wasn’t just another name on a file. He was larger than life—commanding, confident, with that deep voice and sharp eyes that seemed to see right through people. The first time you met him, you’d barely managed to string together a coherent sentence, your voice soft and tentative as you handed him a report.

And he’d smiled.

Not just polite or dismissive, but warm. Like you were the only person in the room.

It didn’t take long after that. Glances turned into small conversations, small conversations turned into lingering moments, and those moments eventually unraveled into stolen nights tangled in sheets, his touch burning into your skin like you were something precious.

But you knew better.

Someone like him—charming, confident, respected—didn’t settle for someone like you. This was temporary. A distraction. A phase he’d forget once something—or someone—better came along.

You’d accepted it.

Until he overheard you.

It was a few days before Valentine’s Day when you found yourself tucked away in a quiet corner of the base’s small café, a steaming cup of tea cradled between your hands. The soft hum of conversation and the faint clatter of dishes filled the background, but your mind was far too occupied.

Your friend, Mia, sat across from you, stirring her coffee absentmindedly as she studied your face. You’d been fidgeting with the sleeve of your sweater, avoiding her gaze, clearly lost in thought.

Mia finally broke the silence, her brow arched with curiosity. “Alright, spill. You’ve been weird all week. What’s going on?”

You hesitated, your fingers tightening around the mug. “It’s nothing.”

She snorted. “Yeah, because ‘nothing’ always makes people look like they’ve been overthinking their entire existence. Come on, talk to me.”

You sighed, glancing around to make sure no one was within earshot before leaning in slightly. “It’s… Price.”

Mia’s eyes lit up with interest. “Captain Price? The Captain Price you’ve been hooking up with for, what, two months now?”

Your face flushed, and you tried to shush her, your voice dropping to a whisper. “Keep it down!”

She grinned, clearly enjoying your discomfort. “Sorry, sorry. So… what about him?”

You fiddled with the rim of your cup, trying to find the right words. “I just… I don’t know what this is. Between us.”

Mia tilted her head. “What do you mean? Isn’t it obvious? You’ve been spending time together, he’s always looking at you like you hung the damn moon—”

“That’s just it,” you interrupted, frustration creeping into your voice. “I don’t think this is… anything. Not really. I mean, look at him. He’s—he’s John Price. He’s confident, respected, he could have anyone he wants. And then there’s me. I’m just—” you waved your hand vaguely, “—me.”

Mia frowned, leaning forward. “You’re not ‘just’ anything. Why would you think that?”

You swallowed hard, staring into your tea as if it held the answers. “Because I’m temporary. This… whatever we’re doing, it’s just a phase for him. Maybe it’s convenient, maybe it’s casual, but it’s not… permanent. He’s probably going to get bored eventually, and I’ll just—” You exhaled sharply, shaking your head. “I’ll get hurt if I let myself believe it’s more than it is.”

Mia was quiet for a moment, her expression softening. Then she reached across the table, placing her hand gently over yours.

“Have you ever thought that maybe you’re wrong?”

You blinked at her, caught off guard.

She continued, her voice gentle but firm. “You see yourself one way, but that doesn’t mean that’s how he sees you. Just because you think you’re temporary doesn’t mean he does. Have you ever asked him how he feels?”

Your stomach twisted. “No. I don’t want to put him in an awkward position.”

Mia squeezed your hand. “You’re not a burden, you know. Maybe you should give him the chance to prove that.”

You nodded slowly, her words lingering in your mind long after the conversation ended.

What you didn’t know was that John had been standing just a few feet away, waiting for his coffee.

And he’d heard everything.

And that’s when he decided—Valentine’s Day wouldn’t just be another day.

It would be the day he proved you were wrong.

You woke up to warmth.

Not just from the soft morning sunlight spilling through the blinds, but from the solid, comforting presence of John Price wrapped around you. His arm was slung over your waist, his face nestled against the crook of your neck, his beard scratching gently at your skin.

You blinked, heart racing.

He was still here.

You shifted slightly, trying not to disturb him. But his grip tightened, pulling you flush against his chest.

“Where d’you think you’re going?” His voice was thick with sleep, low and gravelly against your ear.

"I was gonna make coffee," you stammered softly.

"Coffee can wait," he murmured, pressing a lazy kiss to your shoulder. “Stay.”

So you stayed. Wrapped up in him, his fingertips tracing slow, idle circles on your skin, his breath warm against your neck. Time lost all meaning in the cocoon of his embrace.

Eventually, he did get up—to make breakfast.

You tried to protest, but he just kissed your forehead and said, “Let me take care of you today.”

