and those were the last words john uttered before slamming the palm of his hand down against his desk and leaving. spoken the way most things he says are - gruff and final, with no room for argument - stunning the room into silence until the door shut hard behind him.
everyone just looked at each other, dumbstruck.
“should we wait for him to come back?”
“what the hell does that mean—”
“is that code for something?”
“wait, he’s married?”
price didn’t hear a word of it - by that point he was already halfway down the hall, boots pounding concrete with purpose, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, everything else dissolving into white-hot static behind his eyes.
he can take a lot of bullshit. does it daily. but fuckin’ hell - they wouldn’t stop. wouldn’t stop talking, hovering, circling him like crows. clipping questions at him in endless fucking rotations.
what now, captain? what’s next? what do we do about makarov? do we move now or wait for shepherd’s greenlight? have you seen the updated file? should we pull soap and gaz back? do we burn the safe house? double-tap the asset? what’s the protocol—
jesus fuckin’ christ.
it’d been too long. john’s mentally checked out and he knows it. doesn’t care. he didn’t want to be in that room. didn’t want to sit at that table. didn’t want to give another goddamn order with five pairs of bloodshot eyes looking at him like he’s meant to have all the answers and none of the doubt.
he needs a break. not a debrief. not another satellite feed. not another fucking decision.
he needs to go home and fuck his wife.
needs to put his hands on something solid, something that he doesn’t have to second guess. something that’d let him burn off all the static and pressure and noise building between his temples without asking anything much in return. his sanctuary where he can fall apart and come back clearer. reset his head before it spun off his shoulders.
so he peeled out of the parking lot before he’d even properly put the car in drive, and sent you one text:
‘take off anything you value and put away anything breakable. i’ll be home in 15.’
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
John just got back from a long mission, but still has some urgent paperwork to get through. Problem? You can’t bear to be apart from him any longer. Luckily he has a solution. He’ll just let you warm his cock while he works.
Rating & Tags: E, PWP, blow jobs, cock warming, yearning, light dom/sub, daddy kink (very briefly), established relationship.
Word Count: 2,706 / Read on AO3.
Thank you for reading! Please leave a comment or drop a reblog if you enjoy <3
It was one of those days where everything felt off. The clothes on your skin, the noise the ceiling fan made, the noise the refrigerator made. Then, the jar of jam wouldn’t open. Go figure. Normally you would ask for help with that sort of thing, but John was working on some urgent paperwork in his office. So instead you just growled at the jar and shoved it back in the fridge.
When the dishes on the drying rack all clattered to the floor in a giant ruckus, you grimaced. He didn’t like distractions when he was working, and you tried to respect that. You glanced nervously up the stairs. You half thought he was going to open the door and hush you. You half wished he would. He had been gone for so long on that last mission; his arrival last night had been such a surprise you’d actually thought you were dreaming.
But the door remained firmly closed, and you frowned.
“Got some work to do today,” he’d grumbled into your shoulder that morning. When you whined, he just hushed you. “Be patient, and I’m all yours tonight. Alright?”
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.
Captain John Price Has a Pretty, Young Thing. Part VI.
From the author: please refer to this link for any questions about my work and to find links to all of my work. If you have any questions that cannot be answered through this page, feel free to send me a message! Remember that I do not own these characters or the franchise. And, finally, thank you for reading!
His pretty, little thing sleeps hard and deep. John doesn't. He never does. Even when his eyes grow heavy, his dozing is never more than surface deep. Drifting in and out of sleep, he lingers in that half-conscious state, still aware of his surroundings. Every so often, he would shift and stir a little only to be dragged back under by a heavy weight settled across his hip.
He doesn't sleep for long. A few hours at most pass before he finally wakes, his bladder an unfortunate alarm clock.
It takes some careful maneuvering to free himself. He's in awe of how deeply she sleeps. Even when he is less than gentle in shifting her off of him, she doesn't wake. An odd thing for a mob boss, he thinks as he pads toward the bathroom.
