John Price X Reader - Blog Posts

ASHDHASJKDSHKFBSHDJGBHJDS THis needs to be a multipart thing cuz oh my dayysss. man if he did that to me i'd just smile and nod THANKS FOR THIS, AUTHOR!!!!!!

sliding scale

You're in need of a handyman. He has needs of his own. cw: discussion of kids/pregnancy, john price inserting himself into your life, heavily implied breeding kink, unsettling and smutless (my brand)

You win the jackpot. Okay. Not the jackpot, but you're hit by a respectable windfall. It's like a cheesy movie you'd watch around the holidays: A distant relative dies, you receive a very serious letter, and suddenly, your account isn't as sad as it once was.

So, you do the impossible. The unthinkable. You buy a house.

An old, well-loved house from an elderly couple.

The day you close, they tell you about raising their kids in the house and mention the names etched on the door frame. When you arrive home that evening, the empty house feels grand and hollow, but there they are, just where they said. Names climbing upward in uneven increments, faded with time, but legible. You trace your finger along the marks, imagining small hands and the measuring tape, the years slipping by. It makes you smile, despite yourself.

You've never wanted kids, not really, but the thought of this, people leaving bits of themselves behind—it makes you mushy. You figure, once the dust settles, you'll let rooms to friends, maybe friends of friends. Start a fun little commune of sorts, a collective of people coming and going.

The first night, you drink nonalcoholic wine straight from the bottle and lie on your mattress on the floor, staring up at the ceiling. There's no furniture yet, just your overnight bag and the smell of fresh paint from a patch you tested on the living room wall. You fall asleep smiling. The house needs a lot of work, but you're not worried. Some TLC and elbow grease can go a long way.

Over the next few weeks, you move in and start working. Anything is possible with the power of YouTube tutorials and the local tool library.

You start in the primary bedroom and bathroom, learning to tile, install flooring, and connect plumbing for the perfect vanity and sink you found at a thrift store. It feels good to learn how things fit together and see the fruits of your labor. At night, you sleep in one of the old kid's rooms. The wallpaper is covered in rockets and planets. A couple of glow-in-the-dark stars cling to the ceiling.

The bathroom comes together wonderfully, and you feel invincible.

But then you get to the kitchen.

After an outlet zaps you, you decide you may be in over your head. That there really is a limit to what one person can do on their own. You start looking up local contractors, but everything is out of your budget. You've been doing all the work yourself for a reason. Then, after digging for ages, you find a promising lead: John Price - Handyman - Sliding Scale.

On the phone, John seems normal. Charming. Funny. He tells you he's impressed you bought a house on your own. (You've heard that a lot lately, and while it feels patronizing, you let it go. You did jump up a band upon inheriting your chunk of Great Uncle Leroy's money.) He agrees to come by and see what he can do.

You have to admit he makes a good impression when he shows up. He's punctual, polite, and looks the part. Broad chest, thick arms, big hands resting on his hips as he surveys the kitchen. After only a few minutes, he says he'll take the job. No hesitation.

You explain your tight budget and that you'll work alongside him when you're not at your day job. You show him the money you've set aside, expecting him to back out, but he just shakes his head and nudges the folder back across the table.

"Said I'd do it. Don't you fret, darl."

You vet him afterward, just to be sure. His references check out. The reviews are solid. He appears to know a little about everything. You text him to confirm, formally offering the job, and he accepts.

On the first day, you let him in and immediately have to avert your eyes. You didn't realize a toolbelt could look like that on someone. His sleeves are rolled up, exposing his forearms, and the way he moves—confident, purposeful—makes you grateful you're heading out to work. You tell him when you'll be back and leave quickly, gripping the steering wheel tighter than usual thinking about the hunk of man in your house.

When you return, the kitchen looks different, unfinished, but vastly improved. John's already fixed things you didn't think could be fixed. Over lunch, he even scoped out other problems around the house: a crack in the basement wall, a loose board on the stairs, and spots where the flooring must be replaced. He gushes about the house, praising its character, the way it's held up over time.

