Fixer-Upper

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.

Knight!John Price x Princess!reader

inspo - honestly shameless , i wanted this

werewolf smut werewolf smut

contains chasing to fuck , monster fucking , cnc (if you squint) & knotting

The moonlight slashes through the dense treeline like a blade, silver and cold and watching.

Sir John Price, noble knight captain and sworn protector of your kingdom’s bloodline, stumbles against a tree, his breathing ragged, uneven. His armored gauntlet splits against bark as claws push through, twisting bone and sinew. His growl isn’t human anymore.

You shouldn't be watching.

But gods, you are.

“My lady,” he rasps, voice strangled and wet with the growl curling in his throat. “Run.”

You don’t. Can’t. Your eyes are locked on the way his jaw cracks open, lengthening, sharpening, his teeth catching the moonlight. His armor creaks and groans under the pressure of his expanding body, the beast beneath the steel.

He snarls, turning away from you, fangs bared to the forest, to anything that might distract him from the scent of you.

“I said run,” he growls again, lower this time, desperate, trembling. “I won’t be able to stop. If you stay—if I catch your scent again—I’ll take you.”

There’s a flash in his eyes. Hunger.

Your heart slams in your chest. You take a step back.

His ears twitch.

“I need you to run,” he groans, clawed hand gripping his chest, as though he could anchor the man inside a body that’s no longer his. “Please, princess. You need to run.”

You whisper his name.

His eyes snap to you. Glowing. Predatory. Wicked.

Another heartbeat, and you’re sprinting through the trees.

Behind you, metal crashes to the ground, followed by a guttural howl that shatters the stillness. The kind of sound that promises teeth on your throat and hands gripping your hips.

You don’t dare look back.

Because if he catches you—

—no knight in the world could save you from what he’s about to become.

And he will catch you.

Of course he will.

You're fast—gods, you're fast—but you're not him. Not with your skirts bunched in your fists, breath burning your throat, heart thundering like war drums in your chest.

The woods blur, and still you run.

But you feel it when he gets close.

The heat of him. The thudding weight of paws behind you, impossibly silent for how large he must be now. The low growl that slips into the wind and curls around your spine like a hand.

And then—

You're gone from the ground.

A cry tears from your throat as you're swept off your feet, tackled into the moss with shocking gentleness for something that had sounded like a monster moments ago. You're caged beneath him—bigger now, broader, his skin half-shifted, half-wolf, glowing eyes staring down at you as his claws press into the earth on either side of your head.

He pants above you, chest heaving, sweat and fur and musk curling thick in the air. Drool drips from his snarl onto your cheek.

"You should've run faster," he growls, voice rougher now, lined with hunger, with need.

"Y-you caught me..." you whisper, breathless, trembling beneath the weight of him.

He leans down, nuzzles his nose to your throat, a low, rumbling growl vibrating through your skin.

"You wanted me to."

And gods help you—

—you did.

There's no pretending anymore—not for him.

Not with the way he snarls low against your throat, like he's trying to taste your pulse before he even sinks his teeth in. Not with the way his claws dig into the dirt, holding himself back by a thread, trembling from the effort. He's not even fully shifted—can't be, not with how badly he wants to feel you with his hands, not paws. Not with how badly he wants your skin on his, not fur.

He’s not gentle. Not after all that. Not after the chase.

He ruts against you, desperate, grinding hard through the layers between you, shuddering when you squirm—when you press your hands against his chest, not to push him away, but to pull him closer.

"Tell me no," he growls, but his hips say something else entirely—rolling down slow, then slamming forward hard enough to make you gasp.

You whimper something—maybe “stop,” maybe “don’t,”—but your legs are already spreading, traitorous, trembling, welcoming.

Your nails bite into his arms. You turn your face like you don't want this—but your body arches into him, not away.

"Don't lie to me," he snarls, voice shaking with the strain of holding back. His fangs are bared, but his mouth is at your ear, and you whimper when his breath hits your skin. "You're mine, princess. Say it."