The kitchen smelled of coffee and something buttery with a faint hint of burning. You padded in quietly, drawn by the soft clatter of dishes and John’s voice humming under his breath.

He stood at the stove, wearing nothing but sweatpants, the muscles in his back flexing as he flipped pancakes. A dishtowel hung over his shoulder, and he was concentrating so hard on not burning them that he didn’t notice you watching.

You leaned against the doorway, hiding a smile.

"Y’know," he said without turning around, "staring’s rude."

Your face flushed. "I wasn’t staring."

"Oh, sure you weren’t," he teased, glancing over his shoulder with a grin. "C’mere.."

You crossed the room, and he reached out, tugging you gently by the waist until you were tucked against his side. He pressed a kiss to your temple before turning back to the pan, flipping the pancake with a little more flair this time.

“They’re a bit burnt,” he admitted sheepishly, plating them anyway.

"They’re perfect," you replied softly.

And they were.

After breakfast, he laced his fingers through yours, tugging you toward the door.

“C’mon, love. Let’s get some fresh air.”

The streets were dusted with remnants of snow, the cold biting just enough to make you tuck yourself a little closer to him. Not that he seemed to mind. His thumb brushed over the back of your hand as if he couldn’t help it, small circles of warmth seeping into your skin with every step.

The town was buzzing with Valentine’s Day energy—shop windows decorated with red ribbons, heart-shaped balloons, and couples wandering hand-in-hand. Normally, this much attention to romance might’ve made you feel awkward, but with John beside you, it felt… natural.

Further down the street, you stumbled upon a small bookshop with faded letters painted on the glass. Without thinking, you slowed your steps, eyeing the display of well-loved novels and dusty hardcovers stacked in the window.

“You wanna go in?” Price asked, already steering you gently toward the door.

Inside, the scent of old paper and worn leather filled the air, and you found yourself relaxing into the quiet comfort of the space. Price trailed behind you, his hand resting lightly on the small of your back as you browsed through the shelves.

You picked up a book—a battered copy of a romance with a cracked spine—and flipped through the pages.

Price leaned over your shoulder, his breath warm against your neck. “That one any good?”

You nodded, feeling a little self-conscious. "I… I’ve read it before."

"Then let’s get it," he said easily, plucking the book from your hands and heading to the register before you could protest.

After the bookstore, you found yourselves wandering into a quiet park. The pathways were lined with bare trees, their branches reaching like fingers toward the pale winter sky.

Price guided you toward an empty bench overlooking a small frozen pond, dusted with a thin layer of snow. You sat, the cold of the wooden seat seeping through your coat, but the warmth of his arm draping around your shoulders made it bearable.

He pulled you closer without a word, your head naturally finding its place against his chest. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear was grounding, soothing.

For a while, you sat in silence, watching a few kids in the distance throwing snowballs, their laughter echoing faintly.

Price shifted slightly, his lips brushing the top of your head. "Y’know, I never really cared much for Valentine’s Day."

You glanced up at him, curious. "No?"

He shook his head, his thumb grazing your shoulder. "Felt like a load of commercial nonsense. But today…" His gaze softened, eyes crinkling at the corners as he looked down at you. "Feels different."

Your heart clenched, warmth blooming in your chest despite the winter chill.

"Because of me?" you whispered, half teasing, half terrified of the answer.

His response was immediate. “Because of you.”

You tucked your face into his chest, hiding the smile that you couldn’t fight even if you wanted to.

By the time you got home, the anxiety had faded—replaced with something warm but terrifying.

Because he still hadn’t left.

You curled up together on the couch for a while, his fingers threading lazily through your hair, his thumb tracing circles against your skin. The day slipped into evening, the sky painted in soft shades of pink and orange.

That’s when he disappeared into the kitchen again.

You peeked in after a while, finding him standing at the stove, humming softly under his breath as he stirred a pot of sauce. The table was set—candles, wine glasses, even a small bouquet of flowers.

When did he…?

You swallowed thickly. “John…”

He turned, wiping his hands on a towel. “Sit down, love.”

After dinner, he pulled out a small box.

You blinked. “What’s that?”

"A gift." He set it in front of you, his fingers lingering on yours.

You hesitated, then opened it.

Inside was a delicate necklace—a simple chain with a small pendant shaped like a compass.

“I figured,” he said quietly, “it’d remind you where you belong.”

Your throat tightened. "John, I—"

He reached for your hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles.

“I heard what you said,” he murmured. "About being temporary. About me not settling for someone like you."

Your face flushed, embarrassment flooding your chest.

“But here’s the thing,” he continued softly, leaning closer. “I don’t want temporary. Not with you. I don’t care how shy you are, or how much you try to fade into the background. Because every time I walk into a room, you’re all I see."