He does his business. His only hesitation comes when he sees the single droplet of blood on the ground beside the shower. It was almost jarring among the neatness, the stark reminder of the violence that had taken place earlier that night. The reminder of who she was and what she could - would - do to ensure her goals were met.
When he closes the bathroom door behind him, he finds her still sleeping soundly. The blankets twist around her waist, leaving plenty of bare skin on display.
He's half-tempted to crawl back into bed and hold her, but that single drop of blood on the floor was as good a reminder as any of what this was. And what it wasn't.
Gently shaking her shoulder, he mutters her name.
She isn't a soldier. She does not startle awake with bared teeth and snarls. Instead, she blinks awake, shifting from the depths of sleep to unnerving alertness quickly.
Sitting up, she doesn't even try to cover herself. Her hand instead inches for the space behind the headboard (maybe for one of those knives she had warned him were hidden around her apartment that first night spent together all those weeks ago). Her eyes study the darkness just beyond the open bedroom door.
"What's wrong?"
His hands go up, a silent gesture of reassurance, as his voice goes low. "Nothing. I'm just waking you up."
"It's three in the morning, John."
There a hint of exasperation mixed in with the faintest lingering of sleep, as she stares at him incredulous.
"I'm aware. But I want to talk to you."
There was no missing the serious note in his words. Nor the answering flicker of caution in her eyes as they narrow at him.
"At three in the morning?" When he doesn't answer right away, sinking down on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight as he reached for his boxers... her voices goes quieter then, "You said you could be content with this being a distraction."
It wasn't an accusation. It wasn't much of anything other than an acknowledgment that maybe he had lied.
His jaw tenses at the reminder. She was right. He had said that. Repeatedly. She'd set a boundary. And he'd been in obstinate denial, telling himself that this was just a way to blow off some steam and nothing more.
"Don't do this, John," she groaned, flopping back against the pillows. Frustration was etched in the furrowing of her brow, the slight downturn of her mouth, "Don't ruin a good thing."
His breath catches. Fuck.
Immediately, he wants to tell her that he hadn't been serious, to pretend that everything was fine and that what they had was fine, that this was just a distraction, nothing more.
Instead, he spoke with aching sincerity.
"Too late for that. I think we both know I already have."
Heartache. That's a heavy feeling and it's obvious from the way her shoulders curve inward that it's a weight on her. She sits up again, tucking one leg under the other, shifting to sit cross-legged across from him. There's a careful distance between them.
"I can't be what you want," she reminds him somberly.
"You think I don't know that?" The words are sharp. They're tossed her way like knives, each sticking hard. "Believe me, sweetheart. I know damn well what you are. I know you can't be the good little wife that stays home and waits by the window. You aren't... you aren't that. I knew it from the get-go."
Real temper flares in her eyes. It's the first hint of anger he's seen in the weeks of working together. Part of him is viciously satisfied to know he's ripped his way into this side of her.
"I am a criminal, John."
He starts to tut her but she cuts him off, continuing.
"No matter how good my intentions are, my entire world revolves around that. I have stolen millions. I have murdered people. You saw that last night first hand. It's not just that I can't be a good little wife. I am antithetical to the very tenets you uphold. We can't even live in the same goddamn country because your bosses would have me assassinated in less than -"
His hands clench in his lap, his own anger rising up in response.
"That's enough," he growls out, voice rocky and as intense as the look in his blue eyes, "I know goddamn well who and what you are. I don't want some sweet, good, little housewife. I don't want someone who is content to just sit around and play the part of the doting partner, waiting for their soldier to come home from war."
"I'm not going to stop. Not until my country is free."
Jaw set, she raises her chin with the defiant statement.
He knew that deep down. There was no scenario where your lives could coexist peacefully. Still...
His fingers curled into his fists at her words.
"I know goddamn well you're not going to stop," he bit out, scrubbing a hand over the scruff at his jawline, "That's just what you are. It's in your blood. You're not the kind of woman that stops until you get what you want. And fuck it all if that's not one of the things I like about you."
She went quiet.