John's face grows serious, and stares down his nose when he finally asks, "You're not gonna ask me to paint over the wood or rip out the built-in hutch, are ya?"

His relief over your answer is palpable: No. That's why you bought the house in the first place. You describe what you love about it: the glass doorknobs, the dining room archway, and transom windows above the doors. He nods. He knows exactly what you mean.

Before he leaves for the day, he stops at the doorframe and points to the tallest name etched into the wood. You explain it belonged to the previous owners, a family with seven kids.

"Seven," he repeats, eyebrows raised.

"Right? Can you believe that? Seven!" You laugh. Frankly, anything more than two sounds insane. 

But John doesn't laugh. He stares at the names for a moment, his jaw tight. "Yeah. Difficult to imagine."

After he leaves, you scold yourself. You don't really know John. You've known him for all of a day. What if he came from a big family? Or what if he doesn't speak to his family anymore, if things are complicated with his parents? You feel awful, and the guilt channels itself into stress-baking.

The next morning, when he shows up, there's a platter of breakfast pasties waiting on the counter. He hesitates, looks almost bashful, until you insist. He takes a bite, then another, and looks at you with genuine astonishment. He says if you leave food like this every morning, he'll knock his rate down even further.

It makes sense, financially speaking, so you agree. You start making breakfast for two, and in return, he keeps the repairs affordable. The ritual becomes routine: John shows up every weekday morning, you eat together, he gets to work, and you leave. You look forward to seeing him. Hearing his voice rumble out good mornings and goodnights.

For two weeks, you come home to find steady progress on the kitchen. You help him out for an hour or two in the evenings, and by the time it's nearly finished, you've started discussing other parts of the house.

You mention the two smallest children's rooms aren't really usable for tenants. You show him your plans to knock down the wall between them and create a library or office space.

But this time, John doesn't agree.

"First I'm hearing of this," He leans back in his chair at your table. His arms cross over his chest, legs spreading wide. Even sitting, you see what he's doing. Trying to take a posture that carries authority, to cow you. "Tenants? What about a family?"

You try to steer the conversation back to your plans, to the picture you've sketched. "I'm not planning on having one. So, like I was saying—"

"Why buy a house this big, then? Why spend all this time fixin' it up if you're not planning to honor its legacy?"

The tone of his voice shifts completely, with no trace of the easy, flirty banter that's been your norm for weeks. His words drip with disdain. His brow knits together. Nostrils flaring. He looks genuinely upset. Mystified that you're not going to fill the house with your…your brood.

It's as if your refusal to have children is an affront to him personally. 

It sends a chill down your spine. Instantly, your image of him—this dependable, good-humored man—cracks apart. You glance past him, searching for the right words, and focus on the kitchen instead. The cabinets, the fixtures, the paint. All of it bears his mark now, and it leaves a sour taste in your mouth.

The realization settles like a stone in your stomach. You can't keep working with him. Not if your plans for the house, your house, are going to be a problem.

You tell him as much, as gently as possible.

His anger bleeds out of him quickly, melting into embarrassment and shame. His shoulders drop, and he folds into himself in a way that seems almost impossible for someone his size. "Don't know what came over me, darl."

He packs up his tools while apologizing again, both for his outburst and for the unfinished work, and gives you the spare key you lent to him for emergencies. Before he leaves, he asks you not to write a review, not even a positive one, and you agree. Things had been good until now. You don't want to ruin him over this. People have bad days.

With the kitchen functional and nothing too big left on your plate, you cut your losses and decide to finish the work alone.

Progress is slow on your own, of course. One pair of hands, only so many hours after work to chip away at the list after work. Still, time moves faster than you expect. You push through exhaustion, head often swimming, and work late into the evenings. One night, you finish patching the floor and tackle the basement's cracked wall. Only when you get down there, it's already done. Smoothed over perfectly.

You tell yourself John must've fixed it before everything went south. But then you notice other things. Several odd jobs from your list are already complete.