Your breath hitched.

"So," he whispered, his forehead resting against yours, "let me be your man. Not for now. For as long as you’ll have me."

Your heart ached with the weight of it.

So you answered the only way you knew how.

You kissed him—soft, deep, sure.

Because John Price didn’t settle.

He chose.

And he chose you.

wow peepaw

Papa Price

BARRY SLOANE as Joe 'Bear' Graves in SIX (2017—2018) Episode 1.07 Blood Brothers

love thy neighbor. / john price x reader

Buying a house to use when you’re never home is a stupid idea, but John Price has done it anyway. He doesn’t think much of it after 10 years, til you move in behind him, and then suddenly it’s not so bad.

warnings: MDNI, John “talk her through it” gentle dom Price, unprotected sex, piv, oral sex (fem receiving), reader is called girl, praise kink, light biting, implied pregnancy, you have a child at the end

w.c.: 5.6k

It’s not often that John finds himself so… distracted. With a job like his, that means certain death.  Never let your head wander. Never let your eyes drift. Stay focused. Ready. Out in the field, your head swivels for a bird like his is and that's a bullet to your temple. Hopefully, the shot kills you right away and doesn’t leave you bleeding on the floor. Slow and painful way to go. Choking on your blood, teammates around you just watching, wishing they’d finish the job, and you wouldn’t have to fade away.

But there’s something about you that’s got him distracted. 

Your garden backs up against his, property lines defined by an old wooden fence that's been there since the 60s. Not much to look at for his side.  He keeps his grass cut short with minimal landscaping. Few large paver stones between the patio and the slab of concrete the hot tub sits. He’s rarely even home to see it. 

The house had been a purchase he felt he had to make when he hit 30. Soap joked it was his midlife crisis since every crisis could be their midlife one. He guessed it gave him a weird sense of normalcy that never sat right. Like shoes that are ever so slightly too tight. They fit, could even fit better if you took the time to stretch them out, but he doesn’t. Told himself it’d be a better fit when he retired. If he got the chance. 

 Now he’s 40, a homeowner for a decade, and it’s barely used, and he’s barely there. Hell, the weekly cleaner and gardener had been there more since he bought it than he had. John’s only ever there when he’s got an extended break between missions, but well and truly, how often is that?

He hadn’t even noticed when the old couple who used to own the end of the terrace house passed away, and you moved in. Meredith and James. It had happened eight months ago, right at the end of autumn. Tells you how much of a good neighbor he is. John didn’t learn about it until April hit, and you came knocking on his door. 

You had a black oversized jumper tucked into some dark wash high-waisted jeans with a big hole on the left knee. Hair held back with a claw clip, brows drawn ever so slightly together. Like you were nervous as you shifted side to side holding a plate of cookies. 

It was one of those gross British spring days where the air starts to get muggy as the sun hits its peak. Past the part of spring where it’s grey and drizzly for weeks straight, the cold still clinging to your bones. 

He’d barely been home for 13 hours. Came in and passed out, only woke up about 20 minutes ago, and turned on the TV in the lounge to listen to the news while he made a late lunch. Still in the groggy headspace of jetlag, but he swore you looked radiant. 

“Hi! I wanted to introduce myself.” You had a soft voice. Gentle. Like you were afraid of spooking him. “Meredith told me that you’re often overseas, and… well, this is the first time I think I’ve seen you home.” You gave him your name and told him you owned the house behind his now. 

John was pleasant for the whole interaction, chatting with you for about 15 minutes before you excused yourself. Smiled and said all the right things like his mum raised him to, still not really all there mentally. Didn’t even really click for him that you shared the fence with him until two days later, he saw you in the garden, taking a hammer to the fence with a mean look on your face. 

Good opportunity for him to be neighborly. 

“You alright?” He’s leaning out the first-floor window, arms resting on the windowsill. 

John didn’t expect you to startle so much, dropping the hammer with a shriek before your head whipped up to him. “Fucking hell you scared the shit out of me.”

“Sorry, love,” he chuckles, “Something wrong with the fence?”

“Yeah,” there's sweat beading down your forehead that you swipe away. He has a wandering thought about licking it off you. “I think the wood’s rotted through. I leaned something against it yesterday and it about gave through.”

Great opportunity for him to get closer to you. 

“I’ll come down and have a look.”

Turns out the wood was rotted through for more than half the fence. The whole thing was one bad wind day away from falling over. John had removed some of the worst parts that day with plans to remove the rest on Tuesday morning. That was until you both got hit with a stop-work order. One of the neighbors had called the council and complained. Something about protecting historic areas, and the boundary of the two properties not being legally defined. Not their place at all, but regardless, neither of you could do anything about it now. 

