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The first time you go on a joint date together you’re the only person not clued in. John has already talked to the boys, and they’re all in.
Soap was the easiest to convince, of course—he loved you within five minutes of meeting you, loved your intelligence, your kind heart, and the elegant crayon joke you made about American marines and dick size in conversation about 141’s frequent joint operations with them. He’s had a crush on you ever since, has been hooking up with girls who look like you on tinder and always feeling unsatisfied and a bit ashamed about it afterwards. John’s permission to ask his wife out has burned his guilt away like St. Elmo’s fire.
Ghost agreeing was a surprise. John knows his sex life has comprised mostly men in past years—Simon’s frequent nightmares about hurting any women he might be with, residual terrors courtesy of Sonoran conditioning, have been enough to put him off. But when John asked, Ghost only took two days to decide, explaining afterwards that if he has John holding his proverbial leash, he’s confident he won’t cause you any harm. Besides, you’ve never asked about Ghost’s mask, and you’ve unwittingly earned his loyalty for it.
Gaz was the hardest to convince. He couldn’t quite shake the idea that doing anything with his commanding officer’s wife was tantamount to heresy. You’re John’s. So what if Gaz has daydreamed about being in John’s shoes? So what if when Gaz makes you laugh, he feels invincible for the rest of the day? So what if Gaz kept a keychain with his name on it, a little gift from your solo vacation to Dublin, in his vest pocket ever since? He finally settles on a maybe when he learns the other guys have already agreed. If they’re doing it, Gaz can at least not feel bad about it alone.
So, agreement made, they take you out to a pub and turn on the charm.
It’s familiar territory—something not too far from the house you and John share. And the other three have made sure to dress down in their usual civvies, just a regular night out as far as you need to know right now. That all ought to help, John reasons, with getting you comfortable. He orders plenty of food for the table, starts the drinks flowing, and keeps an eye on things.
Soap talks your ear off, but always shuts his mouth when you speak up. You’re still shy around them, reserved in your way, and extroverted Soap has always liked to adopt introverts. Soon you’re discussing the latest season of Midsommer Murders, and Gaz, not to be left out, joins in after shaking off some of his wariness. John isn’t surprised—the younger men have always been more friendly than him and the lieutenant.
He keeps an eye on you too, of course. Attuned, always, to your body language, watching for the subtle signs he’s learned so well of your discomfort. Any picking at your nails, excessive drinking, or nudges of his knee under the table, and he’ll call the whole thing off without even blinking.
But you’re animated; grinning, laughing, talking fast and gesturing with your hands, barely remembering even to eat until John starts stealing your chips. You’re having fun, as much fun as you and he have alone, and something in his belly purrs at the notion that he set this all up for you.
The conversation flows easily from TV to work to travel to food and back again, until Ghost, as quiet as usual, announces he’s bored, and you should come learn billiards with him so he might actually have some competition. That, of course, prompts Soap to swear a blue streak, and off you go with them to engage in the most archetypical mating ritual mankind has to offer: leaning over a pool table with a man draped over your back. John’s eager to watch Ghost’s participation, even as Gaz distracts him.
“Is she even gonna be into this, Cap?” he asks, a serious note in his tone. “Regardless of what you think. Maybe she’ll say no.”
“Then she says no,” Price says, smiling faintly as your brows lift high when Simon’s hands cover yours on the cue stick. “And we move on.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that. I don’t think she will, though.”
He can hear Gaz’s scowl. Offended on your behalf. “And how do you know that?”
“She looks at your arse every time you hang out at our house, Kyle.”
The sergeant sputters. “That’s—listen, just because I have a good arse doesn’t mean—Captain, come on, be serious.”
John finally looks at Gaz. “You think I don’t know my wife, Kyle?”
That shuts the sergeant up.
“Listen,” John continues, “it ain’t like I’ve given you a bloody order to fuck my wife. I’ve already told you why I’m doing this. You can believe me or not. It’s not about you, sergeant. It’s about her. That’s all—and if you like her as much as I suspect you do, I don’t understand why you’re not over there right now fighting with the other two to bend her over a pool table.”
