Valentines Day With Price And The Missus

getting stood up -or ditched- by ur stupid boyfriend and desperate for a way home cause a lil bunny can’t walk home alone at night so as a last resort, you call dads bsf price, who is more than happy to pick up his best friends little girl xx and he can’t drop her off without showing her what a real man is

ps: i absolutely adore your writing x keep it up bby

a defeated little sigh slips from your glossed lips as you stare at the text message, received fifty minutes after you’d sent the first one.

“i don’t think i’ll be able to make it tonight, i forgot about it and now i am busy, sorry!”

you weren’t sad he couldn’t make it, of course, you would’ve appreciated it if he’d at least warned you about his little slip of memory, but if anything, that little mistake only sealed your mind even more — it’s not like you were a couple, you’d only been on a date once, and this was supposed to be the second one. clearly, he wasn’t interested, and you weren’t either, but you’d been left alone waiting for him for more than a hour, like an abandoned little bunny. you didn’t deserve this, you deserved a princess treatment.

nibbling on your bottom lip, you stood outside the building, the night breeze cold against your bare thighs as you considered your options — you couldn’t possibly call your father, he’d be livid with both the guy for living you alone at night, and you for ending up in this reckless situation. also, you didn’t want to make him worry too much.

so, your baby pink nails clipped against the screen as you recklessly quickly typed the number of the only person you trusted the most, the only one you could think about that could come and save you. only tree ringings passed by, before you heard his deep, gruff and rough voice from the other side of the phone.

“hello?”

your heartbeat immediately increased, effected by his low tone, beating faster and nervously. he sounded rougher, huskier.

“sir?” you tried to swallow down your heart, poor thing trying to flutter outside of your chest — your cheeks were painted red, covered by a warm and bright blush.

“doll?” you caught the slight urgency in his voice, though it sounded controlled and steady as always. a few seconds of silence passed after his reply, and you imagined him glancing down at his wrist watch, before muttering out “what’s wrong?”

“i’m fine, im really sorry to bother you at this hour—“

“you never bother me, sweetheart. what happened?”

you hesitated, looking down towards your mary jane white heels “can you please come pick me up? im alone and i didn’t wanna call my father cause he’d get angry, pretty please?”

you bit your lip, torn between relief and regret for deciding to call him without even thinking twice. maybe he’d been sleeping, tired after work—?

“where are you, princess?”

“outside of a restaurant, i’ll text you the address, okay?”

the sudden rustling of fabric and the light jingle of keys echoed from the phone, and you could picture him standing up, his broad, muscular body walking towards his door “wait for me, doll, be there in a few”

less than ten minutes went by when you recognized his old fashioned car, driving up to a halt right in front of your place on the sidewalk. you mentally prayed and thanked God for sending you your personal knight, the rumble of the car’s engine the only sound around the otherwise peaceful and too silent air.

you quickly opened the passenger’s door and got inside of the car, immediately filled with the familiar scent of cigars, tobacco and expensive cologne that swirled around you.

“thank you for coming, sir,” you were nervous, you felt embarrassed, and he could see that, under the dim light surrounding the car, his sharp and intense eyes never left you, taking in the way your fingers fidgeted together, hands resting on your lap like a squirming bunny that couldn’t handle being too close to him.

even in the dark your blushing cheeks were so bright, he could see them, red and flushed — with one large hand gripping the steering wheel, he leisurely admired your short dress, before starting the engine and driving away.

“who do i have to kill, mmh?”

you almost gave out a smile, but only shook your head at him. “no one, sir, im okay”

“date stood you up, bunny?”

you loved his nickname for you. it made you blush and heart flutter.

there was no point in telling him a white lie. with a soft sigh, you leaned your head back on the seat. “it wasn’t a date..he’s not even my boyfriend. we’ve gone out once and today we were supposed to have dinner together. but he clearly wasn’t interested since he texted me that he’d forgotten and was apparently too busy to tell me instead of ditching me and leaving me all alone”

john kept driving, and you dared a shy glance towards him. he always radiated confidence and strong masculinity — he was so handsome, so respectful and manly, the manliest man that existed. he was a real man, the one you truly wanted, and no one could ever take his place in your heart, your poor heart was aware of that. a little, sweet and too young girl falling for a man too old for you, old enough to be your father.

only then, a glimpse of an amused lazy grin appeared beneath his thick, dark beard, littered with gray on the right spots. he shook his head once, focused on the road, “stupid kid, he was. he’s merely a boy, love, boys his age don’t know shit about how to treat a sweet bunny like you, sweetheart. dumb dog”

you blushed more at his words, clenching your bare knees until they touched, your thighs exposed and filled with goosebumps provoked by the chill night air and his deep voice.