You don't. Not with words. But your hips tilt, just enough, just right.

He growls like something unholy.

You love this. Even when you act like you don’t. Even when you cry and whine and call him a monster.

Because you're the one who's still clinging to him.

You're the one who's dripping before he even claims you.

He’s got you flat beneath him, skirts shoved up around your waist, your thighs trembling against his sides. His hands are huge, rough from years of sword and steel, and now they’re claiming every inch of you like you’re a battlefield he owns. One stays planted on your hip, the other cradling your jaw, thumb dragging over your lip like he's daring you to bite.

"You're gonna scream for me, sweet thing," he mutters, voice rough and ragged, half-man, half-creature. "Not because you're scared—because you're mine."

He starts slow, grinding against your slick heat through your ruined underthings, just to feel the tremble, the way your breath catches. Then he pulls away—and spits in his hand, like a brute, slicking himself up before dragging the head of his cock along your folds.

Not pushing in. Not yet. Just teasing.

“You’re gonna remember this, princess. Every. Fuckin'. Inch.”

And when he does finally sink into you?

He’s ruthless. Long, hard thrusts that force breathy gasps out of your throat. No soft kisses. No gentle words. Just the slap of skin, the growl in his chest, and the slick wet sounds of him fucking you like he was meant to.

He uses one hand to pin both your wrists above your head, the other sliding down between your thighs—finding your clit with practiced fingers.

And when he hits just the right spot, when you squirm and cry out and your walls clench tight around him, he leans down, growling into your mouth:

“There she is. There’s my good girl. Scream for your captain.”

And god, you do. You scream his name like it’s the only thing you know.

Which, by the time he’s done with you, it just might be.

"What would the king think? Seeing his little princess be such a whore?"

He’s not asking—he’s taking, like his body’s driven by instinct and the only thing it wants is you.

His hands are everywhere—gripping your hips tight enough to bruise, dragging you down onto his cock with a growl that rumbles through his chest. You’ll feel him for days, the deep ache between your legs, the ghost of his fingerprints on your skin. When you cry out, he smirks, and his hand slides up your throat, thumb pressed gently beneath your jaw, just enough pressure to remind you who’s in control.

“Look at you,” he rasps, hips snapping into yours so hard that you swore the earth would split beneath you. “Takin’ it so well. So desperate for your captain’s cock, aren’t you?”

You nod, gasping, but it’s not enough for him.

“Say it. Say you want me to ruin you.”

And when you do—when you whimper out that you want him to break you—he fucks you for real. One hand on your throat, the other gripping your thigh and pressing your knees back, folding you open for him.

“You’re mine,” he snarls into your ear. “Say it again. Say it while I breed you full.”

And you do, because how can you not? When he’s buried so deep, when every thrust punches the air from your lungs, when your entire body is his—yeah, it’s rough, claiming, filthy. And you love it. Even if you act like you don’t. Even if you cry a little. Even if you’re already begging him not to stop.

He doesn’t just want to make you scream, sweetheart. He wants to make you remember.

When it happens—when the last shred of control slips and the shift fully takes him—it’s violent. Bones crack, skin tears, fur bursts across his body like wildfire. His snarl becomes a growl, low and guttural, vibrating through your chest as you lay beneath him. His eyes glow gold now, no trace of the man you once knew… but gods, he’s still inside there. Still watching you. Still wanting you.

And he doesn’t stop.

He’s bigger now. Stronger. His claws scrape the ground on either side of your head, holding himself over you, caging you in like prey. His muzzle brushes your throat, and you feel the heat of his breath, the tension in his jaw as he fights not to bite—not yet. Not until he’s claimed you properly.

His thrusts are deeper, more forceful, hips snapping into you with inhuman power. You cry out, nails digging into whatever part of him you can reach, but he just growls in approval. The slick, obscene sounds of him inside you echo louder now, more primal, more filthy. Every motion screams mine.

