John’s parents are extremely protective of you and I mean that they will fight John himself if he ever dares to hurt their precious angel of a daughter-in-law.
Once during Christmas dinner, John’s entire extended family was invited to it. Being his younger, prettier new wife meant that a lot of jealousy was going to be projected onto you.
From men wanting a more younger woman compared to their wives to boost their egos and from the women who felt threatened by you.
And you best believe that one of the women made a snide remark that would get her an eventual earful.
“It must be nice to be a pretty little thing. Being able to pick up men like our John here. Tell me darling how many men have ran through you before you met-“
A pair of hands slammed against the dinner table shaking it slightly and it was not by John but his loving, non-confrontational mother.
Your sweet mother-in-law went off, Emily Gilmore style. Pointing out all of the other woman’s flaws and unfavourable qualities. She went as far as blaming that woman’s looks and disgusting attitude for being the reason why her husband cheats on a regular basis.
The whole house was stunned, yourself included. The silence was only broken by John gruff snort. You looked at him with a raised eyebrow for him to only hold your hand underneath the table, giving it a reassuring squeeze.
Your mother-in-law sat down with a huff and carried on with dinner as if she hadn’t ripped someone a new one.
Best believe no one had said anything rude to you ever again.
𐔌 an: it was inspired by that very video we all definitely saw .ᐟ
“johnnn” you chirped into the humid bedroom, your breath escaping in a drawn out, hushed moan. the apartment was still brand new, freshly moved into and largely unfurnished, naked windows completely devoid of drapes that might have shrouded away the twinkling lights of the city outside. the bed, however, was perfect.
the cool caress of the silken sheets offered a comforting relief to your overstimulated skin, which had been bitten raw and covered in his reverent kisses, leaving a lingering trail of damp worships from beneath your jaw all the way down to where your thighs trembled, forced wide to accommodate the sheer width of his scarred hips.
tipping your head back against the plush drowning pillow, a crystal droplet of sweat carved a slow path down your throat. beneath the skin, your jugular throbbed with a heavy, racing pulse, and his eyes, narrowed with a predatory focus, their icy blue entirely swallowed by pupils blown so wide they ruthlessly swallowed the color until his gaze went pitch black, tracked its every beat.
he halted mid erratic thrust, rhythm fracturing as he took a deep, shuddering breath through flaring nostrils that made his sweat sheened chest heave. your hand reached out, trembling as your fingernails grazed downward from his navel, tracing the hair dusted expanse of his stomach that gathered into a couple of soft, thick rolls, firm muscles rippling under your fingertips.
john’s tongue slipped out to swipe across his chapped lips, brushing the edge of his silver speckled mustache. he arched one bushy eyebrow in a silent, wordless question, meeting your glassy, dazed stare with his own hooded gaze, eyes darting from the breathtaking picture of how prettily you were spread out for him, glossy cunt pulsing to keep him hilt deep, to the plush jutted pout of your lips.
you knew exactly what he was waiting for, so you squirmed against rumpled bedding, hips rolling as you pushed them down, his gorged cock grinding deeper, throbbing in response to the movement. “pleasee, sir” you purred, swollen lips parting around ragged breaths, your fingertips stopping just short of dipping toward his pelvic line.
retreating instead to slide up your garter stocking, where the loose strap, having snapped free from the belt, dangled uselessly, allowing the edge of the sheer nylon to roll temptingly down your supple thigh, his stocky chest rumbling with sympathetic hum.
“'course, luv” john rasped, clearing his throat with a brief cough, followed by a low, rumble of a chuckle as he reached out, his corded forearm coming into view. skin bearing a deep sun bronze from a habit of rolling up his sleeves, obscuring a few silvered scars hidden beneath the wispy hairs layered there, their edges catching ocassional, bluish cool glare of the streetlights filtering through.
his calloused fingertips smoothed over yours before shifting to fix the broken strap, tugging it back into its proper place and tightening the clasp. he watched closely as your eyelashes swooped low, following his every movement, weakly flexing your thigh under his gaze. a warm, tingling sensation spread through your skin the moment he closed his bulky paw around your leg, giving it a patting squeeze.
a soft murmur escaping you, stretching out toward his arms like a docile kitten. tipping your head aside to watch him more clearly, you felt him reach up, a lone finger sweeping a light line right beneath your nose before he bent over to capture your mouth, as you breathed a small, breathless “thank you so much, sir” right into his full lips.
his bristly beard chafed your tender skin, but you never once protested, instead, your hands reached out to cup his high cheekbones, inhaling deeply and forcing your jaw to yield, lips parting wide to taste warm spit and welcome the heavy invasion of his tongue. eyes fluttering closed and noses pressed together as your hips bucked up against his, demanding him to continue, coarse pubes grazing across twitching clit.