She had never considered herself a particularly likeable person. From a young age, she'd been prickly. People had found her unsettling. Not even her own family had enjoyed her company. Her mother had said time and again that she was loved, because that was a mother's duty, but she wasn't particularly liked. Too stubborn. Too resistant. Not sweet enough.
Of course, she had her attractive qualities too. Cleverness. Honesty. Or, at least, a particular brand of honesty that dealt with technicalities and hyper-specific word choices. She was focused, with specific ideas of what needed to be done to make the world better; and, sometimes, some people had to die to make room for the rest.
Overall, she would have said she inspired loyalty, not love.
He watched her face go blank. It was bit like watching her calculate odds. There was an discernible distance in her gaze, as if something wasn't computing.
"I can't - I don't -"
He saw the uncertainty flicker in her eyes as she refocused on him. The momentary crack in the walls she built high and thick. It tugged at his heart, the realization hitting him that maybe she had never even considered the possibility of something more for herself.
That thought was horrifying. Who had taught her to hate herself?
"You don't what?"
"I don't want this," she managed to get out almost tonelessly, face smoothing out.
It shouldn't have hurt. It really shouldn't have. But the way she spoke - so tonelessly, so emotionless - had his chest going tight, a strange ache taking root there.
He clenched his jaw, a muscle working in it as he tried, and failed, to keep his voice steady, "You're lying."
"No. I'm not." The words were utterly soft, "I don't want this. All the mess that comes with it. I don't want anything more than what we've been doing."
That felt like a knife, tearing through him in a way he hadn't thought possible. He was pretty sure she's lying. But it still hurt.
He forced himself to remain still, to keep his voice steady, even though he wanted nothing more than to pull her across the bed and... shake some sense into her? Hold her? Fuck. He wasn't even sure.
He swallowed, his voice gruff and hoarse, "What the hell are you so afraid of?"
He knew he had struck a nerve when her entire body went stiff, her gaze going to her lap as she refused to meet his gaze anymore. The walls were back up. And he felt like a damn fool.
She opened her mouth but couldn't find a way to word an answer. Not in any meaningful way that encapsulated everything she wanted to say. In fact, she spent so long trying to piece the thoughts together that he'd had moved through the apartment redressing in abandoned clothes. When the front door slammed behind him, she was left sitting alone as she tried to figure out what the hell had just happened.
He walked a few blocks before he'd plopped down on the parking lot curb of a motel. Cigar in hand, cursing his own foolishness, he sends a text to Ghost asking him to come get him. Then he puffed on the smoke, wishing it could chase away the taste of the pretty, little, thing who probably - no, most definitely - wasn't his.
My zombies are not dead, they are infected with a disease which makes them hungry, they are not decomposing or mindless, they are driven insane by the pain of hunger and the things they’ve done so in a sense they die. They are loosely based on a book called ashes by Ilsa J. Bick, a very good angsty zombie book with very little romance.
This fic is set in the north west of England, to make it plausible for the MC to stumble upon the 141. Being Scottish myself I would love to make the MC Scottish and move the fic to the highlands, but I want some feedback on that.
TW: Death of a friend/sister, skinny reader (she fattens up), a lot of gross descriptions of zombies and death, angst lots, smut in later chapters.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆
If there’s one thing I’ve learnt from living 6 years in a zombie apocalypse it’s “waste not, want not.” That was the thought that kept me from gagging at the smell of the jacket that I shook rotten skin off of. Rising I looked down at the skinny, pale ‘woman’ I’d pried it from. had she done the same? How many people have died in this jacket? Would I die in the cold, spend years wandering, Killing others, feeling a deep painful unending hunger?
I looked down at her failing body, before the fall of humanity these jeans would have been 2 sizes too small, the shirt about 3 or 4. I’d lost all shape, hadn’t had a period in years, my skin looked a shade darker thanks to the many layers of dirt that clung to me. I once took pride in my appearance, now my crowning achievement was surviving for this long by myself.