“doesn’t matter, it can happen. im not sad or anything, just…it feels mortifying. he could’ve at least texted me, you know? could’ve just told me he didn’t want to go out anymore. makes me feel like im insignificant. that’s why i’ve never liked guys my age.”

you couldn’t even stop that last line from slipping out of your glossed lips, at that point, you’d just been rumbling to him. he remained quiet, listening to you as he drove, and you recognized the familiar ice cream place, the trees and local church that were close to your neighborhood.

“bunny, that kid was an asshole, ‘s not your fault. an angel like you deserves a real man who knows what he wants and what you want. not some idiot” he punctuated the last word with a gruff chuckle, the sound vibrating around the tiny space between you. “don’t waste time with people like him. could pay him a visit, if you want”

“please don’t sir” you quickly said, your lips already curving in an entertained smile, “we’re never gonna see each other anymore, anyway”

“made my bunny stay outside all alone at night, could send him to jail. gonna make him be real busy behind bars,” you knew he was being playful just to make you smile, but his voice sounded even lower, deep and rough, with a hint of threatening to it. “why didn’t you call your dad?”

you hesitated, blinking at him from under your long lashes, puppy dog eyes shy and timid as you shrugged “he would’ve gotten man at him for leaving me alone and at me for ending up in this situation, always finds a way to blame the victim.”

you saw him shifting gear, and without even realizing it, you were already on your main street. tilting your head towards the darkened mirror, you recognized your front porch, standing in the dark with no lights on. your dad must’ve been asleep, or maybe was waiting for you to come back in his room. but from the windows, you saw that all the lights were off.

“im glad i called you, sir, thank you for coming and helping me. i really don’t know how to thank you” you turned towards him again, giving him another smile.

“was a pleasure, bunny, no need to pay me back. just seeing you in this short dress is enough.” he turned off his car, smirking lazily at you with a look that made you shiver and turn into flames, flushing red and warm. you wanted him so bad, you felt bad for how much you wanted him.

you swallowed, fluttering your lashes at him, grabbing your purse and pushing your heels down, as if reminding yourself that you had to say goodbye and go. “w-well, then, thank you again, sir,” blushing like shooting stars, like the bright rays of the sun, you leaned closer to him, wanting to give him a goodbye kiss on the cheek.

as soon as you leaned over, you felt his hands grab your waist, tugging you by your hips and pushing you against his lap. you almost squeaked, and your lips found his mouth, instead of his cheek. he waisted no time throwing your legs on his sides, making you sink against him, practically straddling him. the sudden contact made you press your mouth more firmly against his, muffling a little sound as a rush of warmth spread between your legs.

he trailed his hand over your neck, until it tangled in your long hair and grabbed a fistful of it to tilt your face against his. he kissed you hard, almost violently, like a starving, animalistic man. you whined against him, throwing your hands around his neck, the pain in your scalp from how much he was pulling your head mingling with pleasure.

you parted your lips slightly as he pushed his tongue inside of your mouth, licking every free inch until it pressed against yours. his free hand trailed under the hem of your sundress making you whimper and cling closer to him. you felt the cold metal of his rings against your bare thigh as he gripped your flesh, brushing his hand up and down until it reaches the hem of your panties.

you skipped a breath, tilting your head to give him more access as he devoured your lips, crashing against them in a feverish kiss full of bites, tongue and teeth.

“sir, sir—“ your words were muffled by the kisses, but you didn’t want to stop, you only wanted him, to feel him and to be with him.

he parted only for a second, looking down at you with a hungry, dark gaze “shhh, shhh doll, don’t wan’ anyone to wake up, huh bunny?”

he grabbed your chin, pressing his mouth heavy against yours. “you know how hard it is to see you going out like this, how badly daddy wants to have you all to himself, mh?

your breath grew heavier, and you could only nod at him, breathlessly, doe eyes glimmering, big and innocent and so needy.

“look at you…so fucking innocent, such a good girl, no one deserves you, angel. gonna be the death of me, looking at me so innocently, when I know how much you want daddy to have his way with you, don’t you, bunny? a needy bunny on my lap, fuck,”

you nodded again, whining and hiding your head against his neck when his hand lowered between your legs, tracing your inner thigh with a steady movement, like he wanted to savor it, take his time, but couldn’t wait any longer. “yes sir, wan’— wanna be with you, I—“

“know you do, bunny, i know sweet thing. only this old man knows how to treat you like the princess that you are, made of sugar. shit, having to talk to your dad when you’re around, acting like i don’t wanna throw his little girl over my shoulder and have my way with her, having to hold myself back. you on your little skirts that make me go mad, your fucking ribbons…”

you bit your lip and shuddered against him, blushing shyly at his words, that made your heartbeat quicken, go faster. he always treated you so well, like he was your bodyguard, like you were his little princess. a little helpless mewl left your lips, as you sought for his lips again, pressing another kiss on his mouth, that he quickly deepened — the kiss filled the car with lewd sounds, his tongue heavy and wet against yours, but you wanted more.