Squeaky door hinges turn silent. The dings and nail holes in the walls, spackled over. The second toilet that kept running starts working correctly. It's partly a relief, like the house is taking care of itself, but also deeply unsettling. You don't remember doing it, you've never sleepwalked or slept-repair in your life, even in your overtired state, and you're still too sore over your falling out to text John and ask if he did it all.

Instead, you decide to take a break. A few days off work, a proper rest. Let the house settle, let yourself breathe. Nothing happens. No floating tools. No ghosts. It's like the house is waiting for you to look away.

Paranoia sets in. You order cameras—indoor and outdoor, enough to cover every angle.

The day they arrive, you barely make it through the door before tearing open the box. But something stops you. Your eyes catch on a strange wooden box sitting on the dining table. It's a shadowbox.

Inside the box is the slat from the front doorframe, the one with the heights and names of the seven kids who grew up here. It's been cut out, perfectly, and framed like an artifact.

Your stomach drops. You scramble to the doorframe and run your hands over it, frantic. The patchwork is seamless, so clean it's like the names never existed.

Then you notice the boots. Tucked in and lined up next to your own pairs. The extra jacket hanging on the hooks.

A shadow falls over you.

You freeze, heart in your throat, and slowly turn with eyes the size of dinner plates. Towering above you, sleeves rolled to his elbows, fists planted on his hips, is John. Grinning.

"Work alright today?" He bends down and pulls you to your feet by your wrist, wrapping you up in an embrace and welcoming you home. He sways slightly with you, like you're dancing, his chest rising and falling against yours. He looks at you with a clear fondness and affection, but there's something off, like a splintering foundation. Stable until you look too close.

You try to push yourself away, palms flat against his chest, but he doesn't let go. "What are—What are you doing here? What are—Why did you do that?" You glance again toward where the measurements used to be.

He chuckles, soft and unbothered, a wistfulness threaded in his words. "Well, we're gonna need the room for our little ones, yeah? Oh, we'll have seven or more, dependin' on what takes. Sliding scale and all that."

At your stunned, horrified silence, he slots a hand into the back pocket of your jeans. He gives your cheek a little squeeze and starts steering you toward the kitchen. The one he built for you.

"C'mon. Lemme tell you all about my plans for us."

john price, his wife, and... the dog (derogatory)

who: John Price x wife!reader

what: inspired by this thought about john price being an absolutely softie for his wife.

word count: 2.3k

warnings: none. just fluff that reallyyyyy makes me want to marry this man.

It’s 2AM on a Saturday in the summer when John Price hears his wife cheating on him. 

“Shhh!!  You have to be quiet, you’ll wake up my husband.” 

He opens his heavy eyes to see the TV paused at the end credits of some movie he can’t even remember the name of.  The screen reflects in the crystal of the empty rocks glass on the coffee table next to his feet, holding only a warm whiskey stone.  

He groans and stretches, his old t-shirt riding up to show a dark happy trail disappearing into low-waisted flannel pajama pants.  He has one sock on with a hole in the toe.  You told him to get rid of them and got him a pack of 20 of the same sock (he’s very particular about his socks), but he still wears these ones, anyway. 

“Stop moving, I’m trying to concentrate here.  Damn lock… can never— oh, shit.  Wrong key.”  He can hear you muttering and giggling and the scratch of the key against the lock as you struggle to get it in. 

It’s your girls’ night and he likes to wait up for you to make sure you get in safely.  He saw you off around 8PM, pouring himself a glass of whiskey as you took a shot of tequila.  You planted a big kiss on his cheek, leaving a red lipstick mark that he didn’t bother to fully wipe off. 

“Sorry, I know you’re eager to get inside.  I bet you’re so cold, all naked.  Here, you can go in my dress, is that better?  Fu—ow!  Don’t bite my tit, Jesus!  Sharp teeth…” 

He suddenly feels much more awake.  He pushes himself up from the couch and starts to walk to the foyer. 

