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lloronahoelife · 8 months ago

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Ngl all these price fics making me need me a man like him fr😿😿

Who wears the pants. || husband!John Price

[MASTERLIST]

Rating: M Words: 3.4K without the extra!! (this one got away from me, I'm sorry.) Pairing: husband!John x wife!reader CW: quick smut!, yelling mentioned, slightly dubcon (if you squint), john got angry and jealousTags: you/your pronouns, afab!reader, smut, fingering-ish, slight exhibitionism, love bites and marks, established relationship, jealous!john price, anger mentioned, ghost's stirring the pot. Summary: John is embarrassed of the fact you 'wear the pants' in your relationship... But only after the lads come to stay over and a snarky comment from Simon, does he decide to show you what's what. a/n: my first attempt at writing smut that I wanted to post... Also Ghost/Simon is a dick in this one...

John simultaneously is and is not ashamed to say how much he loves you.

Of course, he loves you to bits, finds you the most stunning woman he’s ever seen, and would kill and die for you in a heartbeat. His love was the epitome of “If I ever were to lose you, I'd surely lose myself.”

However, he would never risk introducing you to his teammates. Not if he can avoid it. And not just because he cares about you and wants to keep you away from prying eyes, safe and sound in your family home…

More like… they don’t need to know how John purrs when you scratch his beard right beneath his chin and whisper sweet nothings into his ear. They don’t need to see how his pupils almost morph into hearts equally if he sees you in one of his shirts, or in your work clothes, or in joggers and a sweaty t-shirt, or a sexy little number, or nude…

And they especially don’t need to know that their tough-as-nails Captain figuratively rolls over and bares his neck in submission when in the presence of his wife… Or that your voice is like a goddamn foghorn making him genuinely quake in a way he hasn’t since he was a boy at Sandhurst, getting yelled at by drill sergeants…

He hasn’t left the toilet seat up in 12 years. Hasn’t tracked mud into your shared home (whose floors you had just mopped!) in 10. Hasn’t eaten the last of your snacks or used the last of the tea bags without replacing it in 6.

There is no weaponized incompetence in your home because you know John is not incompetent and you will not allow him to feign being it to make you his maid. You take care of him and your home, and you refuse to let him disrespect you in any way… And he knows better than to try.

His teammates have no idea how hopelessly in love he is with you. With the way you seize control from him in a way he allows no one else to. Not his soldiers, not the rest of his family. He’s been the ‘man’ of the house in all aspects for as long as he can remember… But that stops the moment he crosses the threshold of the front door, hangs his coat and his gear in the hall closet, and pads through the home in search of you.

He always finds you busying yourself with something or other and you beckon him close like a puppy, with a pat on the chair next to yours as you work at the dining table, or a come hither motion of the fingers as you water the plants, or reach your arms out for a hug as you stand atop a ladder halfway through repainting the accent wall in the living room. He always hugs and burrows himself in you, inhaling your scent, basking in your warmth, leaving kisses and touches in every inch of exposed skin.

He’s not embarrassed of you, he’ll gladly shout out to the world about his love for you. But he’s embarrassed by how he acts around you. Soap and Gaz would tell him he’s “whipped” if they ever knew what you do to him. So he doesn’t want them to meet you.

But he doesn’t have a choice. December 23rd, at 11 P.M., he and the lads have just touched down from a mission. The weather forecast speaks of a rainstorm and severe weather warnings extending right over Christmas… And John knows what he must do.

So disgruntled, your husband walks off to his office and calls you. In a low tone of voice, almost hushed, because he woke you up, he grumbles about the storm, about how Soap won’t be able to drive up to Scotland for Christmas, that Gaz can probably risk driving to Birmingham, but it’s still pretty unsafe, and that Ghost, as usual, was going to lock himself in his quarters on base and drink himself until he passes out…

You don’t need to be told again. You spring into action immediately. You simply reply that you’re getting up and getting the guest rooms ready, asking if one of the lads would mind getting the pull-out sofa in John’s study, and telling John to drive safe, that the roads are dangerous with the rain…

It’s midnight when you hear the front door opening, and the hall light turns on, flooding the space with a bright warm-toned yellow-ish light. “Shoes off, you lot. The missus doesn’t want water or mud inside.” He demands in a gruff tone.

