#captainprice

You felt the burn as the second shot grazed your shoulder, tearing through fabric and skin, but you stayed upright, teeth gritted as you fired back until the window went still.

“Bloody hell!” Soap’s voice crackled through the comms, equal parts impressed and horrified. “You just shoved the Captain out of the way like he was a mere bairn! Saved his damned life, bonnie!”

“Not now, Johnny,” Price barked, but his eyes weren’t on the field anymore. They were on you. And they were furious.

He grabbed your arm roughly the second you reached cover, his gaze scanning the blood already soaking into your sleeve. “What the fuck were you thinking, love?” His voice was low and dangerous, shaking with something more than anger. “You don’t put yourself in the line like that.”

“I just saved your life, John,” you snapped back, breath ragged, heart hammering. “A thank you would be nice.”

His jaw clenched, eyes flashing. “I don’t need saving. Especially not from you.”

The words stung more than the wound, but there was no time to argue. Ghost’s clipped voice came over comms: “Extraction point’s hot. Fall back to the safe house.”

Price shoved his hat back on, grabbed your good arm, and half-dragged you as the team regrouped. You could feel Soap’s eyes flicking between you both with a smirk that promised endless teasing later. Gaz’s quick, worried glance lingered on you, but he said nothing. Then Soap muttered, “Cap sounds more rattled than the bloody grenades, lass. Better watch yourself.”

The rain began just as you reached the safe house. Cold, relentless, drumming against the tin roof. The old stone building smelled of damp wood and dust, the air thick with the heat of bodies and the leftover tension of battle.

Price barked orders as the others settled in, his voice a little too sharp, a little too brittle. He didn’t look at you. Didn’t have to. You could feel the anger rolling off him like heat from a fire, restrained but ready to ignite. And beneath it, though you’d never say it aloud, was fear.

The safe house was nothing more than four crumbling stone walls, two shabby bedrooms and a roof patched together with rusting tin, but after the firefight, it felt like a palace. Rain hammered against the metal, drowning the silence in a steady rhythm. The air inside smelled of wet boots, gun oil, and smoke from the small fire Soap had coaxed to life in the corner hearth.

You dropped your pack by the door and exhaled slowly, willing the adrenaline to leave your body. Your shoulder throbbed where the bullet had grazed you, warm blood still seeping through the fabric of your sleeve. You moved toward the kitchen counter, searching for a rag to bind it with before the wound could stiffen.

“Sit down before you keel over, bonnie,” Soap drawled, tossing you one of his lopsided grins. He plopped into a chair, rifle balanced across his lap like it was just another evening at home. “Captain nearly lost his head, and you nearly lost your arm, reckon Gaz and I are the only sensible ones here.”

Gaz shot him a flat look but didn’t argue. He slid closer, already pulling the med kit from your rucksack. “Let me help, yeah?” His voice was softer, steady as ever.

You gave him a tired smile, but before you could answer, a shadow fell across the room.

Price.

He stood in the doorway, hat dripping rainwater, hands braced on the frame as if he needed to physically hold himself in place. His eyes flicked to your bleeding shoulder, lingered there, then moved on. He didn’t speak, but the tension in the room thickened like smoke.

“Cap,” Soap chirped, far too amused, “don’t suppose you’d like to thank our lass for saving your neck back there? Could’ve sworn I saw your life flash before your eyes when she shoved you out the way.”

“Enough of that,” Price said sharply, stripping off his wet coat. His voice was rough, his accent heavier when he was angry.

“Just sayin’,” Soap muttered, but the grin never left his face.

Ghost, silent in the corner as always, leaned back in his chair with arms folded. His masked gaze shifted between you and Price. “Could cut the air in 'ere with a knife,” he remarked dryly.

Gaz’s lips twitched, but he kept working at the bandage on your arm. “Captain,” he said lightly, “it’s not the worst thing in the world, you know. At least you got someone watching your six.”

Price shot him a look sharp enough to silence any further commentary, but he didn’t answer. He moved to the far side of the room, shoulders hunched, hands busy with his weapon, cleaning it like it hadn’t just taken several lives minutes ago.