“You should’ve run faster,” he huffs, voice distorted and monstrous but still his. “Would’ve probably gotten away.”

But he doesn’t regret that you didn’t. Not one bit.

Because now? He can knot you. Fill you. Mark you inside and out until there’s no question who you belong to.

And when you sob his name—when your body breaks open for him again and again—he howls, the sound shaking the trees, the sky, you.

You're his. Forever now. And he’s going to make damn sure everyone knows it.

At first, you think he’s done. His pace slows, almost tender for a fleeting second as he pants above you, still trembling with the aftershock of the shift. But then—then—you feel it. That slow, thick swell at the base of him starting to press insistently against you.

He growls when your body tries to resist it, claws digging into the earth beside your head as he forces himself deeper. You cry out, overwhelmed, stretched too wide, and he groans—deep, guttural—as the knot pops inside. Locked. Stuffed. Filled.

“Shhh,” he rumbles, voice animal-thick, muzzle nudging at your cheek, “s’alright. You’ll take it. Gonna keep it all in, yeah?”

The stretch, the burn, the way your walls flutter helplessly around him—it’s too much, too perfect. He can feel everything, and so can you. That throbbing knot pulsing against your insides, his release locked deep where it’s meant to stay.

No escaping now. Not for hours.

You whimper his name, and his voice rumbles with satisfaction: “Good girl. That’s it. Take my knot, princess. Take every bloody drop.”

And you do. You have to.

tagging my favorite sicko - @goatgoesmbe

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

.

.

John Price who fucks you for the first time and now it’s all he can think about. Your warm cunt wrapped around him so tightly and your nails digging into the backs of his thighs. When he showers the day following, he traces the marks with his fingertips and his dick is immediately hard at the reminder of you. His hand wraps around his length and his head fills with images of you in front of him, soap running down your body collecting between your tits. He comes within 3 minutes.

John Price who hasn’t seen you in days around base, no matter how far he wanders. Not until a meeting the following Friday, you’re sat in a chair, leg crossed on top of the other and hands resting in your lap. You try to look engaged in what’s being said, but he can tell your mind is elsewhere. And when the meeting ends and you stand, reaching your arms behind your back to stretch with a groan and a sliver of your stomach showing, he’s hard again.

John Price who shows up at your room later that night, his head shamefully hung low and dick straining in his pants. When you open the door wearing a tank top and sleep shorts he has to fight himself from grabbing onto the flesh of your thighs. Instead he just stares at your bare legs in front of him, already thinking about how he’s going to leave marks of his own.

John Price and a younger reader, but one who didn’t mind that he couldn’t always give her what she wanted. One who found it endearing when he stressed over how he wasn’t performing, and was content with pleasing herself most days.

That didn't mean that he didn’t know what he was doing, or that he was anything less than satisfactory in general. In fact, it made sense — he ruined you so badly after sessions where he really got at it, essentially spearing you in two and leaving you a babbling, aching mess, that you often couldn’t stand for days afterwards, let alone have another round.

So instead of going at it like feral creatures every other minute, which was how Price assumed his subordinates did by the way they gazed at you with hungry, lust-filled eyes, you’d have sparing nights of pleasure, but you’d always make them count.

And that was just how the two of you liked it.

Had imagine giving the old man and his abilities some love without immediately resorting to his teammates <33 (not that im complaining id take any of them)

Never misses, even in style

The Arrangement

Summary:  John proposes a friends with benefits arrangement. But he's making it so very difficult to stick to the terms.

Warnings: Slight reference to Reader being harassed, making out, implied cunningulus and fingering, actual cunningulus, p in v sex, lotus position, hand job. Initial miscommunication of expectations about what John wants now and what Reader thinks John wanted last night. A flirty, teasing, knows-what-he-wants-and-its-you John appears.

Author’s note: This has interspersed flashbacks to the night before– those are expressed as paragraphs of italicized text. Hopefully that makes it easier to follow.

