#john price x you

[laceyfaeryy]

MDNI 18+

little rendezvous with older! retired john price

mentions of: cheating, vaginal sex, unprotected, john is a lil manipulator if you squint

it was no surprise that john moved on so quickly after his divorce, having a pretty thing under his arm the following week. some may say it was quick, too quick, that maybe, just maybe he cheated. though he justified it by saying that his marriage was loveless anyways, coming home to a cold angry wife made him spend countless nights at the bar, until a sweet thing like you came around. you batted your eyelashes at him, a sweet smile on your lips as you traced his rough stubble. he loved the thrill with you, it made him feel young.

it started off first as a distraction, taking a swig of his beer whilst having a pretty woman talk his ear off, not that he minded. after all, it was a nice change from his constantly irritated wife. you were always dolled up, pretty lashes and a nice gloss on your plump lips that made his eyes draft down every few seconds. he found himself addicted, he wasn’t a man that fell into temptation early, but having someone that showered him with affection and stared at him like he hung the stars in the night sky, it couldn’t help it.

john prides himself as a man with good morals, though that went down the drain six months ago when he took you back to his house before the divorce was even initiated.

“’m sweetheart, you feel so good.”

john groaned as his cock fits snugly into your cunt, your warm walls clenching around him as the bed creaked with each movement. usually, the two of you had your secrecy rendezvous in the shabby motel across the bar, though this time with his wife away for a work trip you were on his bed. guilt gnawed at the back of his head, his wife was blissfully unaware that her husband, her john was currently making love to another woman. your moans were muffled by his large hand, “quiet sweetheart, don’t wanna get caught do you?” it was a lie of course, though you believed every word he said when he told you that his wife was coming home any second just for the thrill. and here you were, so obedient, so quiet. it was a sick sick fantasy that john had, almost role playing as if he wanted to get caught.

“feel good?” you gasped when his hand finally moved, taking a big breath of air as you hiccuped slightly, your eyes slightly dazed as you stared at him. his cock swelled hearing your voice, so sweet, almost insecure and desperate for validation. “of course darlin’, you feel so fucking good,” he groaned as his cock abused your soppy hole, your arms wrapped around his neck pulling him in as he kissed your shoulder, your ankles digging into his lower back.

he knew it was wrong, god the thought of divorce was on his mind but he hasn’t even initiated it, meaning he was still, as of now a married man.

though he didn’t care, not when he found himself cooking breakfast for you that morning, something he never did to his wife. the slow mornings filled with lazy morning sex and cuddled before making you breakfast in bed greatly contrasted to the cold and silent mornings with his wife.

he filed for divorce the following week.

now, he proudly showed you off, his arm wrapped protectively around your waist despite the glares and whispers about his alleged infidelity. though he didn’t care, not when he had you by his side with his cum dripping down your inner thighs from your recent quickie.

[beloveds-embrace]

cw: bittersweet(?)

(a different take on the fae poly 141 x human reader au)

The throne was bathed in blood long before the flowers bloomed again.

John Price, once a Prince and now King of the Fae, had carved his crown from the heart of a curse- his mother’s heart, torn still-beating from her chest when she dared to threaten what he loved most. You.

The kingdom still whispered of that day beneath the great moon of ash and fire, when the late Queen shrieked her final decree into the world, a last act of vengeance and hatred. Her voice, furious and cruel, broke the sky itself with the bitterness of her spell:

"As long as you love her, she will wither."

And so you began to fade.

Not all at once. No- she would not grant you such mercy. This curse was crueler than death; it stole you slowly, like moss creeping up an old stone wall and time smudging the edges of a painting.

Now, the kingdom thrives. Blossoms fat with dew crown the high branches of the frostwillow trees, whose trunks shimmer like glass. Rivers run clear and sweet as honeyed wine, singing through emerald meadows. Human and fae laugh together in the sun-dappled courtyards, their wars forgotten, their wounds scarred over in gold.

All for you, you, you.

John made peace because you once dreamed of it- when your eyes still shimmered with dreams and not distant fog. He razed cities of dissent in your name and made widows and widowers of those who muttered against you. Laid their bones beneath the roots of your favorite garden, where the jasmine still grows white and wild.