They did at least let John finish taking the fence down for safety concerns, so the two of you spent that time getting to know each other better. You were 34, worked as a fashion buyer, but you really wanted to be a designer, liked holidays with your girlfriends where you could try new wines, and were perhaps the sweetest bird he’d ever met, hidden behind a layer of fierce sass. 

Then the council told the two of you it’d be another eight to ten weeks for them to assess the new fence and then another three for them to do an impact report on whether it’d require the other fences to be changed. Typical British bureaucracy. The fence was being built in the same way it had looked prior to it being torn down.

But now it meant the two of you shared one big garden. One big, ambiguous green space only defined by how much landscaping you had done and the numerous planters full of growing veggies you had. Not a big deal for him. While he liked his space, a week or two of shared garden wouldn’t kill him. 

Then the pandemic hit and no one was going to approve jack shit or build anything. It was like the council fully vanished, emails going unanswered. 

John had been deployed shortly after the lockdowns were announced and told you to email him if anything important came up with the council. You laughed, told him you would, and followed it up by demanding he stay safe lest you have to deal with a new neighbor and no fence. 

True to your word, you did email him. It was never any updates regarding the fence. Rather, it was you checking in on him and telling him about the local gossip. Turned into penpals. Between bouts of violent warfare, he got to know you, and hell, he’d say you’re bordering on friend territory now, which isn’t a title he gives out often. He tried to be polite and cordial, but the image of you sunbathing never left his mind. 

When he came back 12 weeks later in the dead of night, he climbed into his bed in the primary suite on the third floor and passed out. Bags dropped by the front door, half blocking it from opening. Maybe he was finally getting too old for this. 

 He didn’t wake up until 1 pm, sunshine making the room uncomfortable and hot. He hadn’t programmed the aircon to come on yet. Sweat clung to his back, t-shirt fabric uncomfortably damp, and he pulled himself out of bed.

Trudging to the window, he throws it open in the hopes that the jet stream might bless him with some breeze before he hops into the shower. He might have opened it with more force than needed, hinges creaking, now squinting from how bright the sun was.

Then he saw you. Lounging on a beach chair. 

Now, remembering the lack of fence between the two of you, he didn’t think much of it until he rubbed his eyes as his vision cleared.

You were lying in the chair, sunglasses on as you listened to Jazz House, a staple of yours, he noticed, stretched out supine and basking in the sun. The glint of an anklet was the first thing he noticed before trailing his eyes upwards to your baby blue bikini bottoms and no top. Tits soft and supple in the sun. They shone, covered in what he assumed was tanning oil, jiggling as you raised your arms to cover your eyes. 

If he were a better man, he’d look away. Step back from the window and pretend he never saw anything. Unfortunately, he’s not a better man. John looks on a bit longer, memorizing every inch of your skin, before he walks to the bathroom. 

The shower he takes is ice cold.

It’s a couple of days later, right before the sun starts to wane, the light turning golden, and the squad has shown up for a barbecue. You’ve spoken to him briefly, claiming you’d catch up more when you weren’t so busy. 

Price’s place became the de facto grilling spot a few years back. It was probably the most use it had ever gotten. Helped, he had a big garden, a high-quality grill, and guest rooms for the lads to crash in if they drank too much. 

Ghost and Soap had brought four packs of Carling. Pure shite in his opinion, but Soap was a fan and at the end of day free beer is free beer. John’s on his third can, enjoying the build of a buzz as he stands over the grill flipping kebabs, lamb, and beef with some veg, listening in on a story Ghost is telling him. There’s an old 80s rock playlist one of the lads found on Spotify that’s agreeable enough. Soap and Gaz are wrestling while Ghost intermittently laughs at their attempts to pin each other. 

He almost forgets there’s no fence between your places till you come out bounding over in a short little white dress that scrapes the tops of your thighs, struggling to open a jar of olives. You looked like a goddamn angel. 

“Hey John,” he places the tongs down as you come closer.  “Could you help me open this jar? The girls and I are making martinis, and I can’t seem to—oh. Hello!” 

You’ve crossed the imaginary threshold and are only a few feet away from him as you look up, still trying to open the jar. 

“Take it this is your squad?” Your eyes flick between him and the group of very large men near him. 

“Aye, love,” he motions with his head towards them. “Lads, say hello.”

Like the well-trained dogs they are, a round of “You Alright,” and “Evenin’” rings out. 

You smile and give a small wave. “Sorry, I won’t interrupt for long.” You draw closer to him, holding out the jar with one hand and the other curling around his bicep. “Could you open this? We’re dangerously low on olives, and we’re making martinis.” 

