Back On My Gardner Price Bullshit BUT!

on the other side of the voice kink, imagine nik wanting to draw out all kinds of noises from price while they fuck while price being conscious about his voice or being too noisy and loud but nik reassures him anyway

Oook, but this is really hot?

So, John has been in the military since he was sixteen, right? That's your entire adult life in barracks or hotel rooms with paper thin walls. Very hard to have intimacy when your fellow soldier might be jacking off to the plap-plap of your hips pounding away, your moans and your dirty talk. For John, sex is quiet, discreet. Covert. His orgasms are always through held breath and a body so seized with tension to stay quiet that he looks physically in pain.

For Nik, sex is a damn rave. He wants all the mess, all the noise, all the broken furniture. It's a celebration of pleasure, of the body, and he likes playing his lovers like a damn orchestra.

Nik holding John's chin, two fingers in his mouth to keep it open so John can't muffle his noises. Being noisy and filthy himself, telling John exactly how good he feels, what he wants to do to him, encouraging him to be louder - "come on baby, let me hear you, tell me how much you want it" - or Nik always chooses positions where he can fuck so deep, give John orgasms that make his legs shake, turning that captain into a screamer one thorough dickening at a time.

Ik Price is a dominant leadership figure(he is Captain after all), but what if someone just broke all that down and made him submissive? And if not a soft sub, then sassy sub?

I could see that.

He’d be running his mouth while getting railed and eventually get his world rocked so hard that he’s babbling straight nonsense. Put in so many positions yet never turned loose for a singular second.

..I need some sleep.

I like to think that when Price gets mad, he gets petty.

Oh, Gaz wants to switch his sugar out for salt? Seasonings of any kind are banned for a month.

Soap locked him out while it was raining? He’ll stand at attention outside during a thunderstorm until Price gets tired of looking at him.

Ghost hid a pack of his favorite cigars? He’ll hide his toothpaste, toothbrush, hygiene products, basically everything, and make him hunt for it.

But when Nik upsets him to the point where he doesn’t even want to talk it out, he’ll ban him to the couch until he gets sick at the lack of physical touch and huddles beside his husband on the small space.

John Price who's tired after missions.

John Price who strips his gear haphazardly and slides on his last clean shirt and sweatpants.

John Price who rubs his face dramatically, huffs, and ignores the after action report he needs to finish up.

John Price who collapses on to the couch in his office, sprawled out on the thing that's almost too small for him.

John Price who doses off right then and there, not caring an ounce for his comfort otherwise.

John Price who barely cracks an eye open when the door to his office drifts open, the warm light from the hall seeping into the dark room, and a particularly exhausted Sergeant enters.

John Price who closes his eyes and just opens his arms, accepting the weight of one Kyle Garrick on top of him, wrapping his arms around the man.

John Price who breaths in time with Gaz as the smaller man shoves his nose into John's shoulder, to which John sighs contentedly.

John Price who doesn't open his eyes when the door cracks open again and the familiar presence of one sleepy Scotsman shoves his way onto the couch next to them, somehow, impossibly, perfectly. The warmth of one John Mactavish burrowing into his side.

John Price who moves his arm so that one is around Gaz and the other is around Soap, sprawled and wrapped into each other on the couch that's definitely too small for them.

John Price who hardly notices when the door opens again, and one silently tired Lieutenant sits on the floor, leaning back against the couch.

John Price who reaches over, gives the man's shoulder one good squeeze, and his hand is caught in the callused fingers of one Simon Riley.

John Price whose eyes scrunch in a smile when his hand is graced with one gentle press of lips before it's released.

John Price who sleeps warm and comfortable in his pile.

John Price who's tired after missions,

but never too tired for his boys.

John Price who eventually snores but all of them are too exhausted to move and are undeniably comforted by the noise anyway.

Uhhhh John grabbing at Nik’s full hairy man tits while riding him uhmmmm and moaning like he owns them hmmmm Nik groping at John’s fat ass urmmmmmmm and grinning because he does own it uhhhhhhh..

I don’t see a lot of posts where characters get old, so I think this was a good change in pace. It reminds me that they’re not gonna be young forever and will get old someday(as will everyone if they’re not taken out early).

…

Why am I being poetic about fictional characters? Christ, I need help.

We've come out for an end of half term pint and he's having to go for a piss every five minutes, I stg...

Thinking of John teasing Nik, smirk on his damn face, whiskers twitching, as Nik stands for the third time in an hour and a half. "Hittin' the head again, old man?"

Nik raising an eyebrow. "Just wait, captain. A handful more years and you will be joining me."

"Never."

"Your fate is inevitable. Face it with dignity." Nik wipes a thumb over John's moustache, removing the foam left behind by his stout, before he leaves.

John watches him swagger into the gents, heart warmed by the idea that Nik intends to stay to watch him get old.

Imagining young Price being conflicted about his feelings for Nikolai and, to deal with these newfound and strange feelings, turns into a sassy, jerk-ish little shit that does everything in this power to push the Russian away(little does he know, said Russian can read him like a book and finds his actions endearing).