Word count: <4K | Rating: 18+ MDNI. NSFW. It’s smut, people. | Credits: Left photo, unsplash. Remaining photos, pinterest. Banners and dividers made in Canva.

John Price masterlist | Main Masterlist

No matter where you were stationed or deployed, the one habit you followed religiously was to wake up and have a cup of coffee. It was a grounding ritual for you–a small pocket of time that was yours and yours alone, before the demands and obligations of your life imposed themselves on your day.

Today was no exception. You lean against the kitchen sink, staring out the window of your flat, listening to the coffee maker bubble and brew. It was still pitch dark (the kitchen clock read 5:06am), and all you could see was your reflection staring back at you. Of a woman in her mid-30s. Tired, body well-used and aching, her world shifted on its axis. 

John Price was a long-time colleague and friend. Last night, that status changed to long-time colleague and friend with benefits. Well…that’s what he had proposed, and that’s what you agreed to. 

Except…after the night you just had, you weren’t sure how you were going to keep things casual.

“John, thank you for the walk back. I’m sorry you had to witness that debacle at the pub.”

You glance sideways at him. Wearing his usual watch cap, wool overcoat, jeans and winter boots, he blended right into his surroundings–a cold January night, snow silently falling in big fat flakes, covering everything in sight. 

The streets were quiet–not a single car on the road or people out and about. The only sounds the two of you could hear were from the crunching noises of your boots as you trudged down the street together in the snow. 

He rubs his bare hands together briefly, blowing into them with his mouth before shoving them back into his pockets before he speaks.

“Love, that random drunk was out of line and everyone knew it with the way he was harassing you. You were magnificent, verbally handing his balls to him. Well done. I’d have wrecked him and given him a toss through a window, yeah? But everyone just joined in and took the piss out of him instead.” 

You snort, a small puff of warm air escaping into the frigid night. “Well, I’m glad you let me handle that.”

“I knew you could.” He pauses, then adds, “I have no doubts you could’ve wrecked him and tossed him through the window yourself.”

You chuff out a laugh, imagining that ridiculous visual.

Stopping at the front doors of your apartment building, you turn to look back at him. “Come in for a drink? Least I can offer you for your troubles walking me back.” 

He removes his watch cap, slapping it against his leg and stomping his feet briefly to shake the snow off of himself. You tiptoe up to brush the remaining snow off his shoulders before doing the same yourself.

“Well?” you ask him, bouncing on the balls of your feet, trying to keep warm.

“I’m afraid if I say no to you now, there’s no telling what you’d do to me, in the mood you’re in. Lead the way,” he chuckles, following you inside the building foyer.

“Can’t sleep?”

You turn around, seeing John clad only in his boxer briefs, leaning against the kitchen doorway. His eyes sweep over you in your thigh-length silk robe, watching you intently. Gods, he was ruggedly handsome, especially with that knowing smile tilting the corner of his mouth. 

Your eyes travel from his feet, darting upwards over his tall, broad, muscular form. Over his thick thighs. His large, capable hands and brawny forearms folded across his hairy chest. All the way to his roguish, bearded face and mussed, dark brown hair. His ocean blue eyes meet yours, watching you intently.

You let out a small, shaky breath as your body reacts to the totality of him standing before you. More, your mind traitorously whispers. You firmly shut that thought down until he takes a step towards you. 

“How are you doing, love?”

The two of you were sitting on your loveseat. Drinks long done and the conversation finally winding down. This would be when he would say it’s getting late, and then you’d hug him and see him off. But this time he’s made himself more comfortable on your loveseat–legs spread, his knee lightly brushing against yours. 

His mood seems reflective tonight, and you don’t miss the lingering looks he’s been giving you. He reaches out to trace your kneecap lightly with his fingers, as if to assess your reaction. His fingers lazily trace a random swirl pattern, causing small shivers to course up your thigh. 