You smell like coconut cream, vanilla, and sunscreen as the tips of your French manicured nails catch on his skin. 

John smiles,  takes the jar, and opens it before sealing it again and passing it to you. You beam up at him, lips shiny with gloss. “There you go, love,” he tries not to look down the front of your dress, but from this angle, it's hard not to. Especially once he notices you’re not wearing a bra.

“Ugh, my hero!” Sighing dramatically, you give his arm another squeeze before holding the jar with both hands. “I’ll bring you a martini as payment. What are you making?”

You’ve leaned across him, pulling your hair to the side as you inspect the grill. From the corner of his eye, he sees Gaz give Soap a nudge. 

“Kebabs.” You lean a bit too far forward and he puts a hand your your waist to steady you. “Have a few steaks to put on if the occasion calls for it.” 

You gasp and smack his chest. Mock betrayal and hurt with a smile. It’s light and playful, and you don’t make any move to get away from his hand on your waist. “Where was my invite?” 

John raises a brow. “You told me you were with the girls tonight.”

“Yes, but if I had known you were grilling I would have told them to sod off.”

One of the boys, surprisingly, Ghost, laughs. It’s a real laugh too, which is a bit mental coming from him. 

“Don’t be cruel to your friends now.” 

“They’d understand,” you’re quick with the reply. “We’re only having martinis and cheese.” 

You do this thing he’s picked up on. Leaning a little too forward and looking up at him through your eyelashes, lips in a slight part. Intentional? Maybe. Innocent? Probably. Dangerous? 100%. It’s the kind of look that gives him pause.  Stabs him in the heart and weasels its way into his bloodstream. Gets his thoughts going a bit too fast.

Makes him wonder what you’d look like with his cock in your mouth. 

“Tell you what,” he offers, clearing his throat. “You go to Tesco and get some more, and your lot can join us.”

“Would you guys mind?” You direct the question to the squad, peaking over John’s shoulder.

Even if they did, with the hunger Price has in his eyes for you, they’d never have said no. There’s an intensity there they’ve only seen in the field, and they aren’t stupid. They can tell that he’s itching to fuck you. He had been glued to his inbox when they were deployed and evasive about answering them about who he was emailing. Easy to put two and two together.

20 minutes and one Tesco Express trip later, you and two of your friends, Joanne and Marcy, had pulled up your two garden chairs to join the men, bringing with you enough martinis for everyone. The three of you go the rounds teasing one another, breaking into fits of giggles, and you all get situated once the food is done cooking. He didn’t expect it, but your friends get on well with his squad. 

Rather than bring one of John's dining room chairs out, you’ve taken to perching on his knee. One arm draped across his shoulders, toying with his shirt, and the other holding a skewer that you pick at in between talking. You’re acting like it's the most natural thing in the world, so he does the same, resting a hand on your knee.

Once the food is done and you girls have moved onto a wine, unmotivated to make more martinis, you get looser. The sun has fully set now, and everyone's been well fed. It's reaching the point where you know that once someone says they’re heading home, everyone will naturally see themselves out, but no one’s making the first move.

He’s painfully hard and every time you wiggle, giggly from the alcohol, your ass brushes against him and makes it worse. Maybe it’s the alcohol getting to him or maybe it’s the pent-up sexual frustration, but when you move again, he can’t help but whisper in your ear, low and slow. “Careful there, love.”

“What do you mean?” Voice soft and teasing as you turn towards him. 

 He likes the sweet and innocent act you put on as you rock back against him. At first, he thought you weren’t aware of it, but now it’s clear you knew.

It’s a quick, sharp breath he draws. “You know exactly what I mean,” John’s lips brush your ear. The low rumble of his voice sends a shiver down your spine, heat pooling in your core. 

“Hmm…” you rock backward again. “Maybe I need you to spell it out for me?” 

There’s a coy smile on your lips that makes him want to fucking bend you over the table. But he’s barely a gentleman and wouldn’t do that in front of your friends. One hand grabs at your waist, stilling your movements. The tension between the two of you feels electric. You’re hyper-aware of every place his bare skin meets yours. It’s not quite a warning, not quite a promise. Just enough to make you realize he’s barely holding onto his composure.

Joanne laughs loudly, pulling your attention outwards. 

Ever aware, Ghost notices what's transpiring between the two of you and stands. “Right then, time for me to head home.” 

Price watches as Ghost ushers the lads up, and your friends follow. He leads them all to the back door, turning to Price and nodding before heading through himself. You catch the look he gives John as he goes. A subtle little note.

Behave. 

The door shuts and the garden falls quiet. 