You swallowed, jaw tight. For now, it was easier to fuss over the others, distracting yourself. To hand Ghost a dry rag for his gear, to remind Soap to get his boots off the table, to press an apple into Gaz’s hand because you knew he hadn’t eaten since morning. That was your role: the caretaker, the one who kept the boys human. It was easier than acknowledging the weight of Price’s anger still burning in the corner of the room.

But every time your eyes strayed, there he was, watching when he thought you wouldn’t notice. Fury barely held in check, fear tucked just beneath it. You wondered which would crack first.

The safe house was just beginning to settle into uneasy quiet when Price finally snapped.

He stood up from his spot across the room, pacing like a caged animal. His rain-weathered hat was tossed onto the table, his cigar left unlit beside it. The glow of the lantern carved sharp lines across his face, shadowing the hard set of his jaw. He was usually composed, immovable, but now the mask was cracked.

You were seated at the rough wooden table, Gaz carefully checking the bandage around your shoulder. The sting of disinfectant made you wince, but it wasn’t half as sharp as the fire in Price’s voice when he finally spoke.

“You think this is a bloody game, love?” His voice was low at first, but thick with anger that threatened to spill over. He turned to you, eyes burning. “Charging in like that, ignoring orders... You nearly got yourself killed out there. What the hell were you thinking?”

“I—” you began, but he cut you off.

“No. Don’t you dare tell me you had no choice,” he growled, pointing a finger at you. “You shoved me clear and took a bullet yourself. You put yourself on the line, for what? To play the bloody hero?”

“I saved you, Captain,” you shot back, though your voice wavered under the weight of his fury. You only use his official rank when you're really mad, which he knew. “If I hadn’t gone, you would’ve... Would you rather I hadn’t done it?”

“That’s not the point! You don’t get to make that call. You don’t get to throw yourself in front of a bullet for me. Not you,” he interrupted, sharp enough to make your chest tighten. “You could’ve bloody died, love. You got shot. Because of me.”

Soap whistled low from where he lounged by the hearth. “Easy, Cap. The lass willingly saved your skin.”

“Stay out of this, MacTavish. Every one of you, stay the fuck out of this. This is between me and her, and that's an order!” Price barked, though his voice wavered on the edge of something more than anger.

“C’mon,” Gaz muttered, giving you a sympathetic pat before rising to his feet. “She did what any of us would’ve done. What you have done for us several times, Captain.”

Ghost’s voice rumbled from the shadows. “Difference is, Captain doesn’t like the idea of anyone else taking a bullet for him.” His masked gaze flicked your way. “Especially not her.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Soap smirked knowingly, Gaz folded his arms, and Price froze as if someone had just yanked the ground out from under him.

His eyes snapped to you again, hot, desperate, full of something he couldn’t hide now. His voice was quieter when it came, but it trembled with adrenaline. “Do you understand what you did? Do you understand that I can’t....” He stopped, dragged in a ragged breath, then slammed his hand onto the table hard enough to make Soap flinch.

You couldn’t fight him, not really, not with your shoulder burning and exhaustion dragging at your bones. But you could hold his gaze, steady and unflinching, and you did.

“I’d do it again, John. You know I will,” you whispered, because the truth was, you meant it.

His nostrils flared, his eyes squeezed shut like the words had cut deeper than any wound. When he opened them again, the fire was still there, but it wasn’t anger anymore. It was something rawer. Something that made your stomach twist in ways the battlefield never had.

The 141 exchanged looks, unspoken words crackling like static in the air. Soap muttered something about putting the kettle on, and Gaz herded him toward the corner. Ghost only stayed seated, watching like a man at the theatre, silent but unwilling to miss the show. And Price... Price looked at you as though you’d just pulled him back from the edge of a cliff, and he didn’t know how to thank you without shattering.

The safe house had gone still, save for the creak of the old beams. After some time, the others had peeled off one by one. Soap’s snoring rattled from one of the bedrooms that he shared with Gaz, whose shifting in his bedroll could occasionally be heard. Ghost was silent enough, you wondered if he ever truly slept.

But you, you couldn’t sleep.

Your shoulder throbbed beneath its bandage, a dull ache that matched the storm still rolling in your chest. Price’s voice, sharp, furious, too close to breaking, echoed in your ears no matter how tightly you closed your eyes.

So you slipped outside to the patio.