“please sir, please, anything,” you whimpered, and he cooed at you, letting out another deep chuckle that vibrated against your chest. your lips were puffy and red from his mustache and salt and pepper beard that scratched your skin.

”what do you want, doll? mmh? come on love, use your words, know you can.”

you were too shy to ask him or to address what you wanted, hoped the way you fluttered your lashes innocently could speak for you. “just you, daddy..and, and…”

he softened his hungry gaze when you trailed off, and caressed your thigh. “daddy can’t give you that now, love. you deserve more than a stolen moment in the midst of chaos. and definitely not here” with a gentle tug, he brought your hand to his lips, pressing soft kissed on your knuckles. “wanna get off on daddy’s thigh? like a good bunny? mmh?”

you nodded again, shyly yet eagerly this time. lifting the skirt of your sundress to shift your position, he sat you on his thigh, coming in contact with the denim of his jeans, and you shivered when you felt the muscle of his leg against your clothed clit. john leaned back, playfully patting your lower back.

“alright bunny, hands on my shoulders, like this; good girl. now, just move your hips, back and forth, like this— yeah. good girl, like this, fuck, can feel you, see? ‘s not hard, angel” his hands were heavy and secure on your waist, steadying your movements as he guided your hips to buck against his thigh.

you were new to the sensation, didn’t know how to move, but the friction made you whine slowly, almost inaudibly. not to his ears.

“feels good, bunny?”

“mmmhh” you nodded, rolling your hips against his thigh, searching more of that strange feeling. you lowered your head, your cheeks growing red, a bright blush that he could almost taste on his own lips. you were shy, inexperienced, a virgin, and john was the only one who could teach you everything you needed to learn.

“that’s it baby, make yourself feel good. take your time,”

“don’t know how—“ you whined, desperate for his help. his hands ached on your waist, wanting to hold you, to undress you, to grasp every inch of your soft skin with his rough hands. and it was torture, seeing you like that, whining and needy for your daddy’s help, having to physically stop himself from touching you freely :(

“you’re doing so well f’me, bunny, good girl, find out how you like it, yeah, sweetheart, you should see yourself right now. pure sunshine,” he squeezed your hips and you yelped, letting out a soft whimper, your thighs clenching against his, as you tried to steady your movements, your clit brushing against the denim and making your panties grow damp.

the familiar sound of your ringtone startled you, and you almost screamed when it echoed through the dark space of the car. you stopped your movements, catching your breath. blinking as if you’d just woken up from a dream, you crouched yourself towards the passenger seat and hastily grabbed your phone, taking it out of your pink purse.

dad. his name sparkled on the screen, and you felt john physically tense against you, the muscle of his jaw thickening when he saw his name. begrudgingly, you picked up, holding your phone against your ear with a loud heart thundering in your chest.

“dad?” you tried to breath normally, your cheeks felt burning hot, and your voice was shaky. “im…im almost home, yes, it went…”

you dared a shy look at John, whose jaw was clenched, and whose hand still hadn’t gotten off your bare thigh. “I’ll tell you tomorrow, I have the keys yes. You can go to sleep, im fine”

when he hung up, you loudly swallowed. you couldn’t believe what you’d been doing. straddling your dad’s best friend’s thigh, in his car. there was no way you could look at him in the eyes after that. your face blushed like it was on fire, and your eyes looked down at your ruffled skirt,

“I—I— thank you, sir Price, I’ll be going now—“ you stammered, your heart pounding like it never had before. you tried to reach out for your purse, but john quickly grabbed you by your chin, keeping your face in front of his — his think fingers sprawled over your jaw, and his voice was almost animalistic, a bare growl when he spoke against your lips. he was pissed, he felt like a dog who’d just been teased with a bone, just to have it taken away from him right before his eyes.

“when i do finally get my hands on you, doll, nothing and no one will take you from me, understand?”

you nodded, breathless.

“understand, doll?” he repeated, again, making you flinch with pleasure.

“yessir”

“good girl,” he rasped the word against your lips, before pressing a soft kiss on them. “now, goodnight, bunny, hop back to your pen.”

John Price who definitely has a praise kink.

And i don’t mean praising you. Well, he does love to praise you, of course. But what really gets him going is when you praise him.

When your plushy thighs squeeze his head as he feasts on your pussy, your moans and whines only spurring him on. He can’t get over the sounds you make. But oh does he love it when you use your pretty words.

Telling him how good he’s doing. How much you love his skilled tongue swirling your clit. What a perfect man he is for you. It makes him nearly cum in his pants.

