John Is So Inordinately Desperate To Be Back Home After Five Months In God–knows–what–town Within

content warnings: dbf!john price, hand jobs, f!reader, use of the term good girl, riding, a little bit obsessed!john, unmentioned age gap (reader is in their 20s, john late 40s)

part one.

18+ minors do not interact

john knew how independent you wanted to be since your return home- but there were a few things his new little love couldn’t quite handle. and how was he supposed to be a good neighbor if he let his best friends daughter struggle? even as he listened to your dad tell stories about how you were trying to find yourself a place or going out with your old friends, all john could think about was finding a way back in.

so it started with the car trouble. a whole afternoon of car trouble with john bent over the hood of your old beater in your dads empty garage, just looking to catch a glimpse of you. he should’ve been thinking about the oil leaking but even that couldn’t deter the dirty thoughts that bled in, thinking about you pressed up against the wall of a dingy bathroom stall days ago. the last time he got a taste of you because you seemed so adamant on avoiding him.

and that just wouldn’t do.

so after fixing that rattling in your engine and the leak of oil, john had to find other reasons to stick around. suddenly he was more interested in football games and tinkering on whatever project your dad was spending the afternoon working on.

if you wanted to be stubborn, ignoring a man in front of you that was growing obsessed, john could be patient. he was a captain for godsake. he didn’t get far on ambushing without a little patience to learn.

but none of his targets during his time with 141 looked this tempting. tiny shorts tucked under a large t-shirt covered by the logo of your favorite football team. braless with nipples that poked through the well loved fabric. you were staring at him and he was staring back just not at your eyes. john’s hand flexed around the coffee cup he was holding.

“morning love,” john spoke, finally lifting his eyes from the staring contest with your chest.

you offered a soft, “morning mr. price.”

mr. price so respectable. so sweet. so nice compared to the whine of john on his cock. you stepped around him, the waft of sweet perfume falling over him. he didn’t turn, listening to the soft sound of footsteps across the kitchen to the utility room off the side of the house. john leaned back in his chair, watching shamelessly with the way your body bent over the top load washer. shirt sliding up, smooth skin exposed to be grabbed. he needed to get his hand on you before he snapped. or get out of this house.

john stood from the table, chair scraping as he slid from the table. his heavy footsteps echoed as he slipped out the back door to the patio table where his half finished cigar sat. he plucked the lighter from the table, lighting his cigar and dragging in a deep inhale of smoke.

john was a patient man but nobody said he was good at not letting the temptations slip into his thoughts. it was like every night he was slipping his hands down his pants to stroke at the thought of his best friends not so innocent daughter looking at him. how good she felt squeezed around his cock.

minutes ticked by before the door opened and you stepped out again. “is my dad here?”

“had to get a part before we started on the master bedroom.” john shook his head.

you hummed, nodding slightly before stepping over. the smell of cigar smoke lingered but you didn’t seem to mind as you stood in front of john. he spread his thick thighs, accommodating your sudden movement to press in between them. without a word, his free hand slid up your thigh, teasing the lingering warmth from your bed.

“i didn’t have the chance to properly thank you, mr. price.” your voice dropped low, dragging john’s eyes to yours. “for fixing up my car and helping unload all those boxes.”

john swallowed thickly, “no need to thank me love.”

but that didn’t deter you, sliding to your knees on the pavement of your fathers patio. an innocent blink of your eyelashes as you slid your fingers up his thigh to pop the button of his jeans. he was already growing hard, bulge straining underneath denim and boxer shorts.

a soft groan slipped from his lips as your delicate fingers wrapped around his cock, stroking him until he was hard. john’s cigar dangled in his finger tips, smoke curling over his thick fingers into the air as he watched with half lidded eyes as your hand moved up and down the thick of his cock. your eyes were glued to him, pupils blown wide with want. each stroke of your fingers around his cock was enough to have him dragging his hips upward into your palm but you were slow, almost teasing each movement.

john snubbed out his cigar on the ashtray, pushing it aside and wrapping his hand around the back of your neck. he tugged you from between his legs, pulling you towards his lap with a swift tug. john crashed his lips into yours, the mingle of mint toothpaste and his cigar swapping on your tongue.

it was a hurried kiss, teeth and tongues battling against each other while john tugged you down to his lap. you moved with him, legs straddling over him in the flimsier chair on the patio. you sat on his knees, legs spread to accommodate for his cock slotted against your clothed pussy. with a shift of your body forward, john could feel the warmth and wetness against his cock.

“what do you want love?” the words felt heavy, thick with want and demand from his throat.