John was always a tactile person, clapping his hand on your shoulder, patting your knee, hand on the small of your back when steering you through a crowded room. It was something over the years that you’d gotten used to, and you always thought he was being gentlemanly. 

But this…this felt a little different.

“This is the first time in a very long time we’re both not seeing anyone.” It’s a statement rather than a question. 

“Yes?” you reply questioningly, curious at the shift in the conversation.

“I’d like to propose something to you, and all I’d like to ask is for you to hear me out.”

You laugh. “You’re being very cryptic. That’s not like you. But…you’ve got my attention now.”

He tilts his head to the side, a small smile ghosting his lips.

“We’ve known each other for several years now? I’d like to think we’re good friends and work colleagues, wouldn’t you say?”

“We are…” you say slowly, searching his expression for any sign of where he was going with this conversation.

“We’re in a very unpredictable, stressful line of work. We have our own language and ways of working that few people understand.”

“Mm hmm…go on,” you wave at him to continue, genuinely intrigued. 

“But we’re human beings too. It’s difficult to meet people who can put up with what we do. Being in a committed relationship takes a lot of time and effort that we both don’t have the headspace for. Doesn’t it get lonely sometimes? We crave intimacy. We have wants, desires, physical needs that aren’t getting met.”

Your mind rapidly sifts through all the scenarios of where John’s train of thought is going, and you can’t help but blurt out the one improbable possibility that remains. “A friends with benefits arrangement? Is that what you’re proposing?”

You lean back up against the counter, arms crossed over your chest. “I-I…don’t think I’ve used some muscles in a long time John…they’re screaming at me now,” you admit, trying to deflect with some dry humor, trying to give him some version of a truthful answer.

He tsks playfully at you. “You’re not really answering my question.” Now he’s drifted closer to stand in your personal space, scant inches away from you. 

Your eyes lift again to meet his, wary. Afraid of stammering out that you’re in way over your head. Messing things up mere hours after you agreed to this arrangement that he proposed.

He lifts a finger to trace up along your jaw, then further back to tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear. You’re trying to mentally retreat to being at arm’s length again, but you both know it’s way too late for that. 

Dropping your eyes back down to his chest, you gasp, surprised. Faint bite and scratch marks dot across his chest and shoulders. Embarrassment heats your face as you recall everything the two of you did last night. “Oh sweetheart, if you could only see your face right now,” he says, his raspy voice deepening. “Are you sure you want to stay as just friends with benefits, love?”

“Exactly. Friends with benefits. And we’d keep it casual.”

You instantly call him out. “John. You don’t do casual. Casual and John Price is an oxymoron, like jumbo shrimp. You commit 110% in everything you do.”

He cocks his head, grinning at your rebuttal. You’re completely right about him. You’ve seen how intense he is on missions, how dedicated he is to his team. Hell, even how competitive he is at pub trivia nights (which was the actual reason he was out with you tonight–he was your ringer on all things military history).

“I could say the same about you, love. All the more reason to give us a chance? Look, I’m not asking for an answer from you right now, but maybe give it some thought, yeah? I’ll respect your decision either way. We’re adults here.”

“John, I–this…this is a lot to process.”

He nods and lets out a long sigh, drawing his fingers away from your knee. “I completely understand. And…it’s late and I think it’s my cue to go. But…before I do, how about a goodnight kiss?”

You cross your arms, looking at him skeptically.

“I just need something to keep me warm enough for the walk back home. It’s cold out, you know,” he says, straight-faced.

Your mouth twitches, as several comebacks form on the tip of your tongue, but you choose to go with the first one that came immediately to mind.

“Johnny’s been rubbing off on you. I didn’t think you had it in you to be so dramatic. Fine.” 

You lean forward, and before you realize it, he’s pulled you effortlessly on top of him. Straddled on his lap, hands resting lightly on your hips. Giving you the option to get off of him if you wanted to.

“Go on then, give me that kiss,” he softly dares you, an amused look on his face. Seeing your eyes target his cheek, he clarifies. “On the lips.” 