He loves missionary because it keeps your pretty mouth (and so your words) close to his ear so he wouldn’t miss a thing. The praises being sent straight to his eardrums (and his cock, of course).

He’d go round after round to hear you tell him how good he felt. How big he was. How he was the only man to ever make you cum like that. And how you would never love a man the way you loved him! :)

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

i legit had to rewrite this 4 times cause tumblr was acting up. i’m thinking of writing a longer fic (maybe multiple chapters) about price but idk if anyone would read it okay bye<33

John Price × fem!reader

The only purpose of this post is to appreaciate titties

One thing John Price loves are your breast. He doesn't care about size, if they're perky or not, just boobs. It makes him happy. It's like a switch in his brain.

He's sad? Boobs. He's stressed? Boobs. He's tired? Boobs. He's arguing with you? Show your titties, he will shut up and worship the ground you walk on.

John Price just needs a pair of tits, a nice cigar and some whiskey to have a perfect life.

It think his breeding kink gets stronger when he realizes that your breast will swell with milk and probaly grow a cup size or two.

Expect him to paw at your body the whole time. Just feeling the soft skin, the squish, your cute baby bumb, more squish and your curves (more squish)

John Price eating you out every morning before heading to base, making sure to soak his mustache in your scent as thickly as possible, scrubbing his beard across your pussy to get it spread everywhere as you whine at the scrape of it across your clit. This way he doesn't go a minute without smelling you, tasting you on the back of his tongue, keeping you with him until he can go home and refresh his memory again.

Captain John Price in Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 14/??

He likes to talk

Price

Found this on an old flashdrive and you cannot tell me this isn't Captain John Price coded. Like could you just imagine John has been home for a few months, meaning he hasn't been working out as much, his stomach becoming a bit heavier with all the foods you've been cooking.

And you just can't get enough of it. Don't get me wrong, no matter how he looks, John's body is incredible. But there's just something so...domestic about him when he starts looking like this.

heavy, dirty soul

【 AO3 Link (full tag list) || masterlist 】 ✦ John Price x Reader ✦ After a long mission, John is exhausted, bruised and distant. You take care of him. ✦ 3.7k words ✦ tags/cw: hurt, comfort, emotional intimacy, intimacy without sex, nsfw but no smut, nudity, injuries, showering together

He looks like hell.

Grimy, worn out, and the kind of tired that settles in a man’s bones and makes him older than he is. His shoulders hunch beneath the weight of his tac vest, stained from whatever hellhole he clawed his way back from. Dirt crusts the hem of his sleeves, and a dark smudge clings stubbornly to his jaw, half-hidden beneath the unkempt mess of his beard. His eyes – those deep, sharp blues – barely flicker when you step through the door.

You set the takeout down and say nothing.

The scent fills the office quickly: warm rice, spiced meat, a trace of soy and citrus curling up from the sauce. Something hearty. Something grounding. The kind of meal you knew he’d need after a mission like that. You’ve seen it before – how he gets afterward. How he forgets to eat, to breathe, to let go of the op and come back to himself.

The room is dimly lit, blinds half-shut to keep the afternoon sun from glaring off the tablet screens scattered across his desk. Papers are messily stacked, half of them likely reports left untouched. The takeout’s aroma gradually overtakes the faint smell of cigar smoke.

He sits across from you, staring at the food like it’s the first real thing he’s seen all day. 

But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t reach for it. Doesn’t even shift in his seat.

You pull the container open for him, the heat unfolding slowly. Your fingers brush against the flimsy plastic cutlery as you fish out the fork, which bends slightly in your grip as you spear a piece of chicken, dripping with sauce.

His gaze follows the motion, but his body stays slack and unmoving.

So you lean forward, holding the fork right to his face.

“Seriously?”

His voice is low and dry, scraped raw from disuse – or maybe too much yelling. There’s a rasp to it, the kind you’re used to hearing when he comes home after long briefings or training days that stretch well past what anyone else would consider reasonable.

His brow twitches, eyes flicking up to meet yours with something close to disbelief, though it’s dulled at the edges.

“Eat, John.”

It’s not a request.

He stares at you for another second, then exhales hard through his nose. A faint smile tugs briefly at the corner of his mouth, but it dies quickly as he leans in and takes the bite.

You hold the fork steady as his lips close around it. He chews slowly, jaw tense, like he doesn’t trust that the first real food he’s tasted in days will stay down. He swallows. Licks the corner of his mouth, where some of the sauce clings.

“Good?” You ask, softer this time.

He nods but doesn’t look up. Instead, he pulls the takeout container closer and starts eating like a starving animal, like his body just remembered it needed food to survive.

Something in the way he moves tells you he hasn’t eaten properly in days. Like feeding himself was too far down the list.