But your smiles are rarer now.

You wander the palace like a half-formed spirit, your fingers trailing the walls as if they alone remember who you used to be. Servants bow and the tapestries shift for you. The flowers bend to greet you and the patient trees hum lullabies when your steps falter. And still, still you drift.

Today, the sky is ocean-blue and split with clouds like splashes of faint. You sit on a velvet bench beneath the shade of a weeping crystalvine. Its translucent leaves chime softly in the breeze, a lullaby only the Fae would understand yet even you find comfort in.

You don’t notice Johnny at first, warborn and thunder-hearted, his smile always one heartbeat away from laughter. He kneels beside you now, not as a knight or an advisor, but a friend.

“Hey, lass,” he says gently, brushing a leaf from your hair. “You wandered off again, aye? Thought I’d find ye here.”

You blink at him. It takes a moment longer than it should to recognize his face, his voice, the weight of his warmth. But then, you slowly nod.

“I like the sound the vines make,” you murmur. “Like bells. Like... snowflakes made of music.”

Johnnh smiles, though it’s not the playful one he gives to others. This one is softer- dimmed by grief.

“I ken. We planted them for you, remember? You said they reminded you of home.”

Home. You frowt; that word feels distant and slippery.

Behind him, the wind shifts. Simon, death-masked and silent- watches from the path, his shadow cast long over the garden’s edge. He says nothing, but you can feel his eyes on you. Not judgment, but mourning. A man who has watched too many fade.

From the east arch, Kyle approaches with a tray of your favorite tea. He brews it himself now, every morning. Infused with memory moss and dreampearl petals- ingredients forbidden to most but allowed for you, in the desperate hope they’ll keep you anchored.

He kneels to pour a cup, the steam curling with soft light. “You didn’t eat breakfast again,” he says, gentle but firm. “You have to try, love. Just a sip.”

You take it; You always do, because you want to be good for them. For him.

Because somewhere in this palace of carved moonstone and singing glass, your husband sits on a throne built from vengeance and devotion. John, crowned in starlight and soaked in blood, ruling not for power but for love.

You remember his voice best. When everything else fades, his voice cuts through the fog. When your compass no longer works, he is your North Star.

You can’t always recall the words, especially lately, but you remember how it felt. Like summer heat after a storm. Like hands pulling you up from drowning in the cold, icy depths.

He visits you each night without fail. Wraps you in silks and warmth and whispers of your old jokes. Sometimes you laugh, sometimes you don’t.

And every night, when you sleep, he holds you close, whispering ancient incantations, searching, begging- through spellbooks, through time, through fae and forbidden gods- for a way to break the curse.

You don’t know how long you’ve lived. Time has lost its shape. The stars shift differently here and the moons are always full.

But you know he still loves you, and you know that’s what’s killing you.

The crystalvines chime again as a breeze stirs the garden. They remain beside you- your ever-loyal wardens, your quiet protectors. Not jailers, never that, becayse they are the hands that catch you when you fall.

Somewhere, a throne pulses with magic, and a man who once killed his mother for you breathes your name like a prayer.

Would you want to be saved, if it meant he stopped loving you? You think- maybe, once, you would have said yes. Now… you don’t remember.

The garden hums with twilight, long after they leave you in the company of Thrain. Fireflies drift like fragments of fallen stars, weaving through the nightsky. The palace breathes around you, alive and watchful, its towers coiling like silver thorns into the indigo sky. Somewhere, music has started filtering from the halls- faint, wistful, played by an orchestra of wind spirits and fae-wood strings.

But here, now, in this secluded alcove, there is only him.

John.

He kneels before you like a knight before a goddess, though he wears a crown of blood-forged gold and starlight in his hair and beard. His hands cradle yours- calloused, warm, grounding. You feel small beneath his touch, like a flickering thing. A candle fighting wind, cupped between his palms.

“My heart,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. “Where did you go today?”

You blink slowly. Look at him through a haze that feels too heavy to speak through. The words are in you, but tangled. Frayed at the edges. You reach up instead, trembling fingers pressing against the curve of his cheek, and he leans into your touch like flowers bend for the sun, like the ocean waves reaching for the moon.