“my pretty princess, ain't ya?” john’s voice is a low, curious rasp, murmured against your jawline as he layered sucking kisses along your skin, his eyes locked onto yours. sweat beaded down his florid forehead, catching on sooty lashes as he watched you nod with a high, keening whine that pulled tightly at your lungs, breasts heaving when you stuttered a breathless reply.
his lips finally leaving your pulse point to to trace a wet, agonizingly slow circle around one hardened nipple. his pelvis rolled tentatively at first, then slammed forward with enough force to jolt you entirely into the sensation. dribbling cockhead finding it's place at the gummy lump of your cervix, drawing a delighted, shattered moan from your throat that made lips peel from his teeth in a crooked grin.
hands flailing to his cropped hair, fingernails scratching desperately into the damp scruff of his scalding nape, the torn opening of your lacy panties stretching even wider. it was a habit of his, taking a sick, possessive pride in destroying the same expensive things he bought for you, purring deep from within his gut as he drank in the sound of your desperate, sob like hiccups.
Prompt: What scares them worse? Addressing them by their full government name, or addressing them by their military callsign?
Featuring: Task Force 141 (CoD: MW2) - John Price, Simon "Ghost" Riley, Kyle "Gaz" Garrick, Johnny "Soap" MacTavish (separately) x GN!Reader
Word Count: 0.9k
Warnings: none
John Price
Government name.
Calling him Captain or Skipper just ends with him sauntering to where ever you are and ask (in an obnoxiously self-satisfied voice) what you wanted. Like a cat pretending it can’t hear the urgency in your tone when you say to get off the counter.
“If you want me to ‘shake a leg’, call my name, luvie.”
Now if you holler “Jonathan Price”, he’ll drop something. Either the newspaper in his hands, or his heart into his stomach. He sure as hell moves his ass with a purpose, and he’s peering into the room with an apology on his lips.
“Yes, luv? What’s wrong, poppet?”
“Lift the other end of the couch, would you?”
He does, and you shimmy it further back in the room. “Anything else I can do, love o’ my life?” He’s hovering, and gently coaxing you into his arms. Gauging how mad you were at him. You curled into him and kissed his chin. Then stepped away with a pat to his chest.
“No, sweetheart, just wanted you to shake a leg is all.”
When he remembers your previous conversation, he groans and tells you to fuck off.
Simon Riley
Military callsign.
When you two are alone, and he’s already given you permission to call him Simon, don’t call him Ghost. When you say that word, he assumes one of his mates are at the door or on the phone, and goes from Simon to Ghost. Stalks into the room with narrowed eyes, only to find you in the kitchen. By yourself.
“Ghost, you want a sandwich too? Turkey and cheese.”
“Fuck you callin’ me that for?”
Once he sees you’re alone, he swoops in and wraps around you like a hoodie. A firm kiss to your ear, then your cheek, then spun you around. Back pressed to the counter top. Settles his face right close to yours.
“We playin’ games now?”
You didn’t want to upset him, so you pressed a kiss to his nose. His grumpy look faded a bit.
“Sorry, baby.” Arms wrapped carefully around his shoulders. And your fingers scratch his scalp. Another kiss to his nose. “I’m sorry for playing games with you. Simon Riley.”
Hearing his name on your lips finally cracked, and he gave you a smile. A little scar on the upper lip. You gave it a kiss, and then pressed a kiss to his lips.
A quick surge forward, and you only just had time to shove aside the things behind you before you found yourself on the countertop.
Kyle Garrick
Government name.
He doesn’t mind being called Gaz, and you’ll use Kyle and Gaz interchangeably. Doesn’t even mind if you use “Kyle” or “honey” in front of his squadmates. Though “Kylie” he does have some displeasure with.
“I’ll have you know, Soap is still calling me Kylie, you asshole.”
Call him ‘Garrick’, and he knows that you are pretending to be mad at him. He slinks over and rubs his face against your cheek. He’s too cute for you to stay mad.
If you shout “Kyle Garrick”, he comes running. He could have sworn that he put his clothes in the hamper. And did the dishes. And taken out the recycling. Damn, what was it that he forgot?
“Kyle Ga-”
“Yes, dear!” Shit, he didn’t mean to ‘yes, dear’ you. “Yes, my dear, I’m right here.”
You pause your laundry folding and summon him with a crook of your finger. Once he’s close enough, you tap your lip with the same finger. “I need a kiss.”