You move around the desk without a word, crouching beside him, hands already going to the buckles of his vest. He doesn’t stop you, just tilts his head slightly to give you better access. 

You slide it off his shoulders, careful not to tug too hard where you know he’s probably sore. It slips free with a bit of resistance, then drops to the floor with a heavy thump.

Underneath, his shirt clings to him like a second skin: sweat-darkened, stretched too wide at the collar, the fabric worn thin in places. There’s a patch of blood on the sleeve – old, maybe his, maybe not. You don’t ask. You never do.

Your hands move to his shoulders, thumbs pressing gently into the muscle there, working over the tight knots hidden beneath the surface. His body responds slowly, with a slight shift and a barely-there sigh, but his eyes close, and he leans into your touch with the kind of trust that always takes you by surprise – that quiet, unspoken surrender.

And somehow, that’s what nearly breaks your heart.

Not the blood. Not the bruises. Just that – how rarely he lets go, and how much it means when he does.

“That tough?” You ask, even though you already know the answer.

And the silence answers for him.

So do the little things – how his head dips forward slightly under your hands, his fingers curl into fists, and he breathes a little deeper with every slow pass of your palms over his shoulders.

This is routine. Nothing new.

You’ve done this countless times. Brought him food when you heard they were back on base, sat beside him in silence until the weight of it all began to slip off his shoulders, piece by piece. You don’t mind. Not for a second. Because he lets you see him like this. Because he trusts you with the aftermath.

And that means more than anything ever could.

Then his hand comes up slowly and covers yours where it rests on his shoulder. His thumb begins to rub slow, lazy circles into the back of your hand, and the movement is so gentle, so unlike the man you imagine he has to be out there. There’s no pressure, no urgency. Just a quiet ‘thank you’ – a wordless gesture of gratitude.

“You’re filthy,” you murmur, your fingers trailing down the nape of his neck, massaging in slow, steady circles. The skin is warm, a little damp. His hair is ruffled from his hat, sticking up in odd places, flattened in others. You smooth it without thinking.

“Don’t remind me,” he murmurs back, and there’s no bite in it. Just exhaustion.

Your hands skim lower between his shoulder blades, thumbs pressing in, and you feel him unravel slowly, like a spring wound too tight, finally loosening. 

You pause, resting at the hem of his shirt, toying with the edge. “John,” you say softly. “I’m serious. You need to get out of this. All of it. It’s disgusting.”

He hums low in his throat. “You volunteering?”

You don’t answer. Instead, you strip the shirt over his head and drop it to the floor, revealing the full expanse of his back.

You suck in a breath.

His skin is a patchwork of bruises, old and new. Faint yellow blooms along his ribs, a fresh violet welt at his side, a jagged scrape near his shoulder. There’s dried blood near the collarbone, a rough streak of grime trailing down his spine, and the smell of smoke still clings to his hair. You’ve seen him like this before – battered, filthy, freshly returned from god-knows-where – but somehow, each time still cuts a little deeper like a bruise under your own skin that never quite fades.

“I hate seeing you like this.”

He exhales hard, and it almost sounds like a low and shaky laugh. “S’not as bad as it looks.”

“You always say that,” you murmur, your palm brushing lightly over the discolored skin, dusting off some dirt. “You need to get this shit off you.”

“I’ll shower later.”

“No,” you say, firm but not harsh. “You need to shower now . There’s blood on you. You reek. You’re not just gonna sit in it.”

He stares at the takeout box, jaw tight, like he’s weighing whether to push back or let you win this one. You ease closer, fingertips brushing his forearm, voice dropping with it.

“I’ll come with you.”

That makes him glance up. Something loosens, not in surrender, but in trust. That’s what this has always been with him. Not letting go because he’s weak, but letting you in because you’re the only person he lets see past the grit.

He nods, barely more than a breath of movement. But it’s enough.

You don’t say another word as you reach for his hand, and he takes it without hesitation. The trip down the hall is silent, his steps just slightly heavier than yours.

Inside the single-use washroom, he stops just inside the door while you lock it behind you. His shoulders slump in that particular way he only lets happen when no one else is watching, like the last thread holding him upright has finally snapped.

You step toward him, hands going to his belt. You make quick work of it – there’s no seduction here, not meant to be – just the firm, practiced touch of someone who’s done this before, who knows he’s hurting and wants to get him out of his own skin before it closes in on around him.

You open the belt, unfasten the button, and guide the zipper down. The fabric is stiff with dirt and sweat, heavy as it slides from his hips. You crouch to help him step out of the cargo pants and briefs, easing them over his bruised legs, and you try not to wince when you catch the red-scraped line along his thigh.

He says nothing. Just lets you do it.

You undress after, folding your clothes on the bench. His eyes are already on you when you straighten, not with hunger, but with that same wide-eyed exhaustion. Like you’re the only still point left in a spinning world.