Taking one last sweep of the shop I found a grey eyed boy, looked about 19, his cheeks sagged and the bags under his eyes were bulging, purply red. His pale cheeks were littered with peach fuzz and tear stained, his nose a pudgy red from his quiet sobs. He groaned in pain as he pulled a skinny rat apart, sucking on the small bones. He looked up at me from his crouched position and growled, his primitive brain deciding if he should run with his meal or if he could take me. He twitched his way to his feet dropping the rat at his feet.
Before his skinny legs could take him to me I’d pulled the gun from my waistband and shot a few small holes through his chest. He let out some muffled whimpers as he crumpled to the floor, I followed him to the floor. I had grown to feel very little but when they looked so young it hurt. I stroked his thinning hair and shushed him whilst he hacked up blood and shook.
The trek back to base was long but quiet, the marshy ground of the north west sucked my feet deep into the ground, the ‘suctiony’ sound that emitted from dragging my feet drowned out my own thoughts. As the base came into view my steps hurried, eager to get inside, it was tuesday (possibly) which meant it was my allotted bath day, due to the difficulty of moving the water from the various rain collectors and the calories it cost, I allowed myself a bath every two weeks.
The hard metal door bit at my reddening fingers as I fumbled with the keys, reminding me I needed to organise them somehow. I huffed at the effort it took to pull the second interior door open and closed, it had been ripped off its hinges and now scratched across the cold linoleum as I dragged it about. When I finally got inside I relocked every door I walked through to get to the innermost rooms of the base. Whilst people were rare- some zombies in the early stages retained the ability to open and close doors.
I went to the woodburner and warmed the deer from the outdoor freezer. Most livestock like cattle and sheep were almost hunted to extinction by the zombies but some animals like deer and rabbits remained too fast for zombies. But not me and my gun. I cooked the whole leg, I’d refreeze the tougher bits and keep them for on the go.
Whilst the deer cooked I used my pot to boil some water for my bath. It was more of a sponge bath really, getting fully naked and into a slippery tub was inviting trouble. I used some watered down fairy liquid and an old PT (psychical training, yeah I did cadets so I’m qualified to tell you all about it) shirt to scrub at my skin, one limb at a time.
I pulled one leg out of my jeans leaving the boot and jeans scrunched so I could haul them back up if I needed to. And it was a good thing I did as I was picking dirt out of my scabby skinned knee, I heard a scrapping. My blood ran cold and I almost wept at the sound.
Scrambling to put my jeans and boots back on. With each creak of a door opening and closing and the low raspy voices of men my hands shook more.
And when I heard the noise that I knew to be the particularly squeezy door to the room I’d claimed as my own, I almost turned the gun on myself. There were at least 2 men and they knew there was a woman living here.
Steeling myself and setting my footing I readied myself in the middle of the room, no hiding the only power I have is I am pointing my gun at the single door to this room.
The kitchen door moved to open easily and a silhouetted figure pulled every shadow from the room and they pooled at this man's feet, he stood easily a foot taller than myself. The imposing figure took up almost the entire doorway. Although there were no shadows, it was only him, he dressed all in black, tactical gear and a dark balaclava covered his entire being. This man may be death itself.
“Fuck off.” A man wriggled around ‘death’ “Nae way!” barreling towards me a man not as tall as ‘Death’ but just as large wrapped strong arms around me.
My plans crumbled and I lost any ability to remain calm or strong were lost to me. “Please! Please there are guns, ammo, food! If you leave me alone I- I’ll tell you where” the words were choked out of me and my sweaty hands shook looking for my gun.
The man pulled back but I couldn’t see through the tears that blinded me “It’s- It’s me Johnny” the voice and name were familiar. Strong hands snaked up my arms and held me at my shoulders “oh, darlin’ we’d never hurt you” he put a hand on my cheek and slowly brought my eyes to him. I almost gagged on my tears looking at him, my best friend's older brother, I looked at him and saw her. Alex, my other half, our whole lives attached at the hip, her death had hurt more than any of the rest.
“Oh Johnny, I’m so sorry” his excitement at seeing me faded to the most hollow I’d ever seen a man. We sank to our knees together, forgetting the man in the doorway. I pushed our brows together “It was quick, I did it” I whispered to him, as I saw the small tears slip down his cheek.