“you,” his thumbs dug against your hip, dragging you impossibly closer. your pussy rubbed up against his hard cock, desperately looking for any friction. “please john-”

john gripped your hips harder, a soft tsk of his lips. “ah, no, no i’m not john- remember love.”

his fingers slid to the top of your shorts, sliding them down slowly until you lifted your hips to slide out of them. it was an awkward movement but when he settled you back down, your bare pussy dragged up the denim of his thighs. john pulled you forward, hovering your pussy over his cock.

“mr. price-“ he groaned softly at your words, “please”

“if you’re so independent now, work for it angel.”

you sank down fast, a soft whine slipping from your lips as you dragged yourself up and down on his cock. john didn’t move, didn’t even speak as you desperately bounced up and down on his cock. he watched with an amused glint in his eyes as you desperately used him for your pleasure. each soft moan another temptation daring him to push just a little further.

“good girl,” john groaned, eyes trained on your lips. he slid his hands from your hips, pushing up the large t-shirt you were wearing. his fingers traced around your nipples, pinching to see the way you reacted. “doing so good for me angel.”

your pussy clenched, whining at the stimulation of his rough hands sliding over your nipples. your head fell back, eyes squeezed shut as his thick cock stretched your walls. all warmth and slick juices of your pussy pooling on his thighs, the denim dark with the need that slipped between you two.

“mm close.” you whimpered, hips still moving unsteadily on his lap.

john gripped your hip again with one large hand. he quickly started jerking upwards, pushing himself into you with a furious pace as your thighs trembled. orgasm crashed over you, curling your body back into his with a soft cry. john tugged you close, his own orgasm shooting deep into your pussy, a mix of cum pooling between your thighs.

john held you on his lap, fingers pressing little bruises into your hips. in the haze of orgasm, you two barely caught the sound of squeaky breaks pulling in the drive. with unsteady legs, you were up off his lap and shimmying those shorts up your legs while john tucked himself back to his jeans. you made your quick exit, gripping the glass door once more to peak back at him.

“thanks again mr. price,” you smirked knowingly before dipping into the house.

he was in trouble; he knew it as soon as he saw that glint in your eyes. so much for patience- you wanted him just as bad.

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.

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

John Price x reader.

Cw. Age gap, smut, oral sex (f receiving), unprotected PinV, afab reader.

a/n: this is my first time writing smut, so be easy on me. As always, asks are open. if you have something you want me to write, I would be happy to do that for you! Enjoy!

you were frustrated. tired of hookups, one night flings, guys that just called you up for a booty call and couldn't give a shit about anything else. yeah, at one point in time you were the same way, too obsessed with climbing the ranks in your job to want an actual relationship, but now you aren't.

you no longer have a want for something casual, you want to be consumed completely. you want someone to need you like air, to be utterly and entirely yours, and you theirs.

and you know exactly who can give you that.

he's sitting on his bed, back against the head board, reading a book quietly. he looks up when he sees you in the doorway, not even asking for permission to come in.

Captain John Price is.. surprised when you climb into his lap, your legs on either side of him and hands on his face, tilting his head down to meet yours. "lieutenant," he addresses softly, almost melting at your touch. "this is.. unexpected of you."

"I'm tired of the other soldiers, captain," you tell him. "tired of meaningless relationships."

"I have ten years on you, at least," he points out, his hands on the mattress, not touching you.

"want me to go?" you lean back, ready to swing your legs off his mattress.

before you can move any more, his hands fly out and grab you, pulling you back onto his lap - closer this time. "don't you dare," he growls, "don't even think about it. you are staying right here." his hands hold your hips, gentle yet firm, his eyes fixed on your lips. "you know how long I've wanted this? since I saw your pretty face, these pretty fucking pink lips.."

he lowers his lips to your neck, right under your jaw. his breath is warm against your skin and the feeling of his teeth against your pulse point makes you shiver. your hands grip his shoulders tighter, your nails leaving crescent shaped marks in his skin.

"so pretty," he murmurs into your skin, licking from your collarbone to your ear, one quick, wet lick that makes you whimper.

his breath catches in his throat when he feels you grinding down against him, his grip on your hips tighten. "fuck. you're a goddess," he raises his hips up, returning the favor. "you want this, pretty baby? hm? because I'm only doing this if you're serious about this meaning something. I don't play around. if we do this, I'm yours. completely yours."

"mine," you whisper, catching his lips with yours. you intertwine your fingers in his hair, tugging softly as he eases you onto your back. he hums appreciatively, running his hands up the front of your shirt. his calloused, large fingers spread out, pressing down on your stomach.

you sigh at the feeling of his touch on your skin, fire blooming within you.