You stare at each other silently for a few more seconds–a charged test of wills over this one small, trivial thing. 

“Incorrigible,” you finally huff, placing your hands on his shoulders to brace yourself. Gods, he smelled good, a mixture of whiskey and cigar smoke. 

You gulp, suddenly hesitant, as your eyes meet his.

“It’s just me,” he whispers conspiratorially, one corner of his mouth lifting, eyes crinkling. “It’s just one wee kiss. What possible harm could there be in that?”

You lick your lips and lean forward.

“Yes. Friends with benefits. That was what we agreed on,” you say slowly, faintly, kicking yourself almost instantly as soon as the words come out of your mouth. 

He’s practically giving you an opening, girl! Why didn’t you just take it? your inner voice shrieks.

“You know, I’ve always wondered how it would be between us. Would it be tender, hot, sensual? Filthy and feral? And to know now that it’s all of that, and so much more? Now I’m not so sure about what we agreed to. Maybe you were right. Maybe I can’t do just casual after all,” he rumbles. 

You exhale, closing your eyes briefly. Was he saying this was a mistake? Was this the part where things would get weird and awkward?

“So…what is it then you want?” you mutter in exasperation, slowly scrubbing your face with your hand.

Gently claiming that same hand, he turns the inside of your wrist towards him, planting several reassuring kisses against it, his gaze never leaving yours.

“I want you, love. Never, ever doubt that. But after last night, you’re giving me hope there could be more with us. Like maybe we could be exclusive. That maybe we could…have this every day and night we’re together? What would you say to that?” 

Now he’s right up against you, his hands on either side of your hips, gripping the kitchen counter, his growing erection pressing against your stomach. Bright blue eyes filled with wicked promise stare at you. Watching for your telltale reactions, the same ones he learned intimately last night.

A small involuntary shiver runs through you as you allow yourself to think that there could be something more between the two of you. But was he just teasing, or was he being genuine?

“Why are you trembling? Have I not satisfied you enough? D’you want another go?” 

Despite yourself, you laugh at his attempts to fluster you. A small, breathy moan escapes your lips as he leans down to kiss the side of your neck. 

“I knew it,” you say, eyes fluttering shut as he switches over to kiss the other side of your neck. “This was a straight up seduction. You planned this all along. This was never going to be a friends with benefits thing.”

The kiss started innocently enough, until one of his hands drifted up your back, caressing the nape of your neck. Trailing up gently, his hand tangles in your hair to cup the back of your head. His other arm curls around your lower back to bring your core flush against the growing bulge in his pants. The room was silent save for your soft pants and his low rumbles of encouragement as one kiss turned into several.

“Want more?” he murmurs against your lips, the hand around your back snaking down and around to grab one of your thighs, wrapping it around his waist, bringing you even closer to him.

You nod, followed by a soft whispered yes as you buck your hips against him, trying to ease the ache forming between your legs, only to realize it was making the ache worse.

His hand flexes in your hair, tugging slightly, making you arch your back slightly.

“John?” you gasp as pleasure prickles along your scalp and down your body.

“Yes, love?”

“Friends with benefits? D-do you really mean it?”

John leans back to look at you and shakes his head in disbelief. “How can we just keep it casual when you’ve been asking, pleading, begging me for more all last night? Who’s doing the seducing? Not me. You are. But how can I say no to a smart, tough, beautiful woman like you in need? Turns out, I’m a weak-willed man for you.” 

You scoff faintly at his last statement, but he continues.

“You want to know what my favorite four letter word is now? S’not fuck or cock, or cunt. It’s more. Especially when you whimper it. Cry out saying it with my name. But it’s alright love,” he smirks, kissing down to your exposed collarbones. “You can be greedy. I’m in a giving mood this morning.”

His hands caress your hips, massaging in slow circles over your robe. Drifting upwards, he palms your breasts through the silk fabric, gently tweaking your nipples, rumbling in approval at your hitching breaths. 