Captain John Price Has a Pretty, Young Thing. Part VIII.
From the author: Hello! I am back from my two-week vacation! Thank you for your patience since I didn't get even half of my to-do list done (as usual). Please refer to this link for any questions about my work and to find links to all of my work. If you have any questions that cannot be answered through this page, feel free to send me a message! Remember that I do not own these characters or the franchise. And, finally, thank you for reading.
Captain John Price’s pretty, young thing is either a genius or she’s mad. She has papers spread across the unmade sheets of the bed he’d claimed in the safe house, considering receipts, maps, and cross-referencing between the two. She chews absently on a thin chocolate-chip cookie from the pack that Soap and Gaz had brought back from their trip to the shop before being sent to work in the living room with Ghost.
“It may be simpler if I do this on my own.”
“No more secrets,” he gruffs out, voice rough from the last cigar he smoked through. He’d burned through it in under five minutes, the blazing nub nipping at his fingertips. It was the only sign that he was maybe a little stressed out by his pretty, young thing. Especially because he can’t tell if her attempt at deflection is a sign there are more secrets cleverly hidden between the truths. John Price is not a man who likes surprises. And, while he understands what - and, more importantly, the why - of what she had done, he’s not letting her shut him out. Not if they were both serious about making this work. “We do this together.”
Her head cocks, hair slipping off her shoulder. Like she’s studying a curious specimen, evaluating the stubborn set of his jaw.
“Okay.”
It’s a cautious olive branch. A peace offering. One that’s met with only the barest softening around his eyes before he leans forward on the couch, elbows steadied on his knees.
“Run me through it again.”
Her eyes narrow at the brisk command. But she doesn’t push back against it (though the words do rise, sharp and ready). Her fingers trail the highlighted borders of a territory, “I’ve eliminated a few potentials suspects for who stole the other half of the weapons cache. If we can narrow it down to two or three people to study in-depth, I might be able to leverage that information to negotiate leniency for the half I stole -“
“And if that isn’t enough?”
“I’m kind of counting on that being enough, honestly,” He stares. She blinks. Swallowing down the rest of the cookie, she grudgingly adds, “I don’t suppose S.A.S. would consider it a return on investment for the labor involved in helping you track down the other half, would they?”
He’s lighting another cigar, sucking in a long drag as if lighting his lungs on fire were more effective than screaming out his frustration with her.
“No. No,” he coughs out a bit, “I don’t think they would.”
“I’m not even a real threat.”
Her complaint isn’t quite a pout. It’s a small downturn of her lips, a slow blink of slightly widened eyes, as if she could convince him that she wasn’t an actual danger to his sanity, his mission, and his career.
“I don’t think they would even let people they deem ‘not-real-threats’ keep military grade weaponry,” he counters.
“Fine.”
The left-side of the mattress sinks under her weight. Picking at the fraying edge of the blanket, she considers the situation. The truth sat uncomfortably heavy between them; he hadn’t told the rest of his team her secret.
“I’ll have to give them back, won’t I?”
Cigar smoke catches the small sliver of light trickling in through the half-drawn curtains. It coils and disintegrates in the air, fleeting despite how quickly it was replaced by the next exhale.
“Yes. I think you will.”
“Will it be enough to avoid a prison sentence?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’d really like to avoid prison.”
The words are mild but there’s a hint of uncertainty, of panic, lacing them. If he hadn’t known her, he might have missed them. But he does know her. Too well.
“I know.”
“I need time to think. I do best when I have time to think it out.”
And plan for the worst case scenario. It’s unspoken but he can hear the way the panic bleeds into that errant thought. It makes him want to wrap her up, to protect her from this. But she’s an adult. She’d known the potential consequences long before he’d been in the picture. It was up to her to get herself out of it.
“Time…” he flicks the ash off the end of his cigar, watching how it sparks bright briefly before going grey against his cargo pants, “I can buy you time. But only so much.”
Relief flickers through her at the offer.
“I can work with that,” she says softly, hastily stacking some of the papers to the side.