Soap claps his hands on your hips when a clever maneuver on your part sinks two balls, shaking you and bellowing praise. Your smile is genuine but unsure—you catch Price’s eye across the pub, a question on your face.
He smiles at you, calm and pleased, and winks. The trepidation melts from your expression, and you turn to crow your victory at Simon.
Gaz’s blush is obvious, even despite his dark complexion. “She’s your wife, Price.”
“So I own her, then?” he drawls. “She’s used goods, is she?”
Gaz doesn’t, or perhaps can’t, hide his glare. Price knows he’s finally kicked the sergeant’s proverbial ass—Gaz gets up and joins you at the pool table. Price sees him challenge you to darts; Simon follows on your heels, and Price can see his relaxed expression even from the table. Soap, meanwhile, goes to the bar to order more drinks. Rising, John goes over to join you.
"There you are, lovie," you say, smiling in the same way that always lands hooks in his ribcage.
"You takin' the lads for all they're worth, then?" John asks, looping an arm around your waist and knocking your hip with his. You don't like PDA much, he'd learned the hard way, and as much as he'd like you in his lap wherever you went, he prefers to make you comfortable.
The others better be watching and learning. If they're going to date his wife, they need to know how to treat you.
"Won twenty quid off Ghost," you brag as Soap returns with a tray of beers.
The sergeant picks one up, clamps the neck between forearm and bicep, and gives the bottle a twist; the cap hisses and pops off. Grinning salaciously, Soap holds the beer out to you, casual as you please.
John watches your face. He's categorized the language of your arousal extensively. The quirk of your brow, the shallow stop of your breath before you murmur a quiet "Thank you, Soap" behind the lip of the beer bottle both speak to the very real possibility that when the both of you get home, he'll have no trouble getting you on all fours.
He glances at Soap, who's opened his own beer now. The sergeant only has eyes for you, the corners of which are quirking as he tries not to smile for too long. John's trained all of the 141 to pay attention to details. It's nice to see that it's paid off now, as well as in the field.
"Miracle you didn't slice your arm open," Ghost points out, grabbing his own bottle. "Do it for me, now."
"Piss off," Soap mutters into his drink.
"What was plan B if you couldn't get it open?" Gaz asks, also eager to humble Soap. "Die immediately?"
"Real fuckin' funny," Soap grouses. "Weren't you about to lose to the bird at darts?"
"I don't know about that," you say, "I'm rubbish at anything after three beers."
"We can make up our own rules," John says. "More fun that way." He looks pointedly at Gaz.
The other sergeant gives him a flat look, but when he turns to you he's all smiles. "You might be able to beat me anyway, Mrs. Price. I'm the worst at darts in the task force."
You grimace. "Mrs. Price is his mother, Gaz, please don't ever call me that again."
John guffaws a full-belly laugh at Gaz's expression, and then gets down to business. "Rules, then. Five darts each. Whoever gets the most bullseyes wins."
As you and Gaz collect darts from the board on the far wall, Soap and Ghost shake hands in the corner of Price's eye. Whether they're betting over who wins or if Gaz will finally cave, he couldn't guess. Maybe both.
"Ladies first," Gaz says politely.
You knock back a swig of beer and toss the first dart; it clangs off the wall and clatters to the floor. You snort and hand the bottle to John.
"Hold on, we didn't set stakes," you say, retrieving your failed missile. "What do I get if I win? What does he get?"
"Gaz'll buy you dinner if you win, won't he?" Price says, smirking at the sergeant. "And if he loses, you'll buy him dinner instead."
Gaz glares at him. Price sips your beer.
You look between them, and Price sees alarm bells go off in your head. You don't know what's going on, but you know it's something. You're too sweet to ask—you usually let him settle arguments with his boys himself—but it still distresses you. Price loves you for it. In your wedding vows, you'd told him a burden shared was a burden halved, and his problems, thus, were also your own.
It's why he wants to do this for you so badly. You rise like the first star of the morning to every challenge that is being married to him. You deserve every pleasure that life has to offer in exchange for it, for the boundless grace you extend to him.
"You don't have to buy me dinner, Gaz," you say, playing peacemaker. "We don't need stakes, it's fine."