Now alone, nerves start creeping through you. Doesn’t help that John doesn’t move. He sits there for a minute, hands on your waist, thumbs brushing at the fabric of your dress. You’re 99.99% sure that he wants the same thing you do, but god forbid a girl feels nervous. Feels like your heart is loud enough he could hear it as well as he felt it through your clothes. 

He exhales, slow and controlled. 

Then, his grip tightens on your waist. 

“Nervous?” he noses at your shoulder, mustache tickling slightly. His voice is low and rough, like he recently smoked a cigar. 

You nod, small and shy. “A bit.”

John hums, happy he has that effect on you. Almost like he’s purring. One of his hands slides up your front, brushing past your tits, before settling on your jaw and turning your face towards him. The look in his eyes is one you’ve never seen before. It goes beyond hunger, he’s starving. 

“Don’t be.”

You crash into him. The kiss is heavy, all-consuming, and leaves you lightheaded. John’s hand slides to the back of your neck, fingers enmeshing themselves in your hair, tilting you as he sees fit. His other hand roams your body, grabbing your breast and squeezing it. You moan, letting him slip his tongue into your mouth, and you melt into him. 

When you break apart, panting slightly and leaning back against him, you giggle as he presses open-mouthed kisses against your exposed neck and shoulder. “Been thinking about this for a while, pretty girl.”

He lets go of your hair to pick you up at the waist and reposition you better on his lap. “Thinking about ‘ow pretty you’d sing for me.” John settles his hands on your hips now. “‘Ow sweet you’d taste.” 

Strong hands pull your hips back before pushing them forward. It goes to your head a bit, and you're stunned as he repeats the motion.

“Don’t be shy now. Had no problem doing this earlier, did you?” 

“No,” you stuttered out, grinding your hips down as instructed. 

“That’s a sweet girl,” he continues to guide your hips. 

Each bump and grind pulls you further and further into a corner of debauchery you thought you left behind in your 20s. It sends waves of pleasure through your body. John’s hands grip you tighter, driving you into a steady rhythm with him. His erection strains against his shorts. 

“That’s it,” he growls. “Just like that, love.”

Your breath is short gasps drawn in a haze as the friction builds, panties soaked and clinging to your folds. Price’s lips find your neck again, pressing more hot kisses to the strip of flesh. Feels like you’re burning up as his teeth graze your pulse point, and you whimper. 

“John,” you plead. For what you aren’t sure. 

He takes his hands off your hips to push the straps of your dress off your shoulders. It falls softly off them, exposing your tits, nipples hard. John tweaks one, rolling it between his fingers, and your head falls forward with a soft cry. You don’t stop moving your hips, lost in the feeling as he continues to palm your chest. He cups them, kneading them as you continue to rock your hips.

“Love… Sweet girl,” he bucks his hips up to meet yours, grinding himself against your aching core. “Tell me you want this and I’ll take you inside and give you what you’re begging for.”

“I want it,” you stutter out. “Please, John.”

His grip on your breasts tightens. “That’s it.” He stands, picking you up bridal style in one fluid motion, your body pressed firmly against his chest. The night air is cool as it hits your bare breasts. John is swift as he takes you inside, closing the door with his foot as he brings you into the lounge. He knows he doesn’t want to make the trek upstairs yet. He’s gotta fuck you on the couch before he takes you upstairs and fucks you in his bed or he might burst at the seams and fuck you like a wild animal. 

Price deposits you on the chaise part of his sectional so he can lay you out as you pull your dress off, leaving you in your panties. You look goddamn delectable. 

He pulls off his shirt and shorts, leaving himself in his boxer briefs as he moves towards you. A hand wraps around your ankle, pulling your leg up and pushing you onto your back. John kisses your ankle and drops your leg, before he grabs the waistband of your panties and pulls them off you.

“Look at this,” he brings your panties up. The white’s gone transparent in the light. “Soaked through.”

Price gets down on his knees and pulls your pussy towards him. “Knew you’d have a pretty cunt. Just look at you. So wet and ready for me.”

He runs a finger through your core, chuckling with a full smile as his finger comes back glistening. Parting his lips, he brings it to his mouth and moans at the taste, watching as it makes you wiggle in anticipation. “Delicious. You going to be good for me and let me eat you out?” 

You nod diligently. Submission looks good on you. 

His hands grip your thigh, pushing them further apart as he settles between them. He leans forward, presses a kiss against the inside of your thigh, and then drags his tongue against you in one long, smooth stripe. The groan he lets out comes from deep inside him, echoing in the hollow of his chest. And he buries himself in your pussy. 

He focuses in on your slit, sensitive from the lead up and circles it with the tip of his tongue. John sucks it into his mouth, passing his tongue over it. Your hips buck, jagged, and stuttered as he does. It feels like he’s got you on display, and the rapt attention goes to your head. Each pass of his tongue pulls you closer and closer to the edge as he devours you. 