“But you have to keep me in the loop,” he warns, as he stamps out the cigar. She’s nodding vigorously, more than happy to agree to those terms. Yet, something nags in the back of his mind. That boy she’d murdered; what she’d told him had been convoluted, even if it had been technically true. How she had lied for weeks, shrugging it off as a ‘lie of omission.’ He was only a bit wary after seeing how she had a nasty habit of playing word games. “Use yours words.”
She knows what he’s thinking. She knows what he’s getting at.
“Jesus fucking - fine,” she frowns, “I promise that I will keep you up to date with my plans as I think through potential ways to return the stolen weapons to S.A.S. without me catching a prison sentence. Are you happy?”
He is. She might play word games. But he’s never seen her break a direct promise.
She must see the satisfaction in his face because she gives him a huff that seems to accuse him of smugness. But she simply finishes gathering her papers.
“I need to get going. I have dinner plans.”
Irritation prickles through him. “With who?”
She glances up, mouth curving upward briefly, “Jealous?”
He just stares, waiting and patient.
His pretty, little thing doesn’t answer right away. She straightens the stack of papers before she shifts it to his bedside table. Neat. Controlled. When there’s no more fidgeting to do, she skirts the bed, moving to stand toe-to-toe with him. He has to dip his head so they’re more face-to-face.
“I meant what I said,” she says sternly, “You have me. And you don’t need to worry about my loyalty. You have it, too.”
He thinks about that for a moment before countering, “You also said that making this work would require some uncomfortable honesty.”
“True. And how uncomfortable are we willing to get here?”
“What do you mean?”
“If we’re doing this then I’m all in. I want to be a good partner to you. But I also understand that anything I say can incriminate myself. Anything I say could be used as a weapon against you. I told you earlier that I’m not asking you to lie for me. I don’t want to do that. So where does that leave us?”
He sees her point. It’s a hard line to negotiate, trying to decide where her work ends and she begins. In all honesty, it’s the same for him. Where does the Captain end and John Price begin? It’s not a simple matter.
She sees something in his blue eyes because she’s nodding in understanding, “Exactly.”
“Then we table it for tonight,” he concedes, “Think on it. I’ll be by tomorrow morning and we’ll talk more about it.”
It’s a compromise. An acceptable one, judging by the slow smile. She goes to her tip toes long enough to press her mouth to the corner of his.
“Tomorrow morning,” she agrees as she pulls away, “We’ll figure it out together.”
He trails her as she lets herself out of the room, door squeaking as she pulls it open. Through the hall, the open living room where the rest of the 141’s eyes follow her questioningly, right to the front door. He shuts it behind her. But his thoughts go with her as the engine of her decade-old four-door car rumbles to life, the sound growing faint as the distance between him and his pretty, young thing grows.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Captain John Price Has a Pretty, Young Thing. Part IX.
From the author: Hello! Please refer to this link for any questions about my work and to find links to all of my work. If you have any questions that cannot be answered through this page, feel free to send me a message! Remember that I do not own these characters or the franchise. And, finally, thank you for reading.
WARNING: NSFW. MDNI. 18+. My contributions to kinktober with... well. I don't know WHAT this is. But it's here. So. Contains shotgunning, discussions of STDs and birth control, unprotected oral sex (male receiving), masturbation, unprotected sex pinv, accidental cumshot.
Captain John Price is on her doorstep at 7:00 a.m. sharp, a mint tea with an obscene amount of sugar (just his opinion) the way she usually makes it in hand.
He's greeted by his pretty, young thing all sleep-rumpled and glaring.
"Why are you always awake?" She demands, dragging her hair over her shoulder, the hem of her short sleep dress inching scandalously upward with the motion.
"This is a perfectly reasonable time to be up."
The look she gives him is doubtful at best, condemning at worst. But she doesn't argue as she holds the door open wider for him.
His boot-laden footsteps are heavy as he meanders afters her, setting her tea on the counter even as she pads into the half-dark bedroom. When she returns she has socks in hands, heavy wool in a dark blue that almost looks black in the low light. Taking a seat in one the wood chairs, she pulls on one sock and then the other.