He blinked once. Then twice. “God damn you.” He squishes your face in his hands and gave you a quick, firm kiss. “Don’t stress me out like that. Thought you were mad.”
“Give me another kiss, or I will be.”
He rapid fire kissed your mouth, chin, and cheeks, then gave you a smack on the ass before returning to the living room.
“In my own fucking home,” he muttered.
John MacTavish
Military callsign.
He’s got some thick skin. And he’s had his name shouted angrily many a time. He would all but skip into the room with a big smile on his face. The only people who shouted that name (and wore out the scare-factor on it) were his family members. Shouting “John MacTavish” meant you loved him. You were also mad at him, but you loved him. That was more important. Even with your scowl and the gross pile of garbage he kept forgetting to take out. You loved him.
Now shouting his callsign reminded him of his superior officers.
“SOAP!”
Shit shit shit. He put down his beer and ran from the garage to the backyard. Leg brace over his sweats, low cut muscle shirt that you also wolf-whistle at when he wears. You were only weeding the garden boxes.
“JOHNNY!”
“I’m here, bonnie,” he hollered, rounding the corner. You were sitting in the dirt, a tidy pile of weeds and dead plant bits next to you.
“C’mere, c’mere.”
He leaned down next to you, hand on your shoulder and good knee on the ground. “Wassit?”
You pointed to the leaf in your hand. “A caterpillar, Johnny. An itsy-bitsy caterpillar.”
He sighed heavily and kissed your shoulder. “Bonnie, I thought something was wrong.”
“Hm?” You spared him a glance. “What are you talking about, bubba?”
“You called me Soap.”
“Did I? Didn’t mean to spook you, loverboy.” You gave him an apologetic kiss on the lips. “Just wanted you to see the caterpillar before he wiggled off.”
warnings: smut, kind of dubcon vibes because of alcohol and somno (but it's pretty clear that you're aware of what he's doing and choosing to let it happen anyway), slight daddy kink, unspecified age gap
You were a serious person. It wasn't that you didn't have a sense of humor, nor that you hated fun, but you were disciplined, conscientious--you liked your schedules and your rules. Sticking to them made it possible for you to achieve your big goals, which John knew were your first priority. It was why your relationship worked--you were both career-oriented. You were simply too busy to miss him when he was deployed--sometimes you were too busy to notice when he was on leave, annoyingly--and you didn't need anyone to take care of you.
He didn't love the dynamic, admittedly. You? He was head-over-heels for you. He still didn't know how it happened--he'd sworn off relationships after his ex-wife left him three years into a marriage he was only present for about two months of. He didn't blame her--blamed himself, then and now--but he'd certainly learned his lesson. Or at least he thought he did.
Then you--much too young for him, and much too pretty--waltzed into his life and made yourself comfortable, like you just knew you wouldn't be leaving.
Resisting you was a futile task, he discovered quickly. You knew what you wanted, and you got what you wanted--words you'd said straight to his face, and that had turned him on more than anything else had in a long time.
And yet, as attractive as your confidence and ambition was, and as much as it was what made your relationship work, he couldn't quite squash the desire to have you look to him for the solution, to let yourself relax and let him solve your problems, to give up your rigid schedules and trust him to plan your days for you, to give him control...
So when you came back from classes one night and immediately reached for the wine bottle, his bushy brows raised and his heartbeat began to race in excitement. No alcohol during the week was one of your strictest rules, and he'd never seen you break it. Part of him was worried about what could have caused you to, but most of him was just eager for the chance care for you while you were vulnerable.
(He'd warned you he wasn't a good man. That he'd done terrible things, and was a little bit twisted as a result).
(You'd looked him in the eyes, smiled, and told him that you knew. And that was the end of that).
He was sure you knew what he was doing when he encouraged you to drink another glass, and then another, until you were loose-limbed and helpless, looking up at him with expectant, half-lidded eyes. He carried you up to the loo, bathed you gently, held you in his lap and hummed to you while he dried you off, and then laid you down on the bed and licked your sweet little cunt until you were wet and relaxed enough for him to slide right in, all the way to the hilt with one thrust. He thumbed your clit and watched you tits bounce as you faded in and out of sleep while he fucked you slow and and deep. You came on his cock twice before he spilled inside of you, rolling the two of you over without pulling out, so you were laying across his chest, cockwarming him while snoring softly. He rubbed your back and kissed your temple, pleased he'd taken such good care of you.
If he turned off your alarms so you'd miss work the next day, despite knowing how mad you'd be--well, that was because you needed your sleep after drinking so much tonight, love. Should have been more responsible. Now you'll just have to let Daddy take care of you instead.