As they go about unzipping coats and undoing their muddy boots, you can hear John still chastising them. “I’ll stress again: I want you on your best behaviour. No work talk, no cursing, no disrespect. The missus is doin’ you a favour.” He adds as if the poor lads are children who cannot be trusted to be polite.

Unbeknownst to you, he had already spent the whole drive over from base warning them about picking up after themselves, about being respectful to you, about putting the toilet seat down, about making their beds… reaming them out as if they were wild animals who had never once been inside a house and would break and dirty up everything they touch.

You move to stand at the step that separates the lowered entryway from the sitting room, silently observing them, arms crossed as you lean your shoulder against the wall, wearing a robe and your house slippers as you look at them.

They’re all taller than you, moving surprisingly efficiently and quietly, trying not to disturb the peaceful home too much. They’re dripping wet, probably from rushing from the car in the driveway up to the front stoop. A set of four backpacks or duffle bags are on the floor by the door, their clothes for the days they’ll spend here inside.

“Give them a break, Jonathan, you can keep bossing them around in the morning, love.” You quip and you immediately feel all their backs stiffen, four pairs of eyes glued to you.

“Hi, lovie…” John says, already crossing the small entryway to wrap his arms around your waist, dropping a deep open-mouthed kiss to your awaiting lips. Your hand touches his face, caressing his cheek over his mutton chops.

“Steamin’ Jesus, the Captain’s got taste…” You hear a voice murmur, followed by a sharp ‘ow, what was that fo’?’ which causes both you and John to look at the other soldiers. The offending man, the shortest, with a mohawk, rubs at his arm, which seems to indicate the tallest one on his left side smacked him into shutting his mouth.

You don’t need to be told who’s who to realize that it was ‘Ghost’ who smacked ‘Soap’, while ‘Gaz’ stands on Soap’s other side and shoots John an apologetic look. He told you everything about them, without ever revealing names or pictures, for you to know more about them than you should. John himself as his lips pressed together, his mouth nearly disappearing behind his mustache, as he glares at the lads (aka Soap) for making comments about you.

You quickly approach the three men. “You must be the lads my husband talks so much about!” You say with a chuckle. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet the men responsible for bringing my John home in one piece every time…” You tell them gratefully while shaking each of their hands with two of your own, your eyes shining a bit.

“Please, come in!” You gesture behind you into the home as you flick the sitting room lights on. “John, will you show them their rooms while I put the kettle on?” You ask your husband as you slink into the kitchen.

A few muffled footsteps, created by socked feet, are heard as they walk inside, with John directing the boys to the different bedrooms (and study), and you hear a gruff voice murmur something about taking the pull-out sofa. You assume it’s Ghost.

Your husband then comes to hug you around the waist as you wait for the water to boil, dropping kisses to your temple and cheek, doting on you while his big, calloused hands squeeze at every part of you, your thighs, especially, but your tummy as well, along with gentle words. “I missed you so much, lovie…” “Thank you for doing this…” “You know, I can never sleep right without you in my arms…” “Just missed you so much…”

Five minutes later, you hear their steps coming back as you’re finishing pouring the water into a few separate mugs. Your husband dislodges his arms from around you. He doesn’t need the others to see he’s so crazy about you.

“Your home is beautiful, Mrs. Price.” Gaz says as you set the tea mugs, the sugar, and the milk within their reach on the island counter. He takes one of the mugs and tops it off with some milk. The way the young boy calls you ‘Mrs. Price’ has nothing if not respect dripping from it.