“You’re... still here.” You whisper, hushed and awed, and watch as his eyes close. A long, silent breath leaves him.

“Always.”

Your hand slips. He catches it, presses it to his lips like an oath. You smell the iron of magic on him- old, desperate, clinging to his skin. He has burned through centuries of fae history searching for an answer, and still he searches. Still he hopes.

You see the exhaustion in his face, etched into the lines of his mouth, hidden beneath the stern strength he shows the court. But here, with you, he allows the weight to show.

“I’d stop,” He says hoarsely, the way he does every night. “If I thought it would save you. I’d tear the love from my chest with my own hands. I’d become something cold. Something empty.”

“No.” You breathe, because even now, in the haze, you know that truth. You would not survive a world in which he stopped loving you.

He gathers you into his arms, pulling you into his lap as if you were made of mist. You fold against his chest, your ear close to the the beating of his heart. Familiar and steady and so, so comforting.

“Then we’ll find another way,” John says. Promises, like every night under the solemn moon’s witnessing. “Even if it takes a thousand more years. Even if I have to barter with stars and slit the throats of gods. I will not lose you, love.”

You close your eyes.

For a moment- just one brief, aching flicker- you remember: John’s laugh on your wedding day and way he looked at you when you first said his name, the quiet sound he made the first time you cried in his arms.

For now, for tonight, you are aware enough to hold him back just as tight, wrapped in magic and moonlight and love so deep it defies the curse.

Tomorrow, the fog will return. Tonight, you close your eyes and hold your hands over your ears, and let yourself be loved.

p2

[dawnofvenus]

john "blowjobs in the car" price, because he can't keep his hands off you and he's too damn big to give you a proper fuck on wheels. john who pulls your hair back and sighs while you arch forward over the center console, ribs uncomfortably pressing into the bones of the dark leather compartment.

he rubs your front later, kisses up your stomach and apologizes. but if he was truly sorry, he wouldn't be trying at your neck in public just a few days later while his palms dig into your rear.

[luvbabydoll]

What would the 141 boys be like if their girl was drunk and got very flirty/handsy with them?

john price

he’d chuckle low under his breath the first time you slid your hands up his chest, eyes flicking down to you with that half-smile of his.

“easy, love,” he’d murmur, one hand catching your wrist, the other steadying your waist. “didn’t know a few drinks’d turn you into such a flirt.”

you’re leaning in close, whispering something ridiculous in his ear, and he shakes his head, amused but trying to keep you grounded.

“come on then, let’s get you home before you decide to start undressing me in front of the lads.”

he wouldn’t push you away—he likes the attention, really—but he’d tuck you under his arm and guide you somewhere quieter, protectively. his palm would settle warm on your lower back, his tone gentle and low.

“you’re gonna regret sayin’ that tomorrow, sweetheart.”

simon “ghost” riley

simon would freeze when your fingers slide under the hem of his shirt. his shoulders tense. eyes widen just slightly behind the mask.

“what the hell’re you doin’, love?”

your voice is slurred and teasing, and you’re pouting when he tries to step back, so he sighs and lets you cling to him a bit more.

he’s not annoyed—more like confused and trying really hard not to enjoy the way you’re pressed up against him.

“you’re drunk,” he mutters, jaw clenching. “and too bloody handsy for your own good.”

but then you whisper something dirty against the fabric over his neck and he chokes. literally coughs and backs away, cheeks flushed.

“fuckin’ hell. alright. we’re leavin’. now.”

he’d throw his jacket over your shoulders and pick you up if he has to. no chance he’s lettin’ the others hear the filth coming out of your mouth when you’re this tipsy.

johnny “soap” mactavish

oh, he loves it. the second you start getting handsy, giggling and trailing your fingers over his tattoos, he’s beaming.

“whoa there, bonnie,” he laughs, arms wrapping around you without hesitation. “didn’t know ye turned into such a lil’ menace with a drink in ya.”

he lets you touch him, playfully catching your wrists when you get bold, holding them up between you with a wolfish grin.

“behave,” he says, even though he’s definitely not discouraging you.

but he knows you’re drunk, so he won’t let it go too far. he’s still protective—just the type who lets you get it out of your system while teasing you to hell and back.