John Price and his love is a map written in the places his hands settle. It’s in the broad span of his palms curving possessively around the flare of your hips, anchoring you to him with a gentle, unquestionable firmness. It’s the solid, warm pressure of his hand splayed against the small of your back, a steadying point of contact that guides you through a crowd or simply pulls you closer in the quiet of a room.
But it’s in the nape of your neck that his touch turns from claiming to something reverent. His fingers, calloused and capable of calibrating a rifle or field-stripping an engine, find the delicate bones there with a startling tenderness. A single thumb strokes the hairline, a silent, soothing rhythm that speaks of a shelter built just for you. He holds you like something both cherished and unbreakable, a paradox only a man like him could embody—where strength exists solely to make a space for softness.
Price who's utterly stunned when his bird serves hotdogs cut like octopus and Kraft mac and cheese for dinner but is shocked that he actually likes what barely looks like food to him
Being John’s wifewho is a badass cook and finally meets the team!!
Your mother always said that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. Being married to the one and only John Price could only further confirm her statement.
John was a military captain- forming, training, and leading men and women into missions that could very well take their lives. As well as gain muscle and a family, military folk also gained an iron stomach. At least in John’s case.
The way he casually scooped up half the lasgma in the big pan made you wonder how he had survived off of packaged meals. John just shoveled down mouthful by mouthful as you eargerly awaited his reaction. Making something John wouldn’t like is borderline impossible, but you wanted to make only the best for the man that protected you and your loved ones in ways you couldn’t even imagine.
When John finally asked you if you’d be open to meeting the men he unofficially adopted, you were immediately filled with a mix of excitement and anxiety. Your husband had refrained from the gory details of the missions he preformed but entertained you with stories of his team goofing off or doing something impressive (John was more proud of those men then he let on and you could tell). He had told you that the way he had described your cooking had the men salivating.
You had decided to make a classic meal on the evening they were to dine with you. A simple but tasty spaghetti and meatballs dish. For the side- recipe you’d seen from Instagram- you cooked up a dozen fluffy pull-apart garlic/cheese/butter muffins (all dishes were John approved, of course, he’s eaten everything you’ve made). You debated a salad, but figured you’d just offer instead of set out a bowl in case they didn’t want any lettuce or anything.
John pulled you out of the kitchen when he heard the sound of an engine come closer to your secluded country-side home. “They already love you with the way I talk about you, love. Don’t worry your pretty little head,” he murmured, pressing a sweet kiss to your forhead as he les you out to the porch.
Eventually you found out John was exactly right. You greeted everyone with a hug- which was surprising to you that Simon seemed to melt into you like he hadn’t felt a good hug in years because, according to the stories John told you, Simon was anti-touch. Kyle was a sweet young man and you could tell how mich he admired John. Johnny was a handful, you observed. He immediately started taking cracks at Simon after he pulled away from the bone-breaking hug he gave you and recieved a sharp punch to the shoulder.
“Plates and bowls are right there. Silverware’s on the table,” you said, gesturing to the respective items. “Come on, J,” you said, urging your husband up from his spot at the table.
John carried your plate and his in one hand and weapped his hand around your waist with the other. “Are you doing alright so far, love?”
You nodded with a bright smile. You easily got along with John’s teammates and they seemed to get along with you. And you could only hope that they liked the food you made.
Luckily for you, though, you didn’t have to wait long for your answer.
You were sitting down in your seat beside John when you heard a noise that sounded like a gasp and a whimper.
Two spots to your left, the fork in Johnny’s hands shook as he chewed.
“Is- Are you okay?” You asked skeptically. You’d avoided using any foods you’d known they were allergic to, so what was the problem? Did he not like it? Did the spaghetti go bad? Were the meatballs moldy? Did you add the wrong spices to the pull-apart muffins?
“Lass… I need you to send me ma this recipe. I don’t- this is- serve this at my funeral, cap, bury me in this,” he babbled as he shoved forkfuls of noodles into his mouth.
You breathed a sigh of relief, incredibly grateful for Johnny’s compliment and reaction. You looked at Simon and Kyle. To your surprise they too practically licked their playe xlean before bouncing back up to get an even bigger heap of spaghetti.
John watched you through moist eyes and soft smile. The way you fawned over his team like a mother duckling made his heart race in ways he didn’t know was possible for a man his age. He didn’t have to tell you how much he cared for Simon, Kyle, and Johnny. You knew because you always knew- even when John couldn’t form the words to say anything. Seeing you all interact made his heart swell. John felt complete; pure, even. At times he wasn’t sure if he deserved this small but solid family, but he knew he would fight tooth and nail to protect each and every one of you.