“This damn door… ah!  There we go.”  The door creaks open and he hears you tiptoe inside in your heels (wearing heels and tiptoeing—are two actions that are mutually exclusive, especially when you’re plastered).  “Remember, we have to be quiet.  My husband waits for me to get home, we don’t want to wake him up.  He’s very nice, you see, but he can’t know you’re here.” 

Apparently, you have gotten home safely—with an extra guest who just bit at your tit.  And you’re being more loud than your guest, who you keep telling to be quiet. 

“My husband is gonna be soooo mad.  He’s gonna be so mad at me, but once he sees how cute you are, I think he’ll forgive me.  He’ll understand.  I had to.  I just had to!” 

He hears rustling as he gets closer to the foyer, you fumbling around in the dark. 

“Stay there, don’t move, okay?  Stay, yeah?  You know that, don’t you?  Mummy will teach you if not.  Just stay right there.  Lemme get these damn heels off…” 

There’s an odd sound of something quickly clicking on hardwood floor that makes his eyebrows furrow, and then you gasp—

“Wait, don’t run—“ 

Bang! 

You groan loudly. 

John flicks on the lights. 

You’re lying face down on the rug.  You have one heel on.  The second heel is twisted around your other foot—what you fell over.  Your little dress is flipped up over your ass and your arms are outstretched. 

“You okay there, love?”  You just groan.  “Sounded like you fell pretty hard.” 

“I tripped,” you say into the rug, sounding very sad. 

“You hurt?” he asks. 

You shake your head and curl up a little.  “I’ll just sleep here.” 

He laughs softly.  “Come on, none of that.” 

“It’s so comfortable.  I’ll just—“ 

There’s that clicking sound again and he’s almost startled by the abruptness of your movement.  You push yourself up with one arm, stretch the other out and fucking snatch the quick-moving little brown blob that’s moving toward you.  You pull it to your chest and cradle it, shielding it from John’s view. 

“What you got there, baby?” he asks after a second. 

“Nothing,” you say innocently. 

“Uh huh.”  He crosses his arms, looking you over.  “Who were you talking to just now?” 

“No one,” you say quickly.  “Myself.” 

“Uh huh,” John says again. “Show me what you have.” 

You look over your shoulder up at him through your lashes, vision blurry.  “No.  You’re gonna be mad.” 

“Just show me.” 

“Promise you won’t be mad.” 

He sighs.  “I won’t be mad.”  You give him a look.  He sighs again.  You’re wasted—he can tell by your eyes.  “Promise.  Now show me.” 

You look down at whatever you’re holding to your chest.  “Okay,” you whisper, “you need to be very well-behaved, okay?  No biting, please.  Be very nice for Daddy so he will like you, okay?  Can you do that?  Yes?  Okay.” 

You glance up at John again over your shoulder and then turn yourself around in a very clumsy movement.  Then, as if presenting whatever it is like you’re Mufasa from the Lion King, you lift it up in the air toward your husband. 

It’s a puppy. 

It’s quiet. 

The little dog wriggles in your hands, wagging his tail so hard his whole body shakes.  He barks up at John, high pitched.  A small pink tongue lolls out of his mouth. 

It’s still quiet. 

You lower the dog a little so you can look up at John.  “You said you wouldn’t be mad!” 

“I’m not mad,” John says, sounding mad. 

“You look mad.” 

“I’m not mad,” he says again.  “It’s just… dirty.” 

You gasp.  “He’s not dirty!” you exclaim, sounding offended on behalf of the dog.  You pull him to your chest.  “He’s just a little mangey, you see.  But that’s okay.  It can be fixed.  You know—they have medicine for that.  Or lotion, or whatever it is.  He’s very nice, John, I swear.  I know he’s a little… skrunkly but he’s very cute and—ow!  That’s my hair, no biting Mummy, please.” 

“You’re already calling yourself his Mummy?” he asks, bemused, eyebrow raised at you.  Yep.  You’re fucking wasted. 