The air was cool and damp, carrying the earthy scent of rain-soaked ground. The night pressed close, black save for the pale silver of the moon. And there he was. Price leaned against the stone wall just beyond the door, broad shoulders hunched, a cigar glowing faintly between his fingers. The smoke curled up into the night, drifting with the mist. His hat, now dry, was tipped low, shielding his eyes, but you didn’t need to see them to know he’d heard you. He always did.

“You should be resting,” he muttered, voice low and gravelled, as though it belonged to the night itself.

“So should you,” you answered softly, stepping closer.

For a moment, there was only the crackle of the cigar’s ember. Then he exhaled, smoke trailing from his lips in a sigh heavy enough to bow his shoulders further. “You don’t make it easy, love.”

The word hung in the air, heavy, tender, unguarded. You saw the instant he realized he’d said it, the way his lips pressed together as if he could shove it back down. But the silence had already shifted; the battlefield had followed you home, and the war he was fighting now wasn’t out there. It was inside him.

Something in the way he just said that, rough, pained, almost defeated, made your throat tighten. “I wasn’t going to stand there and watch you die, John,” you whispered.

He turned to you, finally, and the sight of him stole the breath from your lungs. Lantern light from the doorway carved shadows into the lines of his face again, catching in the silver of his beard, the furrow of his brow. His eyes burned, still stormy, still edged with adrenaline, but beneath the fury was fear. Real, bone-deep fear.

“You don’t get it, sweetheart,” he said, pushing away from the wall, voice rising before he forced it down again. “I can’t have you throwing yourself in front of me like that. I can’t... Christ, I can’t lose you.”

Your chest ached. “You think I want to lose you? You think it wouldn’t gut me just the same?”

He froze, cigar forgotten, his hand clenching into a fist at his side. The night between you thickened, charged with everything unsaid.

“John I-…” you whispered, but he was already turning again, restless, tormented.

“I’ve lost too many,” he muttered, voice rougher now, thick with something you’d never heard from him before. “Men I’ve buried, soldiers I’ve had to write letters home for. I can handle that. Comes with the job. But you-” His voice cracked, and he stopped, staring at you like the ground had opened beneath his feet. “I can’t bury you. I can’t. I'm not losing you. Never.”

Your breath caught. He’d stepped closer without you realizing, his hands still curled into fists at his sides like he didn’t trust himself to touch you. His eyes were no longer the hardened blue of a commanding officer; they were raw, pleading, terrified.

“I understand that John, and you know that I don’t want to be just another soldier to bury for you,” you murmured, your voice trembling but sure.

“You’re not,” he said instantly, like the truth had been waiting all along. “Darling, you’re not. You’re the only thing that makes all this—” he gestured vaguely, helplessly, at the world outside “—bearable. You’re the only good thing I’ve got left.”

“You’re supposed to be the steady one, love,” he continued hoarsely, taking another step closer. “The one who keeps this bloody family together. You know Soap... he runs his mouth, Gaz takes on too much, Ghost- hell, Ghost would burn the world down if left unchecked. And you... you’re the only thing holding the pieces in place. You’re the heart of it.”

The pet names softened his tone, the fury ebbing away until there was only desperation. When his hand finally rose to touch you, calloused fingers brushing your cheek, feather-light as though afraid you’d vanish, it felt like a dam breaking.

He swallowed hard, voice cracking like it hadn’t on the battlefield in decades. “If I lose you… The rest of it falls apart. I fall apart.”

The words shattered something in you, and before you could stop yourself, you hissed back almost pleadingly, “Then stop treating me like I’m made of glass. Stop acting like I’m anything less than what you are to me.”

You leaned into him, into the scent of smoke and rain still clinging to his clothes, into the warmth of a man who’d built walls taller than anyone else’s and was finally letting you inside. His thumb traced along your jaw, lingering, and when you looked up into his eyes you saw the truth there, laid bare and unflinching.

The silence that followed was thick as smoke, hot as fire. His gaze dropped to your lips, lingered, then snapped back up.

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t gentle, not at first. It was sharp, messy, born of anger and fear and the ache of almost losing everything. His hands framed your face, rough and trembling, pulling you closer as if to prove you were alive, here, his.

You clutched his coat, gasping into his mouth, matching the urgency because you felt it too. That desperate edge, that awful realization that love had grown out of the battlefield like a stubborn weed.

