#domestic feral handyman price

[kentobabymoms]

aw yuppp

there is something so traditionally delicious about retired!price who can't put the tools down.

he carries the weight of a man who's lived twenty different lives and has finally chosen a soft one. where thick straps of muscle are layered in warm bread and butter. where hair furls in wiry curls across the brawn of his chest and his plum under eyes are replaced by sunspots and creases. where he is tender metal.

anyone who'd spent the grisly duration of a covert knew he'd earned it. he was the last to admit it, but it'd be a pointless lie to say he didn't enjoy aspects of the quiet.

but good lord, he needed a fucking project.

it's a decades old itch. couldn't put it out with cigars, or whiskey, and even rugby couldn't hold his attention for too long. he needed a tangible, ironclad cause. something to keep his mind sleeping when his body couldn't.

to his delight, you, in all your flushed cheek glory, delivered yourself to his door. his solution- under the limited contract of the "damn pipes" that gave you so much trouble.

his tinkering takes longer than it should have- the damage wasn't extensive. at first, the reason he laid on a back that cracks like firewood for so long is because it felt good to be useful. hands caked in underbelly grime, molding the pigeon feather pipes into a lasting practicality.

but then his hands held your baked muffins that you sheepishly offered in return for his help. the basement railing that was peeling off the wall like paint. the door handle that felt loose when he opened the door to leave.

suddenly, he was returning for a completely different reason.

secretly obsessing over how your floral aprons might look over a swollen belly when you fuss over the door handle of the guest bedroom.

he nods, half listening as he reimagines it as a nursery.