You reach for his hand again and step beneath the warm stream of water.

The water flows down between your bodies, hot enough to sting, to chase the ache from your joints. It splashes off his shoulders in thick rivulets, soaking the floor at your feet and catching in the creases of old scars and bruised muscle.

You move slowly, your hands gentle as they glide over his skin.

You start at his collarbone, lathering some soap until it turns slick between your fingers, then work your way down, tracing over muscle, bone, scar. You now know each line of him – the ridge of his sternum, the subtle rise and fall of his ribs, the old scar that curves beneath his pec.

He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t need to. His eyes are closed, lips parted, breath steady but slow, so deliberate, like he’s trying not to miss a single second of it. Like if he keeps still enough, this moment might last longer.

You ease your hands to his waist and turn his body gently until his back is to you.

And there it is.

The map.

You know it by heart now. The constellation of healed-over bullet wounds, the pale ghosts of shrapnel near his lower ribs, the raised, silvery slash across his left scapula – the one you first traced with trembling fingers months ago, when he finally let you see it in the daylight.

But there are new stars on the map tonight.

A black-purple bruise like a boot print blooms over his lower back, raw around the edges. Two smaller, thumb-sized bruises sit along his left flank – grip marks, maybe. His right shoulder bears a scrape that looks half-healed, dirt still stubborn in the raw skin.

You press your palm lightly to his spine, just between the old scars, grounding him.

He doesn’t flinch.

Your fingers skim over every mark, cataloguing them silently. You don’t ask what happened. You already know. You’ve learned the language of his body, the different hues of pain, the quiet story written in scars and skin.

You dip the soap in your hands again, rich lather clinging to your fingertips, and move down the line of his back. He’s quiet, letting you tend to him like he’s something sacred. Like he knows he can’t hide anything from you here.

You drag the suds across the worst of the bruises, careful not to press too hard. Your hands work lower, over the curve of his hips, the muscle of his thighs. You handle him like someone would a broken thing. Not because he’s fragile, but because he’s been through too much to be treated with anything less than absolute care.

“Turn around for me.”

He does, slowly. Steam curls around the line of his shoulders as he faces you. His eyes open – heavy-lidded and damp – tracking every motion you make, gaze quiet and unreadable.

You take him in like this: bare, open, bruised and battered, and beautiful in the most brutal way. His chest rises and falls with slow, steady breaths. The water sheets off his skin, trailing down the ridges of his ribs, catching in the hollow beneath his throat, darkening the thatch of hair on his chest.

You lift the soap again and step closer.

Your hands move over his chest, gliding through coarse hair and the slick heat of his skin. You know this terrain just as well as his back – that faint scar under his right pec from a close-range shot, the shallow dent near his collarbone where bone once broke clean through. 

You drag the lather lower, across his abdomen, the ridged muscle beneath softening under your touch. 

He just watches you. Jaw slack. Eyes impossibly soft, like he’s still trying to understand how this moment is real.

You lather the soap again and reach between his legs.

Your touch is slow. Careful. Not teasing. Not meant to arouse. This is different – gentler than anything else, more intimate than sex. You wash him the same way you’ve washed every other part of him – thorough, tender, respectful. Like this is just another part of him you want to take care of. Another place where the world left its mark, and you’re here to make it clean again.

His cock rests heavy against your hand, softened by exhaustion and heat, twitching only faintly when your fingers glide down the shaft to his balls. You cup him delicately, run the soap through every crease, every fold. 

His breath catches once – barely a sound – but it’s not from pleasure. 

It’s from the way you hold him like he’s something worth cherishing.

When you rinse him, your fingers guide the water with the same reverence, making certain nothing is left behind. 

No blood, no sweat, no grime. 

Nothing of the outside world. 

Only the clean, worn-down man standing in front of you.

You glance up at him, and the look he gives you guts something inside you.

He’s looking at you like you’re the only person who’s ever touched him like this.

Who has seen him like this.

And loved what you saw.

You reach for the sprayer again, adjust the angle, and wash yourself. He doesn’t look away. His eyes follow every motion, how you drag the soap across your chest, over your hips, down your thighs. You scrub briskly, working through the fatigue now also settling deep in your limbs, but his gaze never strays.

He watches like he’s memorizing you all over again.

With nothing but awe.

Like the steam has made everything holy. Like he’s standing in a church, and you’re the only thing on the altar.

You rinse clean, slick and glistening under the dim light. 

When you step out, you grab the towel and wrap it around yourself, water still trailing down your legs. Another towel is pressed into his hands. He takes it without a word.

The silence between you now is different. It’s heavier. Thicker. 

Full of everything you haven’t said. Full of everything that doesn’t need to be said.