"How long have you been up? You smell like you've smoke at least two cigars already."
Price bristles a bit at that.
"Does it bother you?"
She gives him a thoughtful look as she stands.
"I don't love the way cigars smell," she admits before she crowds into his space, body pressed to his and trapping him between her and the counter. Curious hands explore the inside pockets of his flannel-lined jacket until she finds what's she looking for. Turning the half-burnt through cigar and lighter in hands, she gives him a stern look. "It's a bad habit."
He bristles again. He'd brought her tea, ready for a nice chat, and she was chiding him for smoking -
There's a click as the wheel turns, the low flame lighting the end of the cigar to a smoldering glow.
"Pot calling the kettle black?" He muses as she leans to the side, long enough to yank the window above her sink open.
"Don't be silly. It is a bad habit," she snorts, "Bad for your health at least. But who am I to judge what's 'good' or 'bad' anyway?"
She takes a drag of his cigar. The first puff has her grimacing, doing her best to hide the way her throat constricts and her cough stutters out of her lungs. When the fit has subsided, she takes another small drag of the cigar. Then another. Another until she can take a pull without coughing.
"You're going to smoke the whole damn -"
Rolling her eyes, body pressed to his, she twined her fingers in his hair. With that leverage, she goes to her tip toes to press her mouth to his. It's a small exhale, invitation on her tongue. One he accepts from her gladly, the harshness of the nicotine-infused smoke filtered through her lips.
It makes his head dizzy.
Or, maybe, it's a mix of the smoke and the fact that he's very aware of how much he wants her.
She puts space between them, a wicked look in her eyes that has him throbbing. For a brief moment he seriously considers laying her out on the kitchen table and devouring his pretty, young thing.
He doesn't.
Instead, he rubs his thumb over her lower lip, chasing tendrils of smoke, "We still need to talk."
"And we will," she agrees, "But right now... condom?"
"Not here." Those words have her pausing in surprise, cigar forgotten. He sighs before answering her silent question. "Counters are too short. We'll both be uncomfortable."
She snickers.
Without any better way to put the cigar out, she flicks on the tap and runs water over the end. It has him wincing slightly. She might as well throw the whole thing away. Instead she sets it to the side and he privately promises himself to throw the soggy thing away outside when he leaves.
She's quick on her feet, coaxing him to the bedroom. He loosens the ties on his boots enough to kick them off and crawls into the still-warm sheets. He starts to shed the jacket too, before digging out an unopened package of condoms from one of the many internal pockets lining the inside. She takes it from him, studying the sealed cardboard.
"Were you planning for me? Or someone else?"
Price isn't sure if its an accusation or not. Part of him wants to be insulted that she could think one fight would send him running to find a new bed partner. He doesn't let his temper rear its head though.
"You're the only goddamn woman who's been in my bed in month. You really think I was planning on spending my night with someone else?" He wheezes out the laugh.
"Just wanted to be sure," she mumbles with a shrug before cautiously adding, "And this... it's going to stay that way?"
"Yeah. It's gonna stay that way. There isn't going to be anyone else but you, unless one of us decides to split."
It wasn't the most romantic declaration. John Price was a pragmatic man. He knew that he was devoted to his career. His men were his family. He spent more time away than home and that could drive someone up the wall on a good day. If there came a day she turned him away, he would go without making a fuss about it. But as long as his pretty, young thing wanted him... well. She had him.
"As soon as I see a recent STD test, we can stop buying these then."
It's a casual statement as she rips open the cardboard box. His mind blanks. Then he's digging his phone out of his jacket pocket, hands shaking a bit as he unlocks it. When he shoves it in her face, it takes several attempts for her to read through it all the way.
"Huh."
"What's that mean?"
"You just keep this on you? Like... all the time?"
"I pulled it up after you mentioned it the first time. Just in case."
She nods, handing the phone back before she set aside the box of condoms. It was smart. It was thoughtful of him.