“Yes, and you’re his Daddy.”  You hold the dog up again, this time facing him toward you.  “I think you’re very cute.  You’ll grow on Daddy.  Just be very good for him, you can do that, can’t you?  Yes, you can.” 

“I thought it was something else,” John says. 

“What did you think it was?” you ask. 

“Where did you find it?” he asks instead of answering.  This is much better than what his traitorous mind momentarily supplied.  He should have known better.  Of course it’s this. 

A puppy. 

A puppy! 

“Oh, hello, there.” 

You crouch down in your dress and heels and hold out your hand to the little puppy emerging from the bushes by the side of the road. 

“What are you doing here, all alone?  Come here, love, I won’t hurt you.  Come on, puppy, come to me.  Yeahhh, there we go.  Oh, look at you.  You’re so cute.  You’re all mangey, though.  Oh,” you say pitifully, “you little baby.” 

You’re drunk as fuck at 2AM on a Saturday in the summer, walking home from the bar, squatting in the middle of a back road in England, petting this puppy clumsily—but he doesn’t seem to mind.  He wags his tail and nips at your fingers. 

“Where’s your Mummy?  You shouldn’t be out here all alone.  No collar… oh, goodness, what should I do with you?  I don’t want to leave you.  I’m not sure what to do.” 

He barks at you, high pitched. 

You nod at him seriously.  “Oh, yes, good point.”  He barks again.  “Mhm.  Yes, yes.  I thought so, too.  Exactly right.” 

He runs in a circle around you. 

“What are you, a month?  You should be with your Mum, you shouldn’t be all alone.  Oh, you little baby, you must be so scared.”  (He’s wagging his tail.)  “It’s so cold.”  (It’s summer.)  “Maybe you can come home with me?”  (Your husband would be so mad.) 

“Yes,” you decide.  “You’ll come home with me.”  (Your husband is going to be so mad.) 

That’s how you end up stumbling home with a puppy in your arms, rambling to him about yourself and your life. 

“Well, puppy, my name is Luxe.  I’m from here.  I live in a nice three bedroom house with my husband, I think you’ll like it very much.  Our house is only 10 more minutes away.  See that big tree there?  That means we only have 10 minutes.  I’m not great with street names, you see, so I go by landmarks.”  He barks.  “Yes, yes, you get it.” 

“Anyway.  So, I’m—stop wiggling please, Mummy’s going to drop you—I’m married to a very nice man named John.  I love him very much.  You’ll like him, too,” you tell him seriously, “he’s very likable.  I like lots of things about him, puppy.  Actually, I like everything about him.” 

“He says I can’t have a dog, though.  But maybe we can sneak you in.  What do you think, puppy?  Should we do that?  I think we should do that.  We’ll have to be very quiet, though.  Very quiet.” 

“John waits for me to get home—he’s so nice, I love him sooooo much—but we have to make sure not to wake him up.” 

And that’s how you end up trying to sneak into your own house and then trip over your shoe and fucking slam! your face on the rug. 

“Where did you find it?” John asks you. 

“On the way home from the bar, kind of my that big tree.” 

“By Notting Street?” 

You furrow your eyebrows.  “Notting St—I dunno.  Maybe?  I just know the big tree.  The one with all the branches.” 

“The one with all the branches,” he repeats.  “Right.” 

“But he was there all alone so I took him home.  I couldn’t leave him, John, he’s so little.  And he’s very cute, look at his little ears?  And his little feet?  His toes are soooo small.  His little teeth are sharp, though—like a shark.  Fuckin’ hurt, he almost bit my tit off.” 

“Yeah, I heard.” 

“You heard?  Oh.  I was trying to be quiet.  I didn’t want to wake you up.” 

He smiles at you.  “I know.” 

You smile back at him. 

“Give me the dog.” 

You frown at him.  “No.” 

“The dog, please.” 

“No.”  You hold him tighter.  “You’ll take him from me.” 

“Well,” he says, “yes.” 

You sigh.  “Be gentle.”  You hand him to John and he takes him in one hand and holds him out, frowning, as if it’s offended him. 

A puppy. 