He dries off slowly, watching you the whole time. His hands move a little clumsily, like he’s not entirely sure how to be in his own body anymore – like he’s still trying to catch up to the tenderness he’s just been given.

When he’s done, you cross the small space between you and place your hands on either side of his face. Your thumbs sweep gently beneath his eyes, brushing away the dampness there. It’s not really tears.

But something fragile. Something honest.

You press your forehead to his. For a moment, neither of you move. The world narrows to this: damp skin, quiet breathing, the pulse beneath your fingertips.

Then you kiss him.

A slow, careful press of your lips to his. 

He doesn’t pull you closer, doesn’t deepen it. He just lets it happen – like he understands exactly what it is. Like he knows it isn’t meant to spark anything but stillness. A stillness he can’t give himself, but craves all the same.

Without a word, he hands you one of his sweatshirts, and you pull it over your head. It swallows you, the sleeves brushing your fingertips, the scent of him baked into the fabric – clean laundry, cigars, and something warm beneath it all that’s just… him.

It’s comforting. Familiar.

Something that makes you feel closer to him, even when exhaustion has pulled him somewhere distant and quiet inside himself.

You followed him back to his office under the pretense that he forgot something – the tension already rebuilding in his shoulders. Each step is heavy, like he’s pulling against some invisible chain, drawn back into the familiar orbit of responsibility he can’t seem to escape, no matter how many bruises or wounds he carries.

You almost don’t believe what you’re seeing.

Like a machine, he walks back to his desk, as if the shower never happened. As if your hands hadn’t just touched every broken inch of him, hadn’t washed the blood and dirt from his skin with reverence. Like none of it reached him. It was as if the threshold to his office reset him, and all it took was one look at the desk for the weight of the world to settle back on his shoulders.

He sinks into his chair with a sigh, the leather creaking softly beneath his weight, and immediately reaches for the paperwork scattered haphazardly across the desk. 

“John,” you say quietly, gently, but not without an edge of warning.

He glances up, meeting your eyes briefly before he sighs, already anticipating your next words. “Don’t start,” he mutters, turning his gaze back toward the paper. “This won’t take long.”

“Right,” you scoff. “We both know you’re lying. You’ll be here all night. Again.”

He huffs, trying for irritation, but it barely carries any weight. “You’re relentless.”

“Only because you’re stubborn,” you counter. You tilt your head, watching him carefully, aware of every lingering bruise beneath his clothes. Your voice softens, concern seeping through. “Come on, please? Lie down. Get some rest, or I swear to God, I’ll drag you to bed myself.”

That finally makes him look at you properly, a flicker of amusement surfacing behind the exhaustion in his eyes.

“Bet your team would pay good money to see me try,” you add, a grin forming despite your seriousness.

He snorts, shakes his head, a smile tugging briefly at the corners of his mouth. But his shoulders remain stiff, and his voice drops again. “Can’t yet. There’s still work –”

“Bloody hell, John, that can wait,” you interrupt. “You’re barely awake as it is.”

His jaw tightens briefly, that familiar flicker of pride flashing in his eyes before giving way to weary resignation. 

“I’ll stay if you want,” you offer, meaning it. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Absolutely not.”

You sigh, rolling your eyes and reaching for his hand across the desk. “John –”

“You never sleep well here,” he says, voice rougher now, protective frustration bleeding through. “Those bunks are shite, and you always wake up sore. It’s not happening.”

You laugh softly, stepping closer. “I don’t care.”

“I do,” he says without hesitation. The fierceness in his voice makes your chest tighten.

“John,” you murmur again, just his name – but it’s enough. A soft plea, steady and warm, tugging him toward you even as he tries to hold his ground. “I’m staying with you tonight. And if you don’t move right now, I will drag your stubborn ass down the corridor.”

He opens his mouth to argue again, but the look in your eyes seems to drain the fight from him, replacing stubbornness with reluctant acceptance. He sighs deeply, head bowing slightly, and finally allows you to tug him gently from his chair. 

You lace your fingers tighter with his, feeling the calloused warmth of his palm pressed against yours, and lead him out of his office into the empty corridor outside.

It’s late enough that nearly everyone has left for the night, and the low buzz of lights overhead is the only sound accompanying you both as you slowly walk toward his quarters. Beside you, each step John takes feels heavier, slower – like the exhaustion is finally catching up to him, dragging at his limbs, weighing him down with every breath he takes.

When you finally reach his quarters, you push the door open and guide him inside, flipping on the single lamp beside the bed. The soft yellow glow spills gently over the sharp edges of his tired face, brightening the deep shadows beneath his eyes.

You lead him silently to the bed, nudging him down until he sits at the edge of the mattress, staring blankly at the floor like he’s not quite sure how he got there.

