john price who was used to be fit in the military, being his height, he was usually the bigger man in the room when simon wasn’t there.
now, since price took an early retirement few years ago, he had been eating well thanks to you. at first he availed his free time to fix as much things as he could in your house, renovating your yard and building your pool like he promised you when he was still working. but now that all of this was done, he became a professional in couch rotting.
he absolutely hated it, even as you assured him over and over that he was perfectly fine, and that he needed it, he still felt useless.
to not make it any better, john noticed that he was slowly loosing his muscles and a pouch of fat was starting to be noticeable in his lower abdomen. he was slower than before, wincing when getting up from the couch and he now necessarily needed his glasses to read.
however, he couldn’t help but love your delighted expression as you came home, happy to see him healthy and alive, clearly traumatised from all the years you spent waiting for him to come back from deployment. you'd hug him tightly and sigh contently at the feeling of his heartbeat against your temple.
even with all his worries, nothing could beat the moments you spent eating well together, or cooking when you had a day off ; price knew that you probably didn’t notice the weight he gained, and by the nights you spent together, he could tell you couldn’t care less.
Your friend turns to look at you in horror when you say it, "cute?! You think captain price is...cute??"
You laugh at her look of horror, nodding between bites of your food. "Yeah! I mean, the whole captain of an elite task force thing is a good cover, but if you look past that he's cute!"
You receive a scrunched up, judgmental look in return, "what, like attractive? Cute as in you want to kiss him??"
"Cute as in I wanna squish his cheeks." You sigh, just thinking about that captain makes you feel all giddy "his cheeks are so round when he smiles, and his mustache makes him look like a cute walrus!"
Before your friend can counter, you're already standing up from your seat, really getting into it. You stand, hands coming up to mimic a phantom-vest "and he does this thing where he holds his vest and rocks heel to toe, heel to toe!! Its so cute!"
You mimic the motion, only stopping when your other friend pulls you back into your seat because people started staring. Still, you tack on with a laugh "I'm serious! Captain price is just so cute! He's like an adorable puppy!"
Across the room, price is staring daggers into your back with a beet red face. He slowly takes his hands off the straps of his vest and stops rocking. Embarrassed and...something else by you calling him cute.
He pointedly ignores the knowing look soap gives him.
John Price wasn’t a man prone to sentiment. But lately, he’d caught his son watching him with that quiet, studious expression that five year olds wore when they were trying to understand something big.
It started small. A look, a tilt of the head when John helped you ease onto the couch, one hand steady at your back, the other adjusting the pillows just right. Then came the little imitations—a small hand pressed to your knee when you sighed, a too-big glass of water pushed into your hands before you even asked for it.
Yeah. The boy was watching.
John saw it in the way his son trailed after him, his steps careful and deliberate, like he was trying to map out the rhythm of care he has always provided for you.
He didn’t just follow orders; he anticipated. When John pulled out a chair for you, the boy did the same at breakfast the next morning, brows drawn in concentration as he dragged the heavy thing across the floor. When John pressed a hand to your lower back in passing, the kid reached up later, tiny palm resting there for half a second before scampering off, satisfied with a smile that he made his mother feel comfortable.
And when you winced one evening, shifting uncomfortably, it was your son who slipped off the couch without a word, returning a minute later with one of your small heating pads from the bathroom. He set it down beside you, nudging it toward your hand before looking up expectantly.
John, sitting across from you, just huffed a quiet laugh.
Smart boy.
He didn’t tell him to do any of this. Didn’t have to.
The kid was simply learning straight from him. Picking up on the way his father moved around his mother, how he noticed things before you had to say them, how care wasn’t in grand gestures but in the easy, natural rhythm of love.
John caught his son’s eye, tilting his head just slightly. The boy straightened a little, waiting.
Good lad, he thought, with a small nod of approval.
New Dad!Price who really got his new born only a month after the wee thing was born, and the mother gave up her rights to John.
So here 40 something year old Price is with a new born, wailing at the top of his lungs after a diaper change yet again for- what time is it? 3 am? 4:13? Sheesh. The 5th time today. John hasn’t got a single clue about parenting, he’s an okay uncle sure, but he any sat 5 year olds.
Not a living breathing thing that can not function without a parent.
And John can’t call his parents or his older siblings because— stupidly— in the last two weeks of being a father, he hasn’t called them to break the news. He’s been MIA (not much of a shock, he’s in the military, it happens). Just, not for this reason.