“Can we keep him?” you ask hopefully. 

He glances at you and then back to the puppy and then back to you and then back to the puppy.  “No.” 

“Please?” 

“No.” 

“But…”  You trail off and he looks back down at you.  You’re starting to tear up. 

“Oh, love, don’t cry.” 

“He’s so little and soft and nice and he’s all mangey and he’s just a little baby and he’s all alone and…” 

“Okay, baby, we can keep him.”  (By that, he means you’ll talk about it tomorrow when you’re sober, and by ‘talk about it’, he means, ‘no.’) 

“Really?!” you gasp.  

The way your face fucking lights up makes John pause.  For a second, he almost feels like he lost his balance.

“Oh, John, really?  Oh, thank you so much!  Puppy, did you hear that?  Daddy said yes!  See, he’s very nice, just like I told you, remember?  He’s very nice and kind and he’s very handsome and I love him very much, you see, and I—“ 

“He can’t understand you.” 

“You don’t know that,” you say defensively.

“Uh huh,” he says. 

You stare up at him, standing over you as you sit on the floor.  “How are you handsome from this angle?”  You frown.  “Stupid face,” you mutter. 

“What was that?” 

“Nothing.” 

“Let’s get you up.” 

“I’m so comfortable.” 

“Hand.”  He tucks the dog under his arm and extends his other hand toward you.  He crooks his long, thick fingers at you.  “Now.” 

You look between his hand and his face, and then slip your hand into his.  He pulls you up and then, in one movements that’s He fucking yanks you up and, in one movement that’s somehow graceful, bends down and throws you over his shoulder. 

He, naturally, slaps your ass and you squeal.  “Hey!!”  You kick your feet a little (still only one heel on) and he laughs, resting his hand on your hip as he makes his way up the stairs with you on his shoulder and the dog in his hand. 

Gently, he drops you onto the bed and you fall back with an oof! and stare up at him. 

“Well,” he drawls, “aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.” 

You grin.  “I missed you.” 

“I missed you, too.”  He takes off your shoes, your clothes, and your makeup as you hold the dog, curled up, on your chest. 

“You’re so good to me, John,” you say, your eyes closed.  “I’m so lucky.  I don’t know how I got so lucky.  And, you, puppy,” you mumble, petting him slowly, “you’re so lucky, too.  You’re about to have the best Daddy in the world.  He’s so good to us.” 

“Puppy is asleep,” John says.  “And,” he adds, scooping him up in one hand, “puppy is not sleeping in the bed.” 

You just groan, too tired and drunk to argue. 

He holds the dog out in the air again, turning him around and upside down to examine him.  He yips and wriggles in his hands, but John shushes him.  “Hush now.  Your Mum is asleep.”  He shakes his head sighs.  “What am I going to do with you?” 

He takes the dog to the bathroom and puts him down on the floor and puts his hands on his hips, staring down at the dog.  His paws slip a little on the cold tile.  John reaches over to turn on the heated floor (which he got installed for you) and says to the dog, “You are so, so damn lucky I love your Mummy.” 

note: thank you for reading! this is my first time posting in years–and in a totally new fandom. thank you for your patience and your support. let me know your thoughts! merry christmas!

posted 12.26.2024. do not repost or modify any of my original words on any other platform. to masterlist.

oh shittt ITS SO GOOD IM DDAFHDHFHAHSFH

“What will you do, run after me John?”

“If I have to.”

“You don’t have legs.”

“I’ll crawl.”

“The rocks are sharp.”

“Then I’ll bleed.”

(Fan art of the amazing fic from @halcyone-of-the-sea ✨✨💫

Since I’m gonna be participating in Kinktober, I need some theme ideas for 31 days of writing! I’m gonna set up a while master masterlist for Kinktober that I will be updating throughout the month, and leave for you all to enjoy!

But…I do need ideas! So send in what you want to have added into Kinktober!

I will not do any incest, dub-con, or vile topics.