“Lie down,” you demand, your voice soft as your hand presses gently on his shoulder. He lets you guide him, shoulders easing back until they finally meet the pillow. The mattress dips beneath him, but his body remains rigid, like he’s waiting for something. A call. Another demand, another battle. An alarm that never stops ringing in the back of his mind.

You climb into the bed and shift toward him slowly. You barely fit onto the mattress beside him, so you let your arm slide carefully around his waist. Your chest is pressed against his side, and your head finds that familiar spot tucked perfectly against the curve of his neck. 

His muscles remain locked tight, like part of him doesn’t believe he’s allowed this. You. 

You sigh softly, pressing closer, and lift your chin to kiss the line of his jaw. A familiar gesture, one you’ve done countless times when words weren’t enough to reach him.

It’s a promise: I’m here. You’re safe. You’re with me.

And the moment your lips touch his skin, something in him finally breaks.

He exhales – long, deep, a breath dragged from somewhere buried. The sound carries the weight of the entire day, or maybe, of too many days. His arms come around you slowly, then fully, wrapping you in a firm, unspoken need. 

“Thank you,” he whispers, the words carrying more than simple gratitude – they’re heavy with trust, with love, with quiet awe at the simple gift of your presence.

You smile softly against his chest, pressing closer still, your fingers drawing slow, soothing circles along his side. 

And only then, with you wrapped safely in his arms, your heartbeat anchoring him, does he finally, quietly, drift into sleep.

CAPTAIN PRICE 🤚 IN MODERN WARFARE III

john price would trap you with a baby. no questions asked. he knew the years were catching up to him. he knew that wouldn't be much longer before he couldn't pass on the price genes.

he felt bad when he masturbated, felt like he was wasting his boys. spurts of hot cum down his large shaft wishing that it was inside a pretty little things smaller cunt. his hand was too rough even with lubrication. he needed something with supple flesh that he could sink his teeth into and a wet pussy to stuff full. he wanted to feel himself impregnating someone.

that was where you came in.

you felt amazing, sex with you was something else. the way you were like a bunny when you rode his cock. you bounced on him, not slowing down until he wrung at least three orgasms out of you. he found it endearing that you could take him. and while cowgirl was fun and missionary felt classic.

if price wanted to get you pregnant then, he knew that doggy style would be the best course of action. sadly, that position was a little more difficult given your size difference. price the bear and his little cub, those weren't just terms of endearment. he was burly, hairy, but you were so much shorter that he couldn't easily slip into you. but things could always be modified.

he smothered you under him as you laid on the bed with your legs spread and price was on top of you with his cock invading your slick entrance. the feeling was different and the weight on top of you only added to the pleasure.

his mind was focused, as he worked himself into you. he slid in easily, little resistance from you. your pussy was greedy for him, not that price could blame you. you were just so perfect for him. he shaped you into the perfect thing for him. you were his angel, the sweetest fruit, the woman he wanted to carry his child. if you liked it or not.

thoughts of you dark puffy nipples, the waddle in your step, the complaints of back pain. how your body changed because of him, he marked you in a way that no other man could. price boys grew strong and were a handful both in the womb and out. hungry boys too, but price would happily massage your fat tits to make sure there was more than enough milk for his boys. might have a little taste himself, see what all the fuss was. the heavy milk on his tongue as he fucked his pretty wife.

no need to go out and find a job. price's got enough to make sure that your wallet and your womb were packed full. no need to worry your little head, just make sure the babies are taken care of and price will do all the thinking in the relationship. he knew your dream was to see your diploma on the wall, but he thought that a family photo would be much better.

hard to complete your degree when your pregnant belly doesn't fit in the lecture hall seat or it was feeding time for john jr. there was nowhere for you to nurse his hefty son and you'd in the end miss too much class because price would be keeping you at home to start on the next one.

"that's it, doll. that's my girl. she suckin' me right in. she know what she wants and she's takin' it. made just for, huh, petal?" he growled as he pressed into you further, his cock didn't slip out. he fucked you feverishly.

he felt you tremble as you came not once, but twice, back to back. price continued to fuck you, ruin your pretty little folds and let him feel as much as he could of your sweet sex. you felt amazing, only pussy price would want. he fucked you roughly with his hands pressed into the covers on either side of your head. you were too blissed out by the time he finished inside of you that you didn't even ask for him to pull out.

a good wife took every drop.

he soon after pulled his cock out, the sight of his cum sticking to your slick pussy lips with most of his seed inside of you. made his cock peek at attention once more. "there she is." he purred, "messy girl." he tipped your hips up and held them in his large hands. he dipped between your legs and played with your pussy. something to distract you while his cum slid into the back of your pussy.

now be good, and get pregnant <3

a/n: i don't know what came over me... i'm sorry