John Price

The idea of seeming like a douchebag was not something Price was fond of. He berated recruits who did it, put Gaz straight in his fucking place when he did, and made sure to approach things without that attitude. The backhanded attitude, to be specific. He hated it.

But he didn’t realize how much he liked it with {User}. It felt endearing, almost. Guiding {{obj}} when {{sub}} didn’t need it, or saying things that made {{obj}} pause to think if it was an insult or not. The confusion is what got to him; he liked when {{sub}} stared with that blank expression. Price wasn’t even sure how the two of them bonded except for {User} being recommended for a mission. After that? Everything was about teasing.

When {User}’s gun jammed and Price got it working again, he’d say, ”I know. Intelligence isn’t a strong suit for soldiers like you. Let me do the work.”

If {User} pulled Price aside to talk about details about upcoming missions, he’d make sure to grab {{poss}} focus again when {{sub}} tried moving on. “I know you’re eager, but you made me take time off–which I could spend on actual work. It’s only fair if you make it up to me, don’t you think?”

Price fucking loved it.

Soon enough, the two of them began spending time when off-duty. Café meetings, walks down avenues, and Price’s favourite, the occasional meet-ups at his house. It never became more than that. Not until Price invited {{obj}} over for a movie night and got a little...touchy...halfway through.

Which is why this weekend, Price was going to make sure he got a little more than that night.

He had invited {User} over for a quiet night alone after a mission left {{obj}} quieter than usual. He set aside a few movies that he thought {User} would enjoy, made some small snacks for {{obj}}, and had made his bed just the way {User} liked it.

Everything was perfect. Even {User}. Even now.

Maybe Price was taking things too far too fast, but {User} didn’t seem to really react badly to it. Not when he was knuckle-deep in that sweet pussy, curling his fingers like he was digging for something in {{poss}} soul.

At this point, he was just trying to drag out a moan.

{User} hadn’t made a noise just yet. Not when Price got {{poss}} pants off, and not when Price touched {{obj}}. Not when Price had two fingers pressed deep enough inside {{obj}}, he practically felt something push back.

Each wiggle is what really got Price. He shuddered, his eyes focused on {User}’s face as he curled his fingers once more. “Yeah,” he breathed. “Is that good? Can you not speak because you’re drunk on my fingers? That’s all you can think of, isn’t it?”

He let out a sigh, his fingers pushing deeper as his other hand pressed gently against {{poss}} pelvis to keep {{obj}} still. Price pushed harder, trying to draw out that moan. “God, you’re nothing more than a drunk mutt, aren’t you?”

The idea of seeming like a douchebag was not something Price was fond of. He berated recruits who did it, put Gaz straight in his fucking place when he did, and made sure to approach things without that attitude. The backhanded attitude, to be specific. He hated it.

But he didn’t realize how much he liked it with {User}. It felt endearing, almost. Guiding {{obj}} when {{sub}} didn’t need it, or saying things that made {{obj}} pause to think if it was an insult or not. The confusion is what got to him; he liked when {{sub}} stared with that blank expression. Price wasn’t even sure how the two of them bonded except for {User} being recommended for a mission. After that? Everything was about teasing.

When {User}’s gun jammed and Price got it working again, he’d say, ”I know. Intelligence isn’t a strong suit for soldiers like you. Let me do the work.”

If {User} pulled Price aside to talk about details about upcoming missions, he’d make sure to grab {{poss}} focus again when {{sub}} tried moving on. “I know you’re eager, but you made me take time off–which I could spend on actual work. It’s only fair if you make it up to me, don’t you think?”

Price fucking loved it.

Soon enough, the two of them began spending time when off-duty. Café meetings, walks down avenues, and Price’s favourite, the occasional meet-ups at his house. It never became more than that. Not until Price invited {{obj}} over for a movie night and got a little...touchy...halfway through.

Which is why this weekend, Price was going to make sure he got a little more than that night.

He had invited {User} over for a quiet night alone after a mission left {{obj}} quieter than usual. He set aside a few movies that he thought {User} would enjoy, made some small snacks for {{obj}}, and had made his bed just the way {User} liked it.

Everything was perfect. Even {User}. Even now.

Maybe Price was taking things too far too fast, but {User} didn’t seem to really react badly to it. Not when he was knuckle-deep in that sweet ass, curling his fingers like he was digging for something in {{poss}} soul.

At this point, he was just trying to drag out a moan.

{User} hadn’t made a noise just yet. Not when Price got {{poss}} pants off, and not when Price touched {{obj}}. Not when Price had two fingers pressed deep enough inside {{obj}}, he practically felt something push back.

Each wiggle is what really got Price. He shuddered, his eyes focused on {User}’s face as he curled his fingers once more. “Yeah,” he breathed. “Is that good? Can you not speak because you’re drunk on my fingers? That’s all you can think of, isn’t it?”

He let out a sigh, his fingers pushing deeper as his other hand pressed gently against {{poss}} pelvis to keep {{obj}} still. Price pushed harder, trying to draw out that moan. “God, you’re nothing more than a drunk mutt, aren’t you?”