“you keep talkin’ like that and i’ll have t’ remind you in the mornin’ exactly what you said—word for word.”

phillip graves

graves is leaned back in his chair, drink in hand, boots up on the edge of the fire pit when you stumble over to him with that tipsy grin and all that sweet mischief in your eyes.

“darlin’, you’ve been starin’ at me like i’m dessert all night,” he drawls, lips quirking as you plop yourself right into his lap like you’ve got no shame left in that pretty little body.

you’re giggling, nails dragging lightly over his chest, your words sticky-sweet and slurred.

“you’re so big, phil… jesus, what do they feed you in texas?”

he damn near chokes on his bourbon.

his hand finds your hip, firm but not rough, grounding you as he leans in close with a smirk, voice low and honeyed.

“sugar, you keep talkin’ like that and i’m gonna forget you’re drunk.”

he lets you run your hands over him, lets you press your mouth just shy of his neck, but he ain’t about to take advantage. not his girl.

he’ll shift you so you’re sitting more sideways on his thigh, wrapping an arm around your waist like a seatbelt, fingers tapping against your leg to distract you from grabbing at his belt again.

“alright now, calm down, sweetheart. you’re handsy as hell and we got an audience.”

if anyone dares make a comment, he gives them a look that shuts them up fast. then he’s tilting your chin up, all fondness and southern charm:

“you wanna act like a lil’ tease, baby, that’s fine. just know payback’s a bitch come mornin’. and i got a good memory.”

[connorsui]

Dad! Price + pregnant! reader

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.

He was going to turn out just fine.

[spurbleu]

for your plane reqs….id just love the dirtiest age gap/daddy kink shit. just like old man bf john or soap

oh anon you have come to the right gal. cw infidelity

i wrote about something similar on this post, but i deeply believe in a handyman retired price reality. his wooly hands are built for termite wood and rust, so when he holds a soft thing like you, the callouses catch on your dress before he takes it off.

specifically and technically, you’re off limits. sweet newlywed he’s working for, with an ungrateful husband who’s already forgotten the luck of his marriage after the first down payment on the house.

that’s okay though, old man john knows how to treat a woman. his wisdom corners you in the kitchen over tea, where you entertain conversation with him because he’s working on your kitchen. and then he makes you laugh. really laugh, the ugly kind that tickles your insides and heats your neck.

his crows feet and smile creases make you flush, and when you hold your husbands face you start looking for that same sign of aged petrichor and expensive wine in him.

never comes.

you blink, and suddenly John’s got his big, working hand clamped over your mouth in the coat closet, fucking you from behind as you grip the sides of the door. he grunts, whispering as he ruins your soaked cunt,

“knew a pretty doll like you needed a real man in your womb, hm? the daft boy,” he groans when you cum for a third time, cunt squeezing his cock, “was a couple years too young. this is what a decade gets you, darlin.”

comes deep inside you, and the dirtier part of you hope it takes.

[pricesprincess]

john price who knows your pregnant before you when he's groped your breasts and the last few times you've whined they were sensitive while slapping his hand away when he reaches for your nipple.

you also started asking, no scratch that. you've been begging your husband for odd snack combinations at three in the morning.

this is a man who has faced death more times than he could count, but john has never quite feared for his life when he told you the store was out of your favorite flavor of cake.

he's never seen you so riled up over something so trivial like this and judging from the unopened box of menstrual products you didn't get your cycle so that meant one thing. you're pregnant.

[dumbbitchgalore]

Old Man!Price and his jealousy 💚

When John Price sees you grinning at your phone, he remains silent.

He merely observes.

Jaw clenched so tightly that you could see the muscle flex. Arms folded across his chest, and his shoulder braced against the doorway. Sharp, dark, and unblinking, his eyes are fixed on you as if he's looking directly at you. As if you were on a mission.

The air changes.

Thick and stifling tension settles down into the room, coiling its four corners. It's the seething type, not the shouting kind. Quiet, dangerous, and in control. That look is familiar to you. It has been observed in pre-raid briefing rooms. Prior to a killshot, in the field.

Just before a bomb goes off.

It isn't until your back hits the bed that you realise how quickly he has moved.