And just when John is about to cave, maybe even shed some tears that are bursting at the seams of his tear ducts— theres a knock on the door, thankfully not a bang, it’s consistent though. And the old man is sure it’s another neighbor begging him to get his new child in order as if it were some toy doll to turn off.
John swings the front door to the apartment wide, frustrated, “Look, I’m tryin here, alright!? Just give me some time—“
“Give me the baby.” You mumble out through tired eyes that are barely open, holding out your hands.
He pauses for a moment, “What?”
“The baby,” you clarify, “give me the baby.”
John doesn’t have time to react before you’re taking the baby and stepping past him. Rocking the baby back and forth as you waltz in as if you know the place.
“Why are you cryin, huh? You’re tired?” You coo gently to the little human, patting the babies back as your shirt begins to get tear stained. “I know, I knoooow, I’m sorry.” You pout, rubbing his back in a circular motion, back and forth in your arms. And it’s just like that, soft coos, as you bounce uo and down, every passing minute the baby crying less and less and less, till the little bug is sound asleep on your chest, clenching onto you for dear life.
John eyes are widened, speaking softly, “I- how did you—
“—Your baby can practically smell the fear off of you. So ease up on yourself maybe, read an actual parenting book or some shit instead of leaving your computer open all day and night.” You nod over towards the computer that besides the moon shining through the blinds, are the only form of light you two have.
“And your chest, er- your heartbeat, skin to skin— your baby wants to feel that closeness of a mother.”
There’s a sigh that erruppts from John’s lips, he’s trying here, obviously, but he can’t be— he won’t be able to be a mother- “That’s it again, you’re over thinking it. Just let the baby feel you’re there, stop being scared and hold ‘em close.” You whisper.
You begin to lift the baby off your chest, but John is quickly beside you, pressing the baby back into you as you sat on the chair, “They’ve just gone to sleep!”
You scuff, “And this is your child you have to learn to raise! Put your big girl pants on and man up!” You carefully lift the sleeping baby off of your chest, cause the baby to whimper out, already opening its mouth to wail again, but John quickly takes the little thing, pressing him right to his heart as you said.
No tears
The little thing, let’s put an adorable yawn, snuggling in close to the steady heartbeat of their father.
“And there you have it,” you grunt as you push off your knees, walking to the entry way to slip on your crocs, “I’m like the fuckin baby whisperer or some shit. Baby boss type shit.” Your mumble deliriously.
“Um-“ John clears his throat, rubbing the babies back in a circular motion as you once did, “Thank you, really it means a lot t’ me, well— us.”
You shrug, “‘S what neighbors are for, right?” You give him a small smile, before waving goodbye, softly shutting the door behind you.
and New Dad!John finally was able to sleep for a couple hours in a long time, dream filled with the baby and your soft coos.
a/n: I wrote this right before I went to sleep so just rock with me
⋆˚࿔ husband!price headcanons because i need him as my husband!
husband!price who has nightmares because of his ptsd and finds your hand under the covers, intertwining his fingers with yours and resting it on his chest.
husband!price who can never button the top button of his shirt. always has to ask you to do it for him before he leaves the house.
husband!price who cleans up after dinner. you cooked so he'll clean the kitchen while you rest up.
husband!price who swears he didn't eat your cereal. literally kisses your face but you see it in his eyes. thing is, you bought the cereal he likes on purpose.
husband!price who says he's never tried mango before, just so he can see your shocked reaction. you literally challenge him to a fight because who hasn't tried mango!
husband!price whos hands are always rough, doesn't matter how much lotion he uses. you complain but secretly love the feeling. especially when he massages your back after a hard day.
husband!price who keeps track of the dryer so he can take out the clothes when they're warm and throw them on you. it became a thing back when you first started dating and stuck ever since.
husband!price who makes you tie his tie in the morning. doesn't care that he can do it himself. something about having you close to him. bedhead and morning breath never stopped him from giving you a kiss.
husband!price who can't make his tea right anymore. you had made it for him many years ago and now you're in charge of making tea. secretly loves when you add a bit of vanilla syrup in it too.
husband!price who hugs you from behind as you brush your teeth in the morning. his chin finds your shoulder and his lips find your neck. he litters kisses all over your skin.
husband!price who complains about his beard. he loves it but sometimes he likes to get on your bad side. you literally hide all the scissors and razors around the house.
husband!price who most likely has a ring tan on his finger. he never takes his ring off. ever. if you ever find him taking it off, call the mental facilities immediately.
husband!price who looks at you like it's his first time seeing you. you still remember the first time he saw you. he was passing by a cafe and saw you in the window. he stopped there and stared at you. a bit creepy but it led to the best thing in your life.