A finger prods at your hole, sliding in with no resistance. He pumps it in and out, warming you up, before adding a second. The sound of his filthy slurps and your moans fill the room as he pumps in and out of you, angling his fingers to bump your G-spot. It's obscene. You’re so wet it sounds like the set of a porno. 

John wants nothing more than to consume you. Wants to watch you come on his tongue and clench down on his fingers. He can feel your body tensing, muscles pulling tight as your climax draws nearer. Your hands fly to his head, pulling on his short hair, as you grind your pussy against his face, and Price moans. 

“Sweet girl, cum for me.” He pulls away for a second to speak before going right back to working you to a fever pitch.

“John,” it comes out as a broken gasp. “I’m gonna cum.”

He hums in approval, and it sends you over the edge. Your clamp down around his fingers like a vice, and it washes over you. Price doesn’t let up, doesn't stop. He continues to pump his fingers at the same steady pace, extending your orgasm. Your nails dig into his scalp, spurring him on as he sucks on your clit harder. 

John can feel your juices gushing out, getting caught in his facial hair, and soaking the couch. He wants to break you, make you fall apart completely, to build you back up with the knowledge that there’ll never be another man like him. So you keep wearing those tiny little dresses around him. You’re pushing at his head now, and he takes his mouth off you with a wet pop. When you lock eyes with him, you whimper.

“Fucking gorgeous love. Prettiest I’ve ever seen.” he purrs, pressing a kiss against your clit, making you twitch from sensitivity. “You want more?”

“I want you to fuck me,” it’s a breathy whisper as you come down from your high and he swears he’s never heard something so erotic before in his entire life.

John remembers that he hasn’t had a hook-up in years and that there are no condoms in the house. “I don’t want to do anything that will make you uncomfortable, but I don’t have any condoms.”

You’ve scrambled up from your back.  Propping yourself up on your knees, chest resting on the back of the couch. 

“I don’t care,” the way the eye contact you make with him from over your shoulder makes him feel should be criminal. “Fuck me.”

He stands up, left knee popping from an old injury, and he looms over you. Big, beefy frame taking up all the space behind you. John reaches down and pulls down his boxer briefs. It’s not lost on him how you lock in on his erection as it bobs up and makes a soft plap against his stomach. His cock is thick, probably the thickest you’ve ever had, with an angry red swollen head leaking pre-cum.

Price grips your hips, pulls them closer to him, and deepens the arch in your back as he settles between your spread thighs again. The thick length on him meet your slit. He gives an experimental thrust, grinding himself against you and coating himself in you. 

“You’re a dangerous one, aren’t you?” John quips, reaching down and grabbing his cock to line up with your entrance. His head catches, pushing ever so slightly in, but not enough. 

At this, you push your hips back, pushing more of his length inside you, and the stretch is delicious. He’s prepped you so well that there’s not even an ounce of discomfort— the sweet growing feeling of being full. 

“Worst criminal you’ll ever meet,” you hum, pushing back further. “Show me the error of my ways?” 

The teasing lilt gives John the encouragement he needs to let go and fully enjoy this and finally he thrust forward, sinking himself fully inside your drooling cunt. He pulls out to the tip and then buries himself to the hilt. 

“Fuck,” he groans, voice strained as your walls flutter around him. “Tight ‘n’ warm cunt made for me.”

Price sets a steady pace with long, full strokes. Skin meeting skin fills the room as you meet his thrusts. He leans down, breath hot against your shoulder as he kisses your shoulder, relishing in your soft pants before biting the skin. It makes you tighten around him as a sharp moan breaks through. 

One hand slides around your hips to your front where he finds your clit and starts rubbing it in tight circles. His voice is low in your ear. “That’s it, love, can feel you getting tighter ‘round me.”

He punctuates each word with a deep thrust. 

“Such a sweet girl, been so welcoming for me. Taking it like you were made for it.”

The praise makes you dizzy, your head falling forward on the couch. He’s quick to wrap his other arm around your chest and pulls you upright, flush against his chest. The new angle lets him push even deeper inside you while he continues to play with your clit, your orgasm quickly building.

“Christ, you’re like the gift that doesn’t stop.” Sparks of pleasure shoot through you as he bites the shell of your ear. “Feel how deep I am inside you? How your tight little pussy clings to me?” 

Price kisses along your jawline, beard scraping your skin. “Can tell you’re close. Cum for me love. Want to feel you cum on my cock.” 

Your skin feels prickly. Like you’re too hot and too cold at the same time.