When the kiss finally broke, he pressed his forehead to yours, breaths ragged, voice breaking.

“Not losing you,” he whispered. “Not ever, sweetheart.” And for the first time that night, you believed him.

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You fought back a well of emotions as you finished washing the dishes. You missed him, goddamnit. Why couldn’t he put his work off for one day? This separation in your own house was uniquely tortuous. Almost as bad as the weeks and weeks he was gone on his missions, no contact.

When the dishes were dried, you tip-toed up the stairs. Maybe a shower would help you feel better. You had taken one earlier that morning – John with you, the water running over your tender muscles, his hand soaping up the mess he had left between your legs – but you climbed in again anyway. It didn’t help. The water was too warm, or otherwise too cold. You got out shivering, and dressed in your most comfortable clothes – but even those were somewhat bothersome.

Your hairbrush tangled several times in your hair and your necklace kept snagging. You could have screamed.

“Get. It. Together,” was what you hissed to yourself instead.

This unrelenting agitation is what brought you, finally, to John’s office door. A faint tremor in your jaw belied your otherwise outward calm. You clutched your laptop to your chest and held your breath. You knocked.

There was a pause. Then, John’s deep voice. “Come in.”

You opened the door halfway. You hadn’t been up since lunch, having brought him sandwiches and tea. The plate was emptied, now resting on the windowsill alongside a drained cup of tea. John looked at you over the rim of his reading glasses.

“Hi,” you said, shifting from foot to foot. “Sorry.”

“Is everything okay?”

“Yes,” you said, flushing now. “I just wondered… could I sit up here with you for a bit?”

He raised an eyebrow.

“I’ll be quiet,” you promised, biting down on the inside of your cheek.

He was silent, and you were afraid he would refuse. You had never before barged in like this while he worked. He also, usually, didn’t leave your side for days after returning home from a mission.

“‘Course, honey,” he finally said, and you tried to hide how relieved you felt.

You shut the door behind you and shuffled over to the small sofa by the window. John watched you all the while. You offered a smile and a what-can-you-do sort of shrug. He smiled back and returned to his work.

He was so dashing, in his reading glasses and the snug sweater you had gifted him a couple months ago. He licked his thumb to flip the page of some file he was reading through, occasionally scribbling something in a notebook with a pen that was also a gift from you. His brow furrowed as he used his index fingers to type on his work laptop. God, you missed him. You weren’t sure if you could take it if he left for that long again anytime soon.

When he looked up to find you watching, he raised an eyebrow. You flushed, busying yourself with getting set up.

The plan was to get some of your own work done. You tried valiantly. You settled in under a blanket and opened your laptop up. You even opened a notebook at your side, a pen at the ready. But as you stared at the document on your screen, your brain creaked and croaked and seemed to sputter to a full stop. No matter how much you tried, you just could not focus. Your attention kept straying to John, but you knew that would become distracting for him, so you scrolled on your laptop for a while and, when that got boring, turned to your phone.

This devolved, as it so often did. Soon you were laying on your side, your phone about an inch from your face, scrolling mindlessly through Instagram reels. Volume off, of course. You smiled at funny ones, teared up at emotional ones. There were a lot of ‘soldier-returning-home-from-war’ ones on your For You page. So sue you, that sort of thing got you going. It was a distraction, that was for sure. But you felt that distinct, itching disapproval within yourself. It told you that this was a waste of time, that you were rotting your brain, etcetera, etcetera.

You weren’t sure how long you spent like this before John said your name. Your brain took a couple moments to click back on. You looked up to find him frowning at you.

“That’s not good for you, darling,” he said.

“Sorry,” you said. You set your phone down. “I know.”

“Now, what’s the matter?”

You shrugged, avoiding his eyes.

“Alright.” He sighed. “Come here, then.”

You didn’t need to be told twice. You scurried off the little sofa and around his desk. He pushed his chair back, and spread his legs so you could climb right up into his lap. You immediately buried your nose in his shoulder, fingers threading through his hair. It felt so good to hold him, to smell him.

“Aw, honey,” he said, holding you back. “I missed you too.”

You swallowed past the lump in your throat. “How much?”

“How much?” he chuckled, the flat of his hand finding the nape of your neck. His other hand held you by the thigh to keep you in his lap. “You have no idea. Any chance I could take, I looked at that photo of yours.”