It makes you tingle on the inside, even after so many years, the realization that you’re John’s wife, John’s choice, John’s priority. Your husband preens himself a bit when he catches the look in your eye. He loves that you’re his, of course, but loves it even more that you like being his.

“Thank you, Gaz. I’m glad you like it.” You remark with a smile as you sip your own tea. Herbal, different from theirs, so you can resume your sleep which John interrupted with his phone call.

“Aye, real cosy!” Soap quips from beside him as he slides up to a stool on the island. He doesn’t drink tea, so you didn’t prepare any, per John’s request.

“I hope the beds are to your liking… I kinda made them in a hurry.” You quip, which causes the boys, and your husband, to laugh, as they seat themselves across from you, in the bar stools. You barely even noticed Ghost taking the last cuppa and sliding up next to Johnny, his mask rolled up just enough to allow him to drink.

“We’re soldiers, ma’am, we’ll sleep anywhere,” Gaz told you, ever polite, with a sweet smile on his lips. John has told you all about Gaz, his protegé, of sorts, a respectful lad, the youngest, but one that has proved himself to be useful.

Your eyes flitter over to John for a moment, watching as he drinks his tea, two fingers laced through the handle of his navy blue mug, rather than around him, his behind leaning back on the counter beside you. While doing that, however, you miss the glances the lads exchange with each other, and then to you.

“As true as that might be…” You trail off after sipping your tea and look back at the soldiers again. “I still hope you have some good rest. And, I’m sorry about the pull-out sofa… it’s a bit old, came from John’s old apartment… Has gotta be a decade old now.” You quip as you look toward Ghost.

“It’s alright. I’ll sleep fine.” Ghost says. “Like Gaz said, we can sleep wherever.” He adds.

Soap nods along. “Anything’s better than sleeping on the ground with your rifle between your legs and your jacket folded up to serve as an eyemask.” He adds and laughs.

“Johnny.” Your husband calls out, chastising him. “No work talk.”

“Aw, c’mon, Captain, that hardly counts as work talk.” He retorts with a little boyish grin.

“Them’s the rules. No bloody talk about service.” John insists.

“John.” You scold him, and your husband stiffens next to you, his eyes flittering over to you, eyebrows scrunched and his eyes softened as he meets your eye… nothing short of a puppy.

It was stronger than John at this point, to respond to your tone of voice with nothing but a baring of his neck, not a baring of his teeth like he would with anyone else. The boys all noticed it, the way his shoulders sagged and his eyes looked at you with utter devotion.

“Let the boys talk about work. As long as it’s nothin’ too gory or confidential…” You trail off. “I’m sure I’ll enjoy ‘earing all the stories they have to tell about you at work... Right, lads?” You ask as you look at them again.

“Oh, we’ve got stories alright.” Soap says with a giggle and a wagging of his brows, which causes Gaz and Ghost to snicker under his breath.

“Well, then, regale me with them during Christmas dinner, ye?” You ask them, to which they nod along with smiles. You could swear even Ghost had one in the corner of his scarred lips.

After a bit more small talk, you kissed John goodnight, while he told you he’d stay downstairs and talk with the lads a little longer, so you waved at them while trekking your way upstairs, the boys once more thanking you for the hospitality.

The moment John’s trained ears honed into the fact the bedroom door has closed, he finishes his tea and glares at the lads.

“Don’t be bloody flirtin’ with my wife.” He tells Soap directly, though his comment extends to Gaz and Ghost as well, which is why he glances to both sides at the other two.

“Sir?” Gaz asks while blinking.

“You ‘eard me, Garrick.” He adds and points a finger at the young Sergeant.

“We’re not flirtin’, sir.” Soap tries to defend himself.

“Aw, that’s rich that there, MacTavish, yeah.” Your husband says bluntly.

“Weren’t flirting.” Ghost retorts as he looks at John. “I was more so interested in the way she has your balls in her little purse.” He adds.