John throws you down like a doll, harsh but not reckless, knocking the air from your lungs in an instant. Heat, bulk, and shadow are all hovering above you. With barely controlled power, John’s fingers catch your panties, dragging them down your thighs, falling to the ground long forgotten in a mere seconds. 

With a low, raspy voice filled with a mixture of authority and need, John growls, "Legs up."

You follow orders mindlessly. Every nerve on fire, heart racing, knees apart. With a harsh hiss of leather, he drags his belt free and throws it aside as he steps between your thighs.

Lining himself up, John’s blunt cock head is slippery as it snags on your wet entrance, and murmurs, "Smile at him like that again. See what happens."

With a voice like smoke and gravel, he growls, "You think he could fuck you like this?" as he clenches his thick, hot cock and drags the head through your slippery folds. He's already hard, angry, hard, as if he's been suppressing his emotions ever since he saw that message appear on your computer. "A soft little prick in his twenties?"

When John repeats his bullying of your swollen clit, your body twitches and begins to writhe. His hand, powerful but not brutal, clamps down on your jaw as you attempt to speak.

"No." He narrows his gaze. "You only talk when I tell you to."

Then, in one forceful push, John’s cock buries himself in your weeping cunt 

John’s hands hold your hips so tightly that you will feel him there the next day as he hisses, "Christ, this tight little cunt… Do you believe he could manage this? Do you believe that he could fuck you through the mattress the way I do?”

At first, he fucks you deeply, slowly, and purposefully, as if he wants to appreciate the destruction. Then your hips start to buck. You scream. And he snaps in some way.

As John fucks into you more forcefully, grunting with each thrust, he leans over you and pins you to the mattress with one palm pressed down between your shoulder blades.

The room is filled with obscene, wet noises. Your body pounding into the covers, your breath catching on every stroke, your excitement coating his cock.

With perspiration streaming down his brow, he growls, "Tell me whose cunt this is." Rough fingers circle your clit as his hand slides between your thighs. 

John tuts, "Now, kid." 

“Y-yours, John! fuck, it’s yours!”

"That's right," he growls, fucking you more forcefully as the rhythm is harsh and unrelenting. "Mine. I will ensure that it remains mine. will penetrate you so deeply that you will still feel it tomorrow.

As your orgasm erupts in waves, you collapse first, your knees shaking, your mouth loose, your nails tearing at the covers. Your body clenches around him like a vice as it rips a sound from your throat that you were unaware you could produce.

As he follows, Price lets out a loud, guttural groan and slams in progressively deeper until he is flush to the hilt, his cock pulsating as he flows into you.

Hot. heavy. Never-ending.

Even after it's over, he remains there, breathing raggedly against your skin with his cock still twitching inside you as if he wants to fuck it in even more.

He raises his head at last, but his voice is gruff and low in your ear.

"I own you. Never again should you cause me to doubt that, birdie.”

You nod, stunned and crying because you needed it so much and it felt so amazing.

"I'm yours," you murmur, sleep weighing down your eyes. 

"Only ever yours."

[ceilidho]

prompt: you and Price get in an accident (1.6k)

-

He comes into your life like nothing less than divine intervention.

A fender bender, of all things. It’s a bad day and you’re distracted, too busy thinking about your dad calling to tell you that he lost ten thousand from his retirement fund when the stock he’d invested in crashed and how you’re supposed to help him out of this mess, and the roads are slick with that last snowfall of early spring, still unsalted even hours after the snow started. 

So when you slam on the brakes at the last second after noticing the car in front of you stopped at a red light, your car slips on the ice and slides forward, hitting the back of the stopped car and sending it forward a foot. It’s quick and sudden, and though you stepped on the brakes early enough to avoid a worse collision, your head snaps forward with the jolt and the seatbelt yanks you back violently, winding you. 

Your hands go tight around the wheel, eyes so wide that they nearly pop out of your head as you stare at the car directly in front of you. All of the dread in the world pools in your mouth and then down your throat when you swallow, heart galloping in your chest. You almost can’t believe it for a second.

Then the car in front of you—a big, fuck-you SUV that only worsens your anxiety because of all cars to hit, it had to be someone with a fancy, brand new car that probably has a lawyer on speed dial—puts their hazards on and the driver’s side doors opens and reality snaps like a rubberband back into you. With shaky hands, you put your car into park and put your hazards on as well. 