CAN ANYONE ELSE IMAGINE TF-141 AS DANCERS FOR MAGIC MIKE SHOWS???

OKAY- like, imagine Wet Dreams for Simon!! You’re one of the dancers, scheduled to do the designated dance with Simon (he asked specifically for you) and you’re out there in front of a crowd, nervous out of your mind and as the song starts he just whispers a sweet “Trust me, love.” AND ALMOST MAKES YOU CUM IN FRONT OF ALL THOSE PEOPLE - he definitely rewards you after the show for doing such a great job on stage ;)

Soap would probably do Air Seduction because he’s such a fucking TEASE! The whole time, he’s dancing around you, leaving ghost touches, stripping and sometimes even thrusting into your clothed core, BUT NEVER DOES ANYTHING TO RELIEVE YOU!!! However, near the end when you’re finally touching, TRUST that he’s gonna be feeling you up every damn chance he gets!

CANDY SHOP FOR GAZ???? Let’s get this straight, he likes all types of women (they all do!) - so when he saw you sitting in the first row, eyeing him up like a piece of candy?! (No pun intended) You bet he gets you up on the stage! When he starts dancing around you and eating that damned whipped cream, you wonder what he’d look like with your cream in his mouth- Licking the whipped cream off your body?? And kissing all over you? Thrusting in your face???? When the shows over, he leans forward to whisper in your ear “Meet me in the back. I want to taste the real treat.” GOD DAYUMMMM

JOHN PRICE IS A MAN OF CONSENT….SO YOU BET HES ASKING FOR PERMISSION!!!! He would be so respectful towards you…but of course also have his way with you! He’s gotta show you what you need- how much better he can fuck you compared to anyone else! You bet that after that show, he’s not letting anyone touch his darling again.

The only time Price would take off his boonie, is when he puts it on your head when he fucks you.

@weemansoap I bloody love the idea of the men doing all that with plus sized reader!!!

Soap would love to have you wrapped around his waist, pressing little kisses to his cheek and neck, telling he is doing such a great job at working out. “All cause’a ye. All for my big lass.”

Ghost jogging down the street with you on his back for a little extra weight makes him feel the best burn. And it’s always a plus when he can feel his partner’s chub jiggle against him as he runs.

Taking a little rest with Gaz as he squeezes your hips after finishing his first set of hip thrusts with you on top. Complaining childishly about how that was barely a workout, “C’mon love, gotta give me more than that.”

König just taking off his mask and immediately burying his head into your soft plush!? YES. He would nuzzle up to you, the scruff on his face giving you slight beard burn, but the soft kisses he leaves on your pudgy tummy makes everything better.

I’m a firm believer that 141 + König needs a person who’s a little softer around the edges. Bigger belly, bigger thighs, couldn’t care less about having a big ass or larger chest, this man loves anything he can grab.

also, reader who is always so small and petite and can barely see herself because his hoodie is too big, no. Just no. Reader who fills out his hoodie perfectly. Reader who can wear his hoodie and it looks like it was made for them. It absolutely kills him. Like, how can his beautiful looking partner be able to waltz around the house like that?

these men are fuckin huge, so he can’t spend time worrying about breaking you in half. He needs to be able to fuck you, and really fuck you. He needs a big partner.

I’m a firm believer that 141 + König needs a person who’s a little softer around the edges. Bigger belly, bigger thighs, couldn’t care less about having a big ass or larger chest, this man loves anything he can grab.

also, reader who is always so small and petite and can barely see herself because his hoodie is too big, no. Just no. Reader who fills out his hoodie perfectly. Reader who can wear his hoodie and it looks like it was made for them. It absolutely kills him. Like, how can his beautiful looking partner be able to waltz around the house like that?

these men are fuckin huge, so he can’t spend time worrying about breaking you in half. He needs to be able to fuck you, and really fuck you. He needs a big partner.