Somewhere out there, in the infinities that exist, there probably exists a version of John Price who hates himself for liking men. More than he ever does in this one. (Religious trauma btw)

He hates himself for loving Nik, for letting down his defenses in front of him. He watches the man slip through his office door, and the gap in his heart widen when the russian slips off his jacket.

He shouldn't be doing this. This is a sin against god. He could hear his father's boots getting closer somewhere in the background. The belt clinking echoes in his mind. He looks at the beau in front of him, all warm and inviting, yet disgust could only bloom in place of whatever romantic feelings he would have felt for him.

It felt wrong to enjoy the man's attention, to crave him so deep in his heart, he's afraid he can't tear it out and stop it. It feels like a crime against god, against his father, a man he could never compete with to let the man disarm him so easily. Dirt and sweat might not stick to his skin, but no amount of scrubbing under hot water could remove the disgust he feels for himself for even wanting Nik.

He doesn't look up at the pilot as he sits opposite him, talking about something irrelevant. John feels fucking dirty for even wanting Nik's eyes on him. What was he? A proper slut waiting to be appraised? He wants to set himself on fire, to remove his skin entirely, to be laid out under the sun, tortured, only if it means stopping the feelings he has for Nik. He wants to pray for forgiveness for a god that has long since abandoned him, and every second of smelling Nik's cologne so close to him only serves as a reminder that he was disgusting.

"Get out. For Christ sakes, get out"

He doesn't look up, his hands never stop as he writes and writes. A confession to some higher being, to cleanse him of all sin. A recycled prayer he heard from conversion camp years ago cycles through his head, the guilt all consuming in his heart. He deserves to rot in hell for his delusions, that Nik would ever like him back, that he would accept John for what he is. He ignores the confused russian muttering opposite him, focusing his attention on an uncaring god for cursing him with these feelings.

He doesn't look up as he hears the door close with a soft click after Nikolai.

Hours later, John sits alone in his office, halfway through a frantic prayer. A plea for help, a guidance to change his ways. The cross sits heavily across his chest, a reminder of his illogical feelings towards Nik. He thinks about what he's done, how it had all led up to this moment, his breaking. John doesn't move from his spot from the window, tears quietly streaming down his face as he mumbles out another prayer. His throat is sore and his knees are aching, yet the internalized disgust doesn't go away, nor does his feelings for Nik.

He avoids Nik the next month in a futile attempt to curb the feelings before they get out of hand. It doesn't work, and the longing for his the pilot's (when did he start to refer to Nik as his? Christ he must be cursed) attention only grows stronger each day he denies himself of Nik. His attention feels like a need now, an ever growing sense of guilt and shame blanketing over his need for Nik. The need only grows stronger when he sees Nik chatting up some guy years younger than him, unfamiliar jealousy grows in him as Nik ushers the man into his car, disappearing from view.

He would rather carve out his heart and serve it to god himself before ever admitting to wanting Nikolai in his life, in his bed though.

Mhm, so when I tell my lawyer about this little post, what will your defense be?

The idea of Price going from fine in the morning, nothing wrong, perfect day, to dead by the evening from something no one could prevent is so gut wrenchingly horrific, it’s one of my favourite ideas to do with NikPrice.

The confusion Nik would be left in, the whirlwind he would go through. The funeral, the planning of said funeral. Having the team find out, Laswell too. His family, if he even had any. Everything descending into chaos within Nik, the questions that need answering, that he will never receive.

Those blue eyes closing for the final time in front of him fearful and guilt-filled, it’s a memory forever burned into his mind, the paleness of them, forever haunting him.

No because like imagine Nik and Price just went out the day prior.

Everything was amazing, with no signs of what was to come. Lovers falling into bed together, hands familiarising themselves with sun kissed skin.

Then the next morning, John wakes up throwing up blood. Too much blood. It paints the sheets red, staining the mattress below as Nik panics. A peaceful morning, turned into chaos as John falls over from his feet, unresponsive as Nik shakes him. He didn't wake up when the ambulance came, didn't wake up as Nik sees him wheeled into the emergency room.

Hours later, and Nik stands there in the lobby, desperately hoping for whatever it was to pass, for the doctors to come out and declare that it was just a wound that John could get over. (He would be fine, right? I mean, after everything he's been through, the fact that he's a captain in the SAS accounts for something, right? Nik assures himself, calming the ringing in his ears)

Everything seems too loud, the clocks, the chattering, it buzzed like wordless drilling into his ears. He hears people around him, sobbing, laughing, he wants nothing more than for them to shut up. The doctors are chattering now, something about losing too much blood. He stands there, helpless as he sees people rushing in and out. Nik wants to go home, to lay down on silk sheets with John in his arms. He wants John to be safe, he wants to cry, and he wants to yell. He wants a lot of things right now.

But maybe God is nothing but an unfeeling mass, capable enough to give humans hopes and dreams before crushing them down with malevolence in his fist. As the ringing in his ears comes to a stop, he could focus on the two way mirror in front of him. It has been an hour? Two? The clock was still faintly ticking in the background, though he could only focus on John in front of him. Broken, helpless, hooked up to far too many machines. John seems...wrong... Too pale. Too green, too... Everything. He didn't come back right, what went wrong?