“Sweet girl, you sound so pretty when you come,” he utters softly, wet fingers rubbing against your throbbing clit one last time, mouth and beard still shiny with your slick. “Seems like your body was craving something it needed, coming so quickly on my mouth and fingers. Had no idea you tasted so…addictive. Can’t get enough of this.” 

On your back now, catching your breath, you look up at him. Jeans and panties wrenched down to your ankles, caged in between his arms and legs on the loveseat. You watch him lick and suck each of his fingers slowly, humming with satisfaction. You close your eyes briefly, trying to gather your thoughts as you feel your pussy pulse in reaction at his lewd display.

“John?”

“Yes, love?” He groans at the way your eyes open again to meet and hold his gaze. Tentative, yet hungry at the same time. A part of him is ecstatic that he’s finally getting to see this side of you.

Grasping one of his wrists, you ask him hesitantly, “Can we go to the bedroom now?”

He sinks to his knees in front of you, lifting one of your legs to drape over one of his broad shoulders. Rucking up the hem of your robe, he lets out an indistinct sound of approval, seeing that you’re completely bare underneath and dripping wet between your legs. He parts your robe, eyes feasting in appreciation over every exposed curve, slope and stretch mark he sees before he lowers his head again.

He speaks, interspersing kisses up along your inner thigh slowly, his soft beard lightly tickling and abrading your skin.

“You don’t have to say it.” Kiss. “But I know what you want.” Kiss. “Your eyes, your body are telling me everything I need to know about how you feel about me.” Kiss.

You steady your hands on the counter, your standing leg shaking slightly before feeling the heat of his mouth and tongue fasten over your aching clit.

“Such a good girl, riding me like this.”

On your bed, the two of you were entwined in a lotus position, your legs wrapped around his waist, your arms wrapped up and around his shoulders as you rocked your hips. You were keening softly as you rode his hard, thick cock. Nipples sensitive from rubbing against his chest hair. Losing your mind at all the filthy and depraved images he was evoking and promising with his rough, gravelly voice.

“John, s’good,” you slur in his ear, the pleasure stealing your ability to form words. “Feels s’good.” You didn’t know it could be like this with him, and now that you had a taste of it, you couldn’t get enough. 

“Always knew it would be…you just needed convincing. Timing was never right. Was trying to be a gentleman,” he rasps, feeling you clench hard around him. “Now you have me. Anytime, anywhere, however you want. I’m all yours.”

A small little alarm in the back of your mind trips at his words. He can’t be saying what you think he is saying…friends don’t just say those things like that…do they?

You cry out as he angles his hips slightly to hit that spot deep inside you. You rake your nails down his back. He grunts slightly at the pain, but he ignores it, focused solely on making you come apart in his arms.

Your thoughts scatter to all but one which you give voice to as you bounce harder on his cock, craving the friction, the feeling of fullness, chasing the orgasm just building, just barely within your reach. 

“More, John. Need more. Please.”

He instantly complies, gripping your hips, thrusting up into you harder.

“Fuuuuck. That’s my girl. Using your words. Coming with you now. Come now, with me.”

Arching your back, white-hot pleasure forms in your gut, expanding and streaking through your body as you shake and whine brokenly, coming harder than you ever had before in your life. Seconds later, you find yourself almost crushed in his arms as he lets loose a feral sound, bucking upwards, feeling him spurt hotly inside you.

“And w-what is it that I’m t-telling you that my words c-can’t?” you stutter, your hands tangled in his hair, biting your lip as his tongue joins the fray against your sensitive clit.

“‘M busy right now, sweetheart, trying to make you come again.” Your thighs partially muffle his words, but his fingers keep busy teasing your folds, his mouth and tongue working their magic against your clit.

You let out a small exasperated laugh-moan. “In-infuriating man…t-trying to get me addicted to your t-touch. That was the p-plan all along, wasn’t it?” you whimper, toes curling, head tilted back. “W-with hot, mind-melting s-sex?”