husband!price who learned how to do origami so he could write love notes and fold them into cute swans or hearts. he'd hide them around the house like an easter egg hunt. you even accidentally burnt one in the toaster. swears he didn't put it there.
husband!price who dances with you in the living room when it rains. no music, just the pitter patter of the rain and swaying bodies. says he's trying to be romantic as if he's not already.
husband!price who helps you bathe on days you feel tired. he washes your body with such softness, you almost fall asleep.
husband!price who takes care of you on those certain hard days. the ones where you have no motivation to get up. he brushes your hair, brushes your teeth, washes your face, then changes you. he feeds you and gives you plenty of kisses, whispering how proud he is of you.
husband!price who kisses you passionately before going to bed. every night he'll grab your jaw and kiss you till your breathless. its an intimate and slow kiss but it makes night feel better.
husband!price who learns what if feels like to be whole. he was broken but now with you, he feels full. hes full of love, full of life. is grateful for you because you taught him how to live.
pairing: John Price x gn!reader
cw: sleeptalking
wc: 903
an: price, the man you are. id forgotten my obsession with him until I found my Tumblr archives on my pc. this was SOOO fun to write, enjoy!
John Price had never been a heavy sleeper.
While it was a part of himself that had been apparent to him since before his time in the military, it would be foolish to say it didn’t play an important role in it. He rarely got more than a couple of hours of sleep, which his body had adapted to over the years—not without putting up a fight, that is.
He’d always struggled with the civvie life. Before you came into his life—a whirlwind of colour and a warmth he did not believe himself capable of deserving—he’d hated sleeping outside of the comfort of his quarters. His house was suffocating in its quiet loudness.
He had become acquaintances with the cat who rummaged through his trash at three in the morning, on the dot. He still woke up whenever the fridge clicked without explanation in the middle of the night—that sharp, sudden noise that had him shoving a hand under his pillow before he could even process the fact that he didn’t need to aim his gun at an electrical appliance. The electrical line that had been busted for almost three months, constantly emitting a loud buzzing noise, had pushed him to the edge.
Then you’d come along. Quietly, sneakily—like mould. And, God help him, he’d never been more grateful for anything in his life. A toothbrush here, spare socks there, your things all over his house. What could only be described as a parasitic infestation had never felt better.
Along with your banter over lunch and your tea in his cupboard, came your…peculiar nightly habits.
He’d heard of sleeptalkers, of course. He was guilty of his own nonsensical mumbling late at night after a string of stressful ops. But what you did wasn’t mumble or whisper softly—it was borderline paranormal.
The first night he got to witness it, you were jolted awake by the sudden weight laid over your neck. His forearm pressed against your neck, gone as fast as it had appeared. You blinked once in shock, unsure as to what the hell had happened and if you had imagined it in the first place. It’d been John, the following morning, who recalled the events for you.
“Thought someone had broken in,” he mumbled, and if you hadn’t known any better you would’ve sworn he was mad at you. “Scared the shit outta me, love.”
He acclimated—unwillingly. While his military instincts were hard to quiet down, he become almost fond of the late-night conversations and complete lunacy that came out of your mouth whenever midnight rolled around.
That night, he was woken up by the sound of you arguing with someone who had quickly become Price’s number one nemesis.
“Colonel Duck,” you whispered with a frown on your face. “This was discussed in the briefing.”
John woke the way he usually did once his body had learned to recognize your nightly conversations as non-threatening—groggily, slow, exhausted. He lay on his side, propping himself up on his elbow while his other hand rested above your stomach. Your shirt, caught in sheets and whatever else you had done to it through the night, lifted to reveal your cold skin. He flattened his palm over his stomach as he stiffened a yawn.
Outside, only the sound of a nearby creek and crickets were carried by the wind. Inside, Price watched as your nose scrunched at whatever this colonel had dared say to you—a civilian whose only contact with the army was through whatever the man shared with you.
He dragged his palm closer to your waist, twisting you effortlessly so that your chest would be pressed against his. He nuzzled your neck, his beard scratching the sensitive skin in a way that earned a quiet laugh from your otherwise serious façade.
“John, do something,” you whined against his ear. “He won’t listen.”
Despite the exhaustion, he chuckled against your neck. He pressed a quick, albeit soft, kiss to your jaw before pulling away, feeling the tiredness that clung to his bones slowly bleed into his muscles.
“M’afraid I can’t, love,” he whispered. “He’s a colonel.”
John’s smile widened at the sight of your pout—so genuine and upset he almost asked Laswell to dig through whatever archives needed to be dug to find this Colonel Duck who had plagued your dreams for the past two months.