"No," says the sergeant, noticing the worry on your face. "It's alright—" and then he smiles at you, a hint of the charm Price knows he's got in him, underneath the fuss he's putting up about all this. "But you better be ready to pay. In the mood for a Michelin star, me."
You laugh. "Go on then, don't stall!"
Gaz shakes his head and throws his first dart. It hits the board, at least, sinking into the middle ring.
"Maybe change the rules," Soap says with a laugh. "Whoever even hits the board wins, rather."
"I have faith in my wife," Price says.
"You shouldn't," you say, coming over and pulling his hand, holding your beer, to your face. Obediently he tips the drink into your mouth, and then you exhale, refreshed. "I'm sauced."
"I'm thinking that Dady place you took us to, actually," says Gaz as you line up your shot. "For your wedding reception."
"In Texas?" you squawk. "You want me to pay for plane tickets too?"
"Why not?"
"Do I look like I'm made of money? We are not flying economy over the Atlantic, Gaz."
"Price set the bet," says Gaz. "Make him pay for it."
"Quit trying to distract my wife, sergeant," Price says. You and Soap oooooh over the reprimand.
You make your throw; thanks to actually aiming this time, you hit the board, right underneath Gaz's dart.
"Nice shot, pet," says Ghost. You beam in his direction.
Gaz goes for his turn. He sinks the dart closer inward, but still in the middle ring. Undeterred, he steps aside and offers you the place where he was standing with a silly, excessive flourish that makes you giggle. Price cocks an eyebrow at him.
“Be honest, I never thought the captain would get married,” says the sergeant. “Never could think of anyone who’d wanna deal with any of us really, not with the way we live. Soap can’t hold down a girlfriend for more than what, a week?”
“Fuck you very much too, Gaz,” Soap says, smiling genially. There’s a warning in his eyes though; if Gaz is thinking about relating to you Soap’s most recent escapades on Tinder, he should probably think first about how many teeth he’s willing to lose.
“And who knows what the Ghost gets up to on shore leave,” continues Gaz.
“Vegetating in a coffin,” Ghost says drolly.
“And the captain? Practically lives on deployment. And yet he’s the luckiest one of all of us now.”
Your shot goes wide; you just barely hit the outer ring.
You return to Price’s side, scowling a little bit. He can’t tell if you’re affected by Gaz’s words, confused about what the hell is going on, or just feeling the competitive streak in you finally surfacing. Regardless, he toes the line of the boundary you’ve set and kisses the crown of your head, over your hair, careful not to smack his lips too loud.
“I am, aren’t I?” he says, handing you your beer.
You give him a little smile. Ah. None for three. You’re remembering old hurts, things you’ve whispered to him in the dead of night.
I’m too…much, you’d said. Too weird. I’m not normal, John. I never can be. I can’t be whatever kind of wife you want. It’s not in me.
He’d said it then, and he’d say it however many times you needed to hear it again: if he made you think you needed to be anything other than who you really, truly were, he would never deserve you.
Gaz takes his third shot—even closer to center—and you go for your fourth turn. You hit the middle ring again, closer than before, but still too far from the bullseye.
Gaz takes his place again, and lines up his own fourth shot. Even closer—he lands the center ring, just shy of the target.
“Might have to call that one a win, hen,” Soap says, “if you don’t get any closer.”
You step up. “I agree to those terms.”
“You want I should show you how to throw again?” John asks, maybe too casually.
“Let me lose with dignity, John, for god’s sake,” you shoot back, but there it is—a real smile, knowing he’s winding you up.
He raises his hands in supplication, and you palm your last dart.
“I never really figured I’d get married either,” you say as you take aim.
“Nah,” says Soap. “Lads must’ve been beating your door down!”
You shrug. "No one ever really impressed me enough."
It’s not the full truth. And maybe you will tell Soap someday—John is surprised to find himself hoping so. Soap, out of all of them, has the kindest ear and the softest shoulder. He’d tell you, just like John told you, that you are more than enough.
"What're doin' with the captain, then?" Ghost deadpans. John snorts; it would be a sharper dig if he hadn't thought the same himself, many times.
And John's pretty sure you know it's a joke—you have trouble being able to tell, sometimes—but you answer earnestly, head tilted to the side in contemplation.