“Hmm…is it working?” He turns his head, sighing against your inner thigh, kissing and nipping it. You can feel his smile against your skin.

“An-answer my q-question, John.”

You swallow your disappointment as he backs off. He stands up to take a half step back, but is still close enough to close your robe back into place and gather you into his arms.

He whispers your name. “I need to ‘fess up. I genuinely went in proposing this friends with benefits thing, thinking that was what we could have, and it would be enough. Except, once we kissed, I knew that what we agreed to wasn’t going to happen. Especially not after the way we spent the night together. But you were being so serious and earnest about sticking to what we agreed to.”

You let out a long, shaky breath. “I thought that was what you wanted! I didn’t want to mess up our friendship because I was feeling things. Big things, and it wasn’t the same for you,” you quietly trail off.

He cups the side of your face with the palm of his hand.

“Oh sweetheart, it is definitely not one-sided. It’s 100% mutual. I was giving you all those outs so you could change your mind.” He huffs out a small laugh. “And yes, I might’ve been a little underhanded in trying to…persuade you to see it my way first with sex.”

“I wasn’t sure if you were teasing me, or playing some kind of warped game about calling the whole friends with benefits thing off.”

“I’m sorry, love, that wasn’t my intention. You know me. I’m as direct as they come. But I should’ve come clean sooner, to just admit that I can’t even follow the terms that I proposed and not have you doubt yourself. And that this, this is something real and worth having.”

You close the gap to hug him, arms stroking up and down his back.

“I’m blaming the dopamine. Or the serotonin. Or some other unspoken chemistry we’ve had for a long time and we didn’t realize it until last night. I don’t know,” you say half to yourself, half into his chest before you speak up again, looking into his vivid blue eyes. “So what are we to each other, then?”

“Simple. I’m yours, and you’re mine now. That’s all there is to it.”

“I can live with that,” you grin.

“Good.”

The two of you stay in each other’s arms for a few more moments, listening to the sound of the coffee maker finish its brewing before it beeped twice in finality.

“You going to have your coffee?” he asks, tilting his chin towards the appliance.

You shake your head slowly, new possibilities unfurling in your mind with this man standing in front of you. “Coffee can wait. I think…I might want something else first thing this morning,” you smirk at him.

Your hands trail down his back slowly, then around his waist to his front, fingers tangling in the elastic band of his boxer briefs. Snapping the elastic band playfully, you dip one hand below.

You gently grasp his erection, stroking him up and down languidly. Tiptoeing up to kiss the side of his bearded jaw, you murmur, “You don’t have any plans for today, do you? It’s the weekend.”

“No, I don’t, I–fuck...” He chokes on his next words as you stroke him a little more firmly, teasing and circling the tip gently with the pad of your thumb.

“Excellent.” A pause. “So, back to what you said earlier. You said you were a weak-willed man for me?” you purr, emboldened by his responses.

You watch his eyes crinkle in amusement, then shift to surprise as you roughly drag his boxer briefs down to the floor with your free hand.

“And that I’ve been the one doing the seducing?”

“Yes ma’am,” he says solemnly, mouth twitching ever so slightly.

You let out a low, throaty laugh, the sound making his cock twitch in your hold. “Oh, I like the sound of that,” you purr, nipping at his collarbone. “You kept calling me your good girl last night. I loved that. I wonder…are you partial to being called a good boy from time to time? What would you say to that?”

You stroke him exactly the way he showed you last night, making him almost cross his eyes now like he did then. 

“Fuck. Right there, love. I…ah…I could be persuaded.” He lets out a low, sandpaper-rough noise of need. “I have to say, I am really liking how forward…” he shudders, “you’re being right now.”

You give him a hungry smile as you open your robe, sending it slithering to the floor. “I’m just taking a page out of your playbook, John. Now, let’s go back to bed.”

“Yes ma’am.”

John Price masterlist | Main Masterlist

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.

how I picture price’s body😩