Your arm slid over his waist as you finally closed the distance between you. You muttered something he couldn’t hear, even in the silent room, before burying your nose in the crook of his neck. He chuckled—low and revibrating against your chest.
“He’s drunk on power,” you mumbled with that voice he’d come to recognize as your finally going back to sleep voice.
John laughed, then sighed at the feeling of your body going limp beneath him. He felt your hair against his chin and your breath against his skin. His fingers dug into your hip as his lips found your forehead.
“We’ll report him,” he assured your sleeping form.
He let his lips linger on your forehead for a beat longer before he let his head fall against the pillow again, arms safely wrapped around you. Your breathing evened, and he listened to it like a lull to fall asleep to.
John Price had killed a general already. He’d taken on a bloody colonel if needed.
Old Man!Price with a huge beer belly is always excited when you cook him a home cooked meal.
During his time in the SAS, John would absentmindedly fantasise about the bliss of domesticity. Of coming home to a well-loved house filled with knick-knacks with you giving John a soft smile while telling him that dinner will be on the table in a few.
Sometimes John tries to think about what religious good that he has ever done to have you in his life and he is fully convinced that domestic bliss does not exist without you in it. Pride and pity fills him up when he thinks about all the sad bastards out there who have never had the privilege of seeing you.
With all those years of training, he's developed some self restraint. He doesn't pounce straight away, wanting to take his sweet time with you.
John will sit in the living room watching you cook a hearty meal for the two of you, in your apron and not so cute pyjamas underneath which gives you such a wifely hue that he can never get over.
You plate dinner up and fix the dining table for dinner before you beckon him to sit down and eat. The mundanity of the conversation is what makes John's mind run a mile a minute. Having a beautiful wife, a delicious meal and talking about anything and everything that does relate to work. He can finally switch his mind off, he's away from the screams and shouts of the battlefield and is in the security of the four walls you share together,
Instead of the cries of the innocent and the ricochet of rockets banging in his eardrums, it's your sweet voice and loud laughs that echo in his ear like the melody of sirens. He's entranced and he only falls deeper. After dinner, John will help you clear the table, wash the dirty dishes and put away the leftovers for tomorrow's lunch.
You and John both walk to your bedroom and make your way to the en suite with John tailing behind you. Getting started with your nightly routine, he'll walk up behind you slowly yet purposefully, resting his hands on your hips before snaking his burly arms around your waist with your back flush against his chest, earning a chuckle from you.
A searing kiss on your shoulder, making his way to the curve of your neck, licking and nipping. Your face begins to flush and feel hot. A quiet, content sigh leaves your lips as John nuzzles into your neck with one hand squeezing your tits occasionally pinching your nipple.
“Come on, petal. The bed’s right there.” He’ll murmur against your skin like a lovesick puppy.
You try to protest only to have John already tugging you away from the bathroom sink to the bed. He’ll push you into the bed, settling in between your thighs. John will look up, hungry, desperate and absolutely pathetic. Peppering your inner thigh with chaste kisses, he makes his way to your clothed cunt.
“Been missing this good girl.” John buries his face into your cunt as it begins to soak your panties slightly. Groaning at the scent of you, he sucks on your panties. His saliva mixing with the arousal staining your panties. Eyes dilating as your soft mewls reverberate off the walls, John gets drunk of your noises.
“Forgot to take Viagra, hun. It’s just my mouth and hands for the night.” He looks at you apologetically.
You groan, hastily taking off your panties before shoving his face forcefully into your sopping pussy.
“More than enough, big bear.” A shudder gasp leaves your lips as John sucks on your clit, your thighs lock his head in place, pulling him even closer than before.
Whisky. Cigars. Dark chocolate if he’s feeling wild.
Lie.
This man will demolish a Victoria sponge at speed.
You discover it during tea. There’s a cake on the table, meant to last a few days.
It lasts a few hours.
You walk in on him cutting “just a sliver.”
The sliver is criminal.
He clears his throat. “Morale.”
“You said you didn’t like overly sweet things.”
He gestures vaguely. “Balanced.”
It is not balanced. It is aggressively frosted.
From then on, you clock it. The way he always reaches for the jam first. The way his tea gets one extra sugar when he thinks no one’s watching. The way he breaks off pieces of biscuit absentmindedly during briefings.
So one night you bake something simple. Lemon drizzle. Nothing flashy.
You leave it out without a word.
He finds it. Of course he does.
There’s something almost boyish about the way he tastes it. Eyebrows lifting slightly.