Both Soap and Gaz turn to look at Ghost with eyes so wide you’d think he just tried to kill the Captain directly… and he might as well have, the way John choked on nothing and started coughing up a lung.

The other two are trying to muffle their chuckles and hide their smirks as Simon continues. “Don’t give me that look, boss. We all saw it. Pretty thing might as well be walking you around on a lead.”

“Nonsense.” John says defensively as he snatches the cups of tea from the island and turns to deposit them all in the kitchen sink. He starts washing them quickly, shoulders stiffened.

“Bunk down.” John demands. “We’ve got plenty to do tomorrow.” He adds. The light screeching of bar stools being pulled back and pushed back into place is heard, as the boys vacate the kitchen with curt ‘Goodnight, sir’ murmured before they headed upstairs as well.

“Balls in her bloody purse, my arse.” John grumbles under his voice as he finishes doing the dishes, drying his hands, and then setting them on the island across from him, head hung in shame.

He knows Simon’s right. Hell, he revels in the fact you’ve got metaphorical balls of steel to confront him, to steal control right from under him, to wear the pants in the relationship. Lord knows it took him years to meet a woman who could not only keep up with him but put him in his place…

So why does it embarrass him so to hear them snicker at that fact? Why does it annoy him to look weak for you in front of his men? Why does it anger him that he loves to be weak for you?

Those are the thoughts in his head as he turns off the sitting room and kitchen lights and marches upstairs... And as he approaches your bedside in the dark, pulling the covers out from atop of you, exposing your body to him.

Under that robe you came to welcome them in, you were only wearing one of his t-shirts and no pants whatsoever, which he had peeped by the way your bare legs had shown through the slit between the two sides of the fabric whenever you walked.

“John?” You ask him in surprise, his breath is a bit ragged, more so huffing like a bull through his nose, as he grabs you and pulls you up into his arms, only to drop you on the bed further in the middle of the bed.

The giggle that escaped you when he did so annoyed him even more. He’s angry, pissed that he had been humiliated in front of his men, that you had humiliated him by merely existing and going about your relationship with him the way you always did…

So why are you giggling? Is he really that weak for you that you’ve grown to not fear his anger?

He grabs the hem of his shirt and yanks it up and over your head, tossing it to the side before he attacks your neck with nothing but kisses and bites, his hands touching your naked body, rough skin dragging over every inch of the softness he has left on display.

“John!” You giggle some more as he keeps touching and kissing you, his body weighing down on yours, your legs parted to accommodate him. “We can’t… We have guests!” You try to negotiate as his fingers dig into the pudge of your thighs and slide around to grip a greedy handful of your ass.

“You think you can embarrass me like that in front of the blokes?” He asks you in a whisper as his teeth catch your earlobe and suck and bite at it. “Hm?” He beckons, his tone aggressive. “Make me look like a big girl’s blouse in front of my subordinates?” He continues.

You still haven’t spotted the anger in him… And, as such, your playful attempts at negotiating postponing sex only annoy him more. You’re still trying to call the shots…

His left hand wraps around your face, quieting you with a strong palm holding your lips, his fingers digging into your jaw on either side. “You’re mine.” That’s all he says as his fingers continue exploring your body.

A shiver runs down your spine as his free hand wraps around the waistband of your underwear and yanks it off, down your legs, tossing them to a random spot, barely giving you time to react before his fingers drag up your thigh.

“You think you’re oh-so-box-clever, innit?” He asks you as his fingers slowly drag across your slit, finding your clit effortlessly, years of practice aiding in his torturing of you. You find yourself moaning and sighing against his hand, hips stuttering a bit, your feet looking for a perch at the edge of the bed so you can rub yourself into his hand.

“Walking around in just my shirt and those knickers and stupid bloody robe, making my boys see how lucky I am to have you, make them jealous… Only to embarrass me, make me look weak…” He trails off and tuts loudly, his tongue clicking disdainfully.