“This time was harder than before,” you whispered.

His voice sobered. “I know, honey. I know. But I’m here now. And I don’t have to leave for a while yet. I’m all yours.”

“But you’re still working,” you said, a petulant tone slipping out before you could check it. “You’re still not really back.”

John didn’t appreciate it when you complained about his work. He had made that clear early on in your relationship, so you had always, for better or worse, kept those sorts of thoughts to yourself. He must have been feeling the same, though, because he only gave your thigh a warning squeeze.

“Sorry,” you mumbled.

“‘S’okay, honey. Just need to get you a distraction while I finish up. Won’t be much longer now.”

“But I tried everything. I can’t focus on anything.”

“Oh yeah? Nothing works?” he hummed. You shook your head and snuggled closer in anticipation of having to move. But he pressed his nose to the side of your head and took a breath in. “Miss me that much, do you?”

You pulled back just enough to glare at him. The crinkles around his eyes indicated he was, at least, a little amused.

“Alright,” he said after a moment.

He patted you on the bum, and you forlornly took that as your cue to get up. The positioning of his legs made it so you ended up standing between his spread legs. You sighed and leaned down to kiss him.

“That’s sweet, honey,” he said, accepting the kiss. “But where do you think you’re going?”

You paused. “To… let you work?”

His lips twitched. “Not so fast. I’ve got an idea.”

You frowned, watching as his knees spread just a little wider. His eyes flicked down to the carpet between his feet. “On your knees, honey.”

A jolt of excitement revived you. Your lips parted. You stared. He just raised an eyebrow.

Biting your lip, you shuffled yourself down to your knees. When you were settled, you looked up at him with an open expression. He smiled down at you, patting you on the cheek. Then, he unbuckled his pants with a couple quick, easy motions. By the time he pulled his cock out, your cheeks were very warm. You watch with interest as he loosely fisted himself in hand, not quite yet hard.

“How about you keep me warm while I finish up,” he said, settling a hand on the back of your neck and tugging you forward.

You weren’t sure if you responded or not. If you just delivered some vague, incoherent noise as he nudged the head of his cock against your lips. As you blushed and looked up at him through your eyelashes. But it didn’t matter. Soon enough he was halfway into your mouth and sinking deeper, a hand tangling in your hair. You moaned as he edged against the back of your throat. You brought your hands up to take over the rest of his length, but he stopped you.

“Nuh-uh.” He tsked, pointing to one of his knees. “You know the rules.”

Your belly clenched. You brought your palms to rest flatly on both of his knees.

“Good girl,” he hummed. “How’s that feel?”

He knew you couldn’t speak, but he asked anyway. Your throat convulsed around him a couple times, and you let out an encouraging moan.

“This distracting enough?” he said, tugging fingers through your hair.

You let out a garbled noise. An attempted, “uh-huh.”

John chuckled. “Going to let me finish my work, then?”

Another garbled noise. Your eyes fluttered shut. He stroked your hair a couple times, pushing strands back behind your ears, gathering it together in a tail down your back. At the same time, he applied the slightest downward pressure. Your nose nudged the wiry hair at the base of his cock.

He was fully hard now, and lodged deep. Sweat dabbed your temples, your underarms. Having him in your mouth like this took just enough concentration that all of the uncomfortability from before vanished from your mind. You became solely focused on the heavy weight on your tongue, on breathing evenly, and on the effort of keeping your teeth from grazing him. At some point he removed his hand from your hair to flip through the papers on his desk. But you didn’t mind. You just closed your eyes and breathed in slowly.

You weren’t sure how long passed like this. Occasionally, John would reach down to stroke his thumb along your cheek or to murmur something tender at you. Good girl, so good for me, keeping me warm like that. Letting daddy work. You shivered in pleasure. You felt emptied out and worn down, like the night after a long day of physical exertion. It was a pleasant feeling.

Your thoughts dripped easily away until there was only John and the aching, throbbing arousal between your legs. Only once in a while did external sensations breach this ease: the rustle of papers, the scribbling of a pen, John’s groan, or sigh. The whir of the air conditioning in the vents, or the creaking of the house. The bird calls outside. The clicking of a keyboard. The drip of his cock on your tongue, and the drip of feeling between your legs.