We hit 1k!! So as a thank you for all your support, I’m gonna treat you all to some writing! (I will also get through my inbox, I’ve been so busy lately I haven’t had time 😭)

Flower Shop

Pick a flower that symbolizes a prompt and choose a character to go with it

🌻- "Grump X Sunshine" 🌹- "Smut (Add an ask)" 🥀- "Unrequited Love" 🌷- "Morning After" 💐- "Pen Pals"

what’re you horny folk into? Hm? 🤨🤨

I really wanna write something for pathetic/sub CoD men, but my brain is dry asf😭😭

I’m on my knees begging you, please give me some ideas, I need to write for these whiny and needy men🙏🙏

yeah, so y’all know that scene from SIX when Joe and his wife go to the fertility clinic and he has to give a sperm sample but can’t get hard and his wife helps him?? Yea? Well imagine that, but imagine you’re getting the scan, and you’re scared of the long stick that goes in you - but lovely Price is there to make his girl nice and calm 🥰 I’m a whore for price

you and price had been planning on starting a family soon. He was wanting to retire and that meant he could relax at home with you and fill you up with his seed until you were pregnant. But to be safe, the two of you wanted to go and get checked to make sure everything was good and there wouldn’t be any problems conceiving. Price was told to go and get a sperm sample of himself, while you were told to get an ultrasound to make sure your uterus was functioning properly to hold a baby.

now, yes, you would’ve been fine doing this yourself! But holy fuck, WHEN DID THE THING GET SO LONG? You flat out refused to have that go in you (and it wasn’t helping that the doctor was being a lil bitchy towards you), you just did not feel comfortable having the scan. So there you were, sat in the private room, feeling tears burn your eyes as you felt stupid for being scared. You wiped at your tears, jumping when you heard a gentle knock on the door. “You in there, doll?” You heard your husband’s voice from the other side of the door. Wiping your tears quickly, you answered. “Yeah, I’m..I’m in ‘ere.” He opened the door and quickly closed it behind him, seeing the glossiness of your eyes. He grabbed the chair and sat beside you, grabbing your hand to calm you.

“Want to tell me why yer cryin’ love?” He asked softly, running a hand through your hair. The pink went to your cheeks when he asked, adding to the embarrassment you felt. “S’ stupid…the ultrasound thing is really long and the doctor wasn’t being very patient and- and…I got scared…” you spoke defeatedly. Your husband paused, standing up from the chair and standing between the leg propers, placing his hands on your knees. “It’s too big, yeah? Scared my poor girl.” His voice was low, the voice that always made your knees go weak and wobbly. Whimpering quietly, you nodded, “M’sorry…I don’t usually have any issues. I don’t know why-” he cut you off.

“Love, there’s no need to apologize. Y’just need to be taken cared of, hm?” His big hands slowly pushed the gown up to expose your heat to him. He slipped his hands between your legs and gently played with your clit. He circled his fingers around it, applying just the right amount of pressure to make you whine. “Shh, quiet, doll. Can’t let the doctors hear you now, can we?” He teased, pressing soft kisses to your cheeks as his fingers worked at your swollen bud. Once you were ready, he slipped in two finger. The stretch made you almost cry out, gripping onto his bicep to stabilize yourself. “J-…John….can’t…” you whined as your head fell back. He grinned and pressed his lips to yours, “S’alright, love. Cum f’me.”

his fingers pumped in and out of you, bringing you to the peak of your orgasm. He didn’t stop until you were satisfied and resting limply in the examination chair. He grabbed some tissue and wiped you up, cleaning away the evidence of what you’d done, sitting beside you in the chair again. The doctor returned about ten minutes later, sitting in her stool, asking if you were ready to try again. When you nodded, you got a reassuring squeeze on the hand from Price. When the tool was brought out again, you squeezed his hand and looked at him, he leaned closer to you, pressing kisses against your temple. “You’re doin so well, doll. Look at ye, takin it so good.” He whispered praise in your ear to make it easier as well. The examination was done quickly, leaving you to get dressed again, as you walked out, price leaned down to press a kiss to your lips. “Let’s go home now, yeah? Gotta show my good girl how well she did. See if she can take somethin’ even bigger.”