The things he’s saying make no sense to you. You didn’t try to seduce his friends, and you sure as hell didn’t try to embarrass him! It’s just the way you always act around him, around the house. He’s never complained, in fact, he’s praised you plenty of times for being ‘perfect’ for him… So where did this change of his come from?

Frankly, you don’t know, but you don’t care… It has been weeks since you were last together, sure, but you know that’s not the main reason why you’re loving this. The unbridled rage in his voice, combined with the way his experienced fingers touch your body, is making you feel things John’s never made you feel before. Your mind is clear of nothing if not a pang of hunger for him, your hands gently pawing at his shoulders atop his charcoal grey t-shirt, soft whimpers muffled by the hard palm pressing you into silence, into submission.

“I’m afraid I’ve let you gone unchecked for too long, lovie...” He grunts in your ear as his fingers draw circles against your clit, the rough pads catching at the throbbing bud, making you whine and whimper, your whole body shuddering against him. “I’m going to fix that attitude of yours...” He clicks his tongue again, sounding all the more annoyed.

“Now you’re going to be good f’r me…” He says as he uncovers your mouth, his hand, wet with saliva, slipping from atop your mouth to grab your wrists and pin them above your head, flush to the mattress. “And make the lads know exactly who’s in charge in here. Clear their doubts...”

[MASTERLIST]

extra: 500 words-ish

The next morning, you wake up before John, as usually tends to happen when he comes back from a mission. The silence and lack of stress, the warmth of you in his arms, the cosy atmosphere of the house… It’s all the perfect sedative to keep him as good as dead for many, many hours. You slip out of his embrace and check the clock… it was just past 9 A.M. You pad quietly to the hall bathroom after fishing out a change of clothes from the wardrobe, and rinse off the sweat from the night before, as well as the dried slick and cum between your thighs. You’re still unstable on your feet, your thighs and the space between them deliciously sore, your body covered in marks of the night you spent in your husband’s arms… You feel like you’re floating as you drift downstairs and into the kitchen… “Fuckin’ hell!” You jump, startled. In your kitchen, pouring himself a cup of tea is Ghost… You think. The height seems about right, though you didn’t expect a broad-shoulder, bare-chested blond in your kitchen. “Good morning.” You say softly as you shuffle inside, hearing him return that same greeting in a way-too-deep of a voice, standard of man who’s just woken up. “Go put a shirt on, this isn’t the beach.” You scold him, as you open the fridge, looking for the eggs. Your voice is as fierce as it usually tends to be with John. When he doesn’t reply, you look over at him, noticing his mask is missing. You assume John scolded him about it, how you’d likely be startled by seeing a masked man in the night. The look in Ghost’s eyes is unreadable, stern, unwavering, and eerily calm, as if he’s seeing through you. They flit over you, up and down, with a certain glint you can’t quite decipher. You straighten your back in the face of his look, portraying nothing if not confidence. Ghost leans against the counter, one hand holding his tea cup and sipping from it, the other resting on the counter to support his weight, before one of his eyebrows shoots up. “Nice night, huh?” He asks you and, immediately, you feel your entire confidence bleed out of you, your eyes widening like saucers. Of course he heard it… You’re sure all the lads heard you, especially considering John and you started right as they had gotten to their respective rooms to sleep, all of which were located in the same hallway as the master bedroom… It’d surprise you if they hadn’t… Hell, it’d surprise you if the neighbors across the way didn’t! The way John had you last night, crying out his name at the top of his lungs and making you apologise repeatedly for something you didn’t even do (on purpose) definitely leaked through the walls… Just like the shame you currently feel leaks through your pores. You turn away to fix your eyes on the fridge, too embarrassed to face him again after realizing he knows. Your brain rushes to find something to distract you, to hide what you feel… “Are you hungry?” You end up asking softly.

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