He stood there, hands trying to reach into the room, to hold John against him, to ensure himself that he'll recover. The words of the doctors slips into his mind as mindless chatter. His brain barely processing the few details it could make out of.

Total organ failure. Spurred on by his drinking and smoking habits. Hereditary. Barely an hour to live.

No, no, this can't be right. John was healthy just days ago. He should be fine, should have been fine. Why is he dying? Why is he laying there on the bed, rotting in front of his eyes??

It took him an hour to process the news, and an hour for the machines to fall into a synchronized rhythm, a flat tone as doctors whizzed past him into the room, trying to fight the grim reaper for whatever time he had left.

When he comes to, he was sitting in John's apartment. Three things came to mind as he slowly sits up:

1) John was gone

2) His throat was dry

3) John was fucking gone. Not away on a mission, or somewhere in a pub. But gone. Gone forever, to be buried 6 feet underneath the dirt, to be remembered for however long people around him lived until he became nothing but another headstone in the cementary. His body rotting somewhere.

He didn't leave the apartment for days afterwards, his voice barely keeping it together as he breaks the news to people John was close to, Laswell, the 141, Farah, some relatives, his old captain... The phonecalls seems endless, the sounds of people crying over the phone and condolences merges into one entity in his mind, shoving themselves down his throat until he couldn't breathe.

The pain still vast, endless. With so many things to do on the way, funerals to be planned, people to meet. It had barely been a week and he's already tired. Like a child left without any answers, it hurts in parts so deep in him, impossible to reach, impossible to carve out.

John's pillow was still sitting there, stained with brown crusted up blood. The bedsheets that would never be warmed again sits haphazardly on the floor. He feels cold, empty in parts of his heart that he doesn't want to move. His limbs feels numb, and everything else seems so boring now that John wants beside him.

He misses the mornings with John, misses the smell of his cologne when it was still clung onto his pillows. He misses everything about John's from his scarred skin to the tattoos that decorated his body.

Nik doesn't stay in John's apartment now, with too much memories there waiting for him. The pain of a love lost, the pain of memories not yet made too much for him to bear. The pain that there was nothing else to remember John by now, nothing but the tattoo on his wrist and the home he had abandoned.

Months past, and Nik grows a little older. He refuses to think about how John would have gone grey now, how he would have pinched Nik for teasing him.

No, instead he reverts back into his old ways.

Nights spent in hotels with another person next to him, desperately trying to fill the void that John had left, clinging onto whatever remains of John in this world.

He gives up after one night, stands at the edge of a rooftop. The cars below him whizzed by, he could feel the wind on his face from up here. Blue eyes still haunting him from some crevices of his mind. He doesn't intend to jump, to just watch the skies above. Familiar cologne wraps around his body like a snake, the only remnants of John he could carry around with him.

The night sky seemed so inviting when he falls.

(More on this paragraph from my last tibbit)

Sometimes when John is being a prick, Nikolai will drag him to a janitor’s closet and put his mouth to better use instead of listening to him chatter about how he could take him in a fist fight.

But if John’s being too much of a prick one day, he’ll take him to the hangar, sit them both down in the pilot seat, and watch the sergeant squirm and ride his meaty thigh until he’s a crying, writhing mess.

..kinda like now..

After a few too many insults one day during evac training, Nik excused the two of them because apparently he needed help grabbing something in the hangar(even though he’s perfectly capable of getting it himself), and drags John along.

Now a good thirty minutes have passed and John is on his second orgasm, back arching and hands grabbing at the armrests as he pants, fogging the windows up.

“Take your time lyubov', we’ve got all the time in the world.” Nik mutters as he watches the sergeant squirm.

“N-Nik.” John grunted, trying to move off Nik’s thigh as he became increasingly overstimulated. “Nik, please-”

Suddenly the Russian grabbed his hips and pulled him back onto his leg, beginning to bounce his thigh. This caused the Brit to cry out, body shaking and tears pricking in the corners of his eyes as Nik held him tightly, leaning in to whisper filthy words in different languages to John, which soon pushed him over the edge as he came for the third time.

“Khoroshiy mal'chik.” Nik said with a grin, kissing down John’s neck slowly before nipping at his collarbone. “If you’ll hump a leg like this, I wonder how you’d hump a c-”

“Shut up.” John choked out, mustering up his best glare despite it looking just a bit too desperate. “Yer’ nothin’ but a mangy dog.”

Nik pauses in his seat for a second, staring up at the sergeant with a blank look. John stares back down in triumph because, for a singular second he thought that he was finally able to shut the pilot up.

..Oh how he was sorely mistaken, because in the next minute he was in the chair with his legs thrown over Nik’s shoulders, feeling the hard bulge of the man between his legs and how hot and mean it felt.

“Ready to test my earlier theory dorogoy?” Nik asks as he unzips his jumpsuit and shifts his boxers to let his length spring free, hitting John’s thigh with a soft thud.

John’s eyes widen a bit as he took in the sight of the Russian, noting how pre dribbled down his shaft in stringy lines and dripped onto the seat, soaking it in small, sticky dots.

Ah man.. what’s John gotten himself into?