"gonna worship you," he promises, reaching around to undo your bra in a swift motion, pulling it and your shirt off. his eyes focus on your bare chest, swallowing. "gonna show you how a real man treats a woman like you, a goddess like you. just lay back, goddess, relax and enjoy it. let me do the hard work, yeah?"

you nod your head, "please."

as his mouth plays with your nipple, you realize how right you were. you wanted to be consumed by someone, and you chose the right man to do so.

he trails open-mouthed kisses down your stomach, "if at any point you want me to stop, tell me. as much as I love seeing you like this, princess, I want you to enjoy this as much as I do."

smiling, you nod. your heart swells at seeing how important your comfort is to him, and you regret not doing this since you first saw him.

"words, princess."

"okay."

"good girl," he pulls down your pants, slowly, teasingly. john price whistles when he sees the wet spot on your underwear. he kisses up your thigh, switching to the other, his hot breath ghosting over your pussy and you shiver.

"don't.. don't tease me."

he laughs softly, "patience, my goddess." he bites the waistband of your underwear, pulling it down with his teeth, his eyes locked onto yours. he only breaks eye contact to look at your wet pussy, groaning softly. "god, you're fucking gorgeous. absolutely stunning. please, let me have a taste of you," he begs, "tell me I can eat your pussy, tell me you want to come on my tongue."

you moan softly at his words, nodding your head almost desperately, "please, john."

john wastes no time burying his head between your legs, licking slowly from your entrance to your clit. he flattens his tongue against your clit, applying just enough pressure to make you squirm. his grip on your legs tighten, holding your legs apart wider. "ah ah ah, my queen. you're staying here until I'm full. relax and enjoy."

with that, he plunges back in, working his tongue and mouth in beautiful, pleasure-inducing motions that have you making soft noises you didn't even know you could make. your hands tangle in his hair and you buck your hips, begging him for more. it isn't long before you come, hard and wreaking, your eyes rolling back into your skull.

he eats you out through your orgasm, until it's passed and he's locked up every drop of your cum. then he pulls himself up and kisses you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. softly, you whimper, wrapping your arms around his neck and your legs around his waist.

smoothly and quickly, he sheds his clothes, already pumping his throbbing erection. "last chance to back out, princess."

"fuck me," you respond, pulling him back down into another kiss.

you gasp as you feel his tip against your entrance, burying your face in his neck as he slowly guides himself inside of you. he groans into your ear, kissing your head as he massages your the undersides of your thighs. "so fucking tight.. perfect for me."

"feels so good, john," you moan.

experimentally, he rolls his hips. you dig your nails into his back, urging him on. the room fills with the sound of your moans and his groans, the scent of sex and the squeak of his bed as he thrust into you, his pace quickening the longer he's inside of you.

you beg and plead and gasp and moan and he swallows them with passionate kisses. He rest his forehead against yours, "fuck.. you feel so good. chocking my cock like that, you close, my goddess?"

"yes, yes, yes, john. please, john, please, 'm so close.."

"come for me, my queen," he sucks at your neck and you cry out, plummeting over the edge.

his thrust become more sloppy and desperate as he approaches his own release, shooting hit waves of his cum deep inside of you. he moans, holding you tightly against him as he rides out his own orgasm.

afterwards, he leaves to grab a rag, coming back and cleaning you up. he murmurs sweet words against you skin, how good you were for him, how beautiful you looked, how he can't wait to do that again.

he lays down on his side and pulls you against his chest, "you've got me wrapped around your finger. I'm all yours, princess."

you nuzzle into his chest, "and I'm yours."

after a while, you fall asleep in your arms, fucked out and all of your wishes fulfilled.

Mr John Price when he finally retires and bags himself a cute little house wife, who feeds him home cooked meals causing him to get a little pudgy round the edges. His new found pudge spilling over the edge of his shorts😫😫

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

I can just imagine John opening the door to your recent ex boyfriend who just won’t get the hint and keeps tryna get back together.

So John takes it into his own hands, basically marking his territory by answering the door quite merrily munching and crunching away on some cereal.

Completely ignoring the shocked expression plastered on your ex’s face at the sight of a half naked man in your house.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

price getting hurt on a mission and you have to help bandage him up as he tries not to lose consciousness. he gets so loopy from the blood loss he starts to expose his inner thoughts, calling you pretty and how often he thinks about you. “mmm y’smell s’good, love,” he mumbles aimlessly, slurring his words slightly. his fingers running through your hair as you work on his bullet wound, his voice barely a whisper “fuckin’ torturing me.” and you’re not sure if he means because you're hurting him physically or something else entirely.