“That’s it, dove. Let it happen,” he urges you on, letting your chest rest back on the couch and cementing his hold on your hips. “So sweet for me.”

And you let it happen. It’s slow and builds itself up, and he continues to thrust up into you til it reaches a fever pitch that makes your whole body shake and writhe. The loudest moan you've ever let out comes past your lips, your fingers digging into the couch cushions. 

“That’s my girl,” he growls, thrusting faster. “Tell me where you want me.”

It’s hard to speak as he doesn’t let up. 

“Inside.” 

“What was that?” John teases you, bending down like he can’t hear you. 

“Inside, I want it inside,” you cry out. 

John’s happy to oblige, rutting into you like a wild animal. His thrusts are harder than before, your ass jiggling everytime his hips meet yours with wet paps. The force rocks your entire body, and all you can do is take it. With a final thrust, he sinks all the way inside you, cock pulsing. Ropes of hot cum fill your insides and it feels like the world goes blurry and you aren’t sure what happens next.

You’re groggy when he gets you to come to. A lazy, satisfied smile spreads across your face when you’re able to focus on him. He’s got a warm washcloth and is cleaning you up. He’s so soft and gentle as he goes, kissing your knee. The room is quiet, filled with an intimacy that feels far too real, like something between lovers, for the first time you’ve slept with him.

“You alright?” He asks, his tone is tender and soft.  The look in his eyes is so tender, like you carry the moon and stars. It tugs at your heart and nestles itself in your chest next to it.

You nod, still a little dazed, still in the afterglow of a really good orgasm. “I’m good. Really good.”

That smile he has makes you clench. “Want to take me upstairs and fuck me on a real bed?”

John laughs a full belly laugh. “Bossy woman, you are.” 

The complaint is one of nothing but jest. A barking dog with no bite. He’s already picked you up and crossed the threshold to the stairs and starts heading up then. 

────────────────────※ ·❆· ※──────────────────

TWO YEARS LATER…

It’s another sunny Saturday, so everyone's once again at the Price household for a barbecue. Feels routine at this point. You’re in the kitchen finishing up a cheese board and drinks, he's out at the grill. The lads are doing what they always do, except now, Soap is doing it to impress Joanne. She sits on one of the now-plentiful outdoor chairs and pretends not to be impressed. Mundane and peaceful. Not something he thought he’d ever experience. 

Marcy opens the back door and comes out with the cheese board. You’re trailing behind her with a fat nine-month-old on your hip. Rhys, named after John’s very Welsh grandfather, takes after his father and is perhaps the biggest baby anyone's ever seen. He’s also an incredibly happy baby. 

The second John sees you’ve come outside, he's placed the tongs down to come kiss you. Every morning he’s not on base, he wakes up next to you, but he still can’t believe it’s real. Rhys starts babbling excitedly as he walks closer. Price bends down to press a kiss to his head before kissing you. 

“Your son is heavy,” you shift, hiking Rhys up to get a better seat on your hip, and look at him. “You get that from your daddy.” 

You boop him on the nose, and the baby erupts into a fit of giggles. 

“You calling me fat, dove?” 

“One of us was the biggest baby in the county history when we were born, and the other one is mummy, isn’t that right, Rhys?” You attack Rhys’ cheeks with kisses, giggles continuing from the little boy. He’s losing it now, little hands grabbing at your face as he squirms and wiggles.

John can’t argue with the facts. He was the biggest baby, still to this day, to have been born in his home county. So he smiles, kisses both of you again, and goes back to grilling. 

The meal is how it often is. Loud and full of laughter. Plates passed around, drinks passed around, Rhys passed from person to person. The sun is warm on everyone's skin with the scent of sunscreen hanging in the air. 

In the lull between bites, Gaz pipes up.“Are you two ever going to fix the fence?”

Everyone's head swivels to the back of the property, fence fully gone, where they can see clearly into the other lounge. It’s covered in baby toys and fashion mannequins. It’s the smaller of the two houses, so when you got married, it turned into your studio to work on your brand.  

You giggle, sipping from your glass. “Ah, right.”

Rhys slaps the table, the glass making little hollow sounds. 

John looks out fondly at your back door before facing you. Fuck the fence.

It can stay down.

©️ uzuzrimisery

thank you cas for beta reading :)

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.

Cᴀᴘᴛᴀɪɴ Jᴏʜɴ Pʀɪᴄᴇ ɪɴ Cᴀʟʟ ᴏғ Dᴜᴛʏ: Mᴏᴅᴇʀɴ Wᴀʀғᴀʀᴇ II [2022]

The height difference between Farah and Price was not exaggerated at all….jesus christ

….guys she’s 5’8…and wearing heeled sneakers too…