Scooting to the edge of the bed, she dug around in her bedside table before offering him her own test results. He glances at it long enough to confirm her earlier assurances. It leaves only one question.
"And you're on some kind of birth control?"
"Yes. The implant thing."
As if to illustrate her point, she lifts her arm and presses her thumb to the underside. A thin line shifts under the skin.
"Stop that," he grimaces.
Her grin is teasing but she obeys. Chewing on the inside of her cheek, her voice drops to a murmur, "I want to taste you."
A quick jolt of lust has him forgetting about STDs and birth controls. It has him stripping off his clothes - and the dress she'd slept in - with a focus more suitable to the battlefield than the bedroom. He almost groans when she's left in a little black thong, sliding to her knees in front of where he sits at the edge of the bed. The sound comes out strangled. It has her grinning up at him as she laps at him. The taste of clean salt and musk mixes with just a hint of bitterness; those cigars really were a bad habit.
The bitterness fades into the background. It's barely an afterthought as she takes as much of him as she can, fingers working between her own thighs.
He can't stand it for long though. He tugs on a strand of her hair just hard enough to get her attention.
"I want you."
"How?"
"From behind. I want you to keep touching yourself."
It's both a want and a test. One she passes when they trade places and she arches her spine, knees wide against the edge of the bed, wiggling at him taunting. This woman who didn't take orders from anyone, who didn't give up control to anyone, was letting him take the lead.
There's a hiss of discomfort from her when he jerks the thong to the side, the fabric stretching thin across the flesh of her ass. A complaint is on her lips before he's whispering in her ear, "Well? Show me. I want to see how you touch yourself."
She does. He watches her. Fascinated. Entranced. As much as he wants to touch, to tease and taste, there's something beautiful about learning exactly how his pretty, young thing liked to be pleased. When the urge to touch overwhelms the desire to watch, he pats her hip.
"Lift."
She obeys, fingers still rubbing at herself and face buried in the unmade sheets. That slow initial stretch has her muffled moan going loud despite being buried in pillows and blankets.
"Fuck, John."
Fuck, indeed.
He'd always scoffed at the younger recruits who complained that sex felt better without condoms. It was usually followed closely by a stern lecture about having safe sex; while safe sex talks weren't technically a part of his job description, it was his responsibility to set a good example. And that meant reinforcing the idea that consent, condoms, and good communication were important.
But, for the first time, he understands it. She's deliciously, filthily wonderful, clenching around him as if silently demanding more.
"All wet and sensitive, aren't you? Don't worry. We'll get there," he soothes, peppering kisses down the back of her neck.
Another muffled, barely-there moan.
It's not enough for him to feel the reverberation of it. His fingers tangle in her hair, urging her face out of her mattress. It's more satisfying when another sound rips from her throat, fully audible this time. He won't let her hide. He wants everything from her.
His arm winds around her throat, pinning her back to him. She sets her teeth into the meat of his bicep in retaliation. She doesn't bite down. It doesn't even really hurt, just gives her a little bit of control in an otherwise vulnerable position. And he's happy to give her that. Especially because it's almost grounding, tethering them together even as each stroke has her shuddering under him.
She makes a desperate whimpering sound - a warning sound - before she's pulsing around him. The suddenness of his answering orgasm takes him by surprise. He barely has time to pull out before he's painting streaks of white across her ass and the backside of her thong.
"Shit," he mumbles, reaching for the drawer where she kept all her toys. Finding the box of baby wipes he'd remembered seeing a few weeks ago, he carefully cleans her and then himself. "Sorry. I didn't want to assume no condom meant I was free to do whatever. It snuck up on me."
She watches him toss the wipes in the trash, looking rumpled and content.
"It's alright. And you don't need to pull out. I've got a lot of faith in my birth control."
Even as he thinks that he should take a shower - he knows he probably smells like sweat, sex, and cigars - he's smiling wryly at her reassurance, crawling back into bed.
"We still have to talk."
"Later," she mumbles as she tucks herself into his side, "And this time? Don't wake me up until it's at least nine."
His smile widens, just a little, as his pretty, young thing drifts off to sleep.