You became so mindless, even, that you forgot the rules. Before you knew it, your hand was between your legs, rubbing through the fabric of your pajama shorts. The arousal sizzled up through your belly. You were like jelly. Easily satisfied, and loose. The sound of your breathing echoed off of John’s skin.

“Hey,” John chastised in a rumble, when he realized what you had gotten up to. “Hands back up, darling.”

You whined around him.

“I know, I know,” he hushed. “Almost done.”

You settled your hands back on his knees and swallowed around him. You were extremely gratified when he tensed and let out a grunt. His hand settled in your hair again and having his attention pleased you more than any physical stimulation ever could. You closed your eyes again and focused on breathing evenly. John had been right. This was the perfect distraction. It was physical enough to get you out of your mind, it was close enough to John that you could luxuriate in his presence, and it was quiet enough that he could focus on his work. Win, win, win.

Time passed hazily, pleasantly. Finally, John shifted, sighing. Your eyes came open. His attention was finally, fully on you. The office, you noticed, was now dimmed with evening light. A streak of orange-gold cast over his beard, his bright blue eyes. He smiled down at you and you felt your heart crack open.

He threaded his fingers through your hair tight enough that he could direct you. His next move was subtle. He rolled his hips just enough that his cock nudged against the back of your throat.

“Paperwork’s all finished,” he said.

You let out a noise.

“I’m all yours,” he confirmed.

Relief crashed through you. You began to pull off, but he stopped you with an, “ah, ah.”

He smirked down at you. “Not going to leave your old man like this, are ya?”

You glared up at him, but rose to the bait easily enough. You swallowed him down with a fervor. No longer did you let him just rest inside your mouth. Now, you sucked, and bobbed, and licked. You loved the sounds he made. The oh fucks and the yes darlings and the so beautifuls and so perfects. The groans and the grunts and the sighs. You loved how he smelled. Musky with sweat and arousal, he permeated the air all around you. You loved how his hands felt on your neck and in your hair. How he shivered and moaned and how his cock twitched under your perfect ministrations. How he cried your name as he unraveled.

When he came, you gave your own little moan. He liked when you did that. He also liked when you swallowed it all down. So that’s what you did.

A moment later, you wiped your mouth and rested your cheek against his thigh. You looked up at him adoringly, catching your breath as he did the same. Your eyes were glassy and you felt a sense of overwhelming calm. He must have seen this in your expression.

“Good idea?” he said in a rumble.

“Yes, daddy,” you mumbled, still half dazed.

His eyes flashed. “Up you get.”

It was all you had been waiting for. You climbed up in his lap and cuddled into him like you never wanted to let him go. You didn’t. He kissed you on the cheek, beard a familiar tickle against your skin. His hand trailed up your leg. Two fingers explored the gap in your shorts, slipping up and under the gusset of your knickers. He slid them right over you, clit and entrance and all. You let out a noise. He let out a low chuckle; he had discovered how wet you were.

You flushed and buried your face in his chest. “S’your fault.”

“Oh, is it?” he said, kissing your forehead.

“Mm-hm.”

“Want me to fix it, then?” he said.

“Obviously,” you snarked, pressing your nose right to his neck. You breathed in. “You have a lot of time to make up for.”

He sounded amused. “Obviously, hm?”

You nodded petulantly. He held you tighter. “I should get started then.”

“You better,” you said. You kissed him on the neck. The truth was, you were more than happy just resting in his arms. “I love you, John.”

“Oh honey,” he said. “I love you more than you know.”

Now, those words? Those words were better than any orgasm imaginable.

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Shirtless by @schrissdd

Mission Wetwork by @callsign-coolsquirrel

The Captain by @starsw3sker

Price by @redravenarts

Vulnerable by @mehh141

Cowboy Price by @vataro-ko

Gift Wrapped and Staying Fit by @nrdmssgs

Price Sketches by @hlxtn

Hickies by @tassodelmiele

Collection of Prices by @possibly-inhuman

Smoke Break and Sleepy Price by @yakowo

Captain Price and Greg the Cat by @sleepyconfusedpotato

Free Hugs by @shkretart

Can’t Say No by @tamago-art

Captain Price by @atheya-xx

Never Misses Even In Style and Morning by @gelik1x

Big Military Bois by @mehh141