"John lets me be me. I'm not a perfect wife. I don't want to be what everyone else seems they think they have to be.”
You straighten, and something loosens. John sees it, sees that something in you that has drawn him since first he’d laid eyes on you. That indescribable quality that he’s never been able to put his finger on—that he thinks, knows, has snared the three other men standing around you. All of them, himself included, can look nowhere but at you.
“And I don't ask him to be perfect either,” you continue. “We don't have to do what everyone else does. Our marriage can look however we want it to look. We—"
You throw the dart, easy and nonchalant. Like a comet drawn by the gravity of the earth, it sails right dead center—into the bullseye.
You grin, and turn back to them in triumph. "—Can make up our own rules."
John returns your smile. Soap claps you on the back, full of praise once again, as the corners of Ghost’s eyes crease with the smile hidden behind his mask. And Gaz, beside you, sighs and offers his unconditional surrender.
John’s assessment of the situation proves to have been accurate—back home, you pull him in by the lapels of his shirt, hungrily taking his mouth with yours, and he hoists you over his shoulder in retaliation, marching you to the bedroom. It’s a whirl of clothes flying off, hitting the floor in heaps as John bends you over the bed and slides into you with a groan. Your body is pliant under his, needy and giving to the ruthless pace he sets almost immediately.
“Fucking perfect, love,” he huffs into your ear, sliding his hand between your legs. “Wanted to do this even before you beat Kyle. Right there in the pub, in front of everyone. Cheeky little bird, beating my men.”
You laugh breathlessly, and it turns into a moan as he meets your clit with two fingers.
"Maybe that's what you want, aye?" he growls into your ear. "All of them, watching. Maybe even having a go at you, one after another."
"John!" you exclaim, and he hears the protest in your voice. "It's not—"
"Hush, love," he says soothingly, "it's all right. It's just talk, innit? Just let me talk, alright? Don't worry 'bout it."
You try to turn your head to look at him, so he grabs you by the jaw and forces your head between the crook of his neck and shoulder as he beats his hips against your arse.
"I'd—have to—teach them," he says, punctuating himself with a few harsh thrusts. "They don't know you yet. Not like I do. But they're good lads. They can learn."
You clamp around him, tight as a fist, and he feels a new flush of slick coat his cock. Your breathing goes shallow, arrhythmic, and he knows you're close already.
"They'd like it too," he whispers into your ear, rubbing tight circles around your clit. He shoves his cock in as deep as he can go and grinds his hips, up and down, as your lungs close up and you stop breathing. "The way they were humping your leg all night? Every single one of them wants you, just like this, just fucking like this love, and they all know what we're doing right now, too. I bet they've all got their dicks in hand just thinking about it, about what we're doing right now, thinking about what they'd do if they had you instead—"
You go rigid beneath him, cunt constricting him so hard and fast that he couldn't pull out if he tried, and a wail tears from your throat, ragged, as you grind your hips furiously against his to prolong your climax. The tight heat of you brings him close enough to his peak that it only takes a few more thrusts for him to finish himself, and he feels you flutter again around him in the aftershock of it before you collapse underneath him.
“Ohh,” you exhale.
He chuckles. “Stay here.” He kisses the back of your neck, pulls out, and goes to the washroom to retrieve a clean bath towel. You’ve turned over when he gets back, spread-eagled on the bedspread. He hands you one end of the towel, and you begin dabbing the sweat off your face and chest as he uses the other end to clean up between your legs.
“That was new,” you say, looking up at him. Your gaze is…curious. Unsure.
You’ve gathered by now that something has been going on outside your awareness. This isn’t unusual for you—and you’ve taken to looking to him for context. You trust him, in a way you’ve never trusted anyone else.
He trusts his men. Ghost, Soap and Gaz are maybe the only other people alive he’d pick for you, not only because he’s trained them himself but because of why he’d brought them into the 141 in the first place. All that remains is for you to see where your trust in him leads you.
He’s planted the seeds. Now he has to sit back and wait to see what grows.
“Mm,” he replies, laying his head on the pillow beside yours. “Fun, though.”
You smile. “Yeah.”