“Oh shit,” you whisper under your breath. An understatement.

A tall man in a brown parka steps out of the car and stares at you through the windshield, a stern expression on his face. He has a beanie pulled down over his head and a full beard, and for a second, the mental image of a bear emerging out of its den flickers in your imagination, all snow-dusted and irritable. 

He’s grizzled and older than you. The only consolation is that he doesn’t match the image of the driver that you had in your head—no seven thousand dollar suit or bluetooth earpiece; instead, he seems like the kind of man who’d drive an old pickup or a schooner, wearing an Aran sweater and a skipper's cap, with a pipe hanging from the corner of his mouth. He seems out of place in the middle of the road in your small town. 

But he is real, and even though you watch him march over to you, you flinch when he raps on the window with his knuckles. 

“Roll the window down,” he instructs, voice muffled through the glass, and you do because the command cuts through the buzzing in your ear. When you do, he reaches into your car with one hand and pops the lock, then takes a step back to open the door. You’d freak out if the situation were different, but you must be in shock because all you can do is stare at him dumbly as he leans into the car and undoes your seatbelt. “C’mon, sweetheart. Out.”

It doesn’t take much coaxing to get you to step out of the car. All he has to do is step back and you get out, knees nearly buckling, like jelly under you. He holds your elbow to steady you. Your elbow feels delicate and tiny in the width of his palm. 

“You alright, sweetheart?” he asks, looking all over your face.

You want to answer him, but all you can do is whimper, “I’m so sorry.”

“Hey, none of that. It was an accident. You alright though? Anything hurt?”

“Uh…I don’t…I don’t know.” It hasn’t really sunk in yet, you think. Maybe tomorrow you’ll be sore all over, but right now you feel fine. On the verge of shaking out of your skin, teeth nearly clattering together, but more or less okay. 

“Nothing too bad then. Wanna give me your insurance so we can deal with this, sweetheart?” 

“Oh. Yeah. Sorry. Let me just—” You move to reach back into your car to fetch your purse, but he stops you, insisting on getting it for you. 

And you let him, docile like a doll, watching as he leans into your car and across the seats to grab your purse, big frame looking comically large in your little car. Looking like he’d barely fit in the front seat if he tried to get in. 

He comes back out with your little purse in hand and opens it, handing you your wallet and purse by its strap. Your fingers are still shaking when you pull out your insurance information and hand it to him. Everything feels surreal and muted, and the tears are going to flow at any minute now if you don’t get a handle on it. 

He must notice because a knuckle fits under your chin and lifts your head up. “Hey, what’s wrong? 

“No, no,” you say, reaching up to swipe your fingers over your eyes. “I’m just—I’m really embarrassed. I’ve never been in an accident before.”

“Nothing to be embarrassed about.” His voice is much softer now, pitched low in the way handlers talk to spooked animals. He puts his thumb to your chin, holding you in place. “No one got hurt. Could’ve been worse than it was, and we’ve both got insurance, so what’s done is done. I don’t look mad, do I?”

Trapped between his thumb and knuckle, you can only give a slight shake of your head. “No.” 

“Then let’s just take it one step at a time and no tears. Okay?”

You sniff. “Okay.”

“Okay. I’m going to call the insurance, so you get back in the car and sit tight, alright?” 

You nod. 

“Good girl,” he says, a hint of praise in his voice. “Put the heat on too. It’s too cold for that jacket.”

That makes you go warm all over, flustered and tongue-tied. Thankfully, he doesn’t seem to expect a response out of you. The only thing he expects you to do is get back in the car and turn the heat back on, the warm air billowing into your face when he leans in to crank it up all the way. 

Though most of the sound is muffled from inside the car, you turn down the heat and crack the window open slightly to hear him give his name to his insurance company. John Price. Even his name evokes the image of him somewhere else in the world, settled into the nooks and crannies of history. 

John handles everything for you while you sit in the car like he told you to, settling everything with the insurance companies and calling for a tow truck right after that. You don’t realize that, of course, until the tow truck pulls up in front of his car and he comes back to usher you out of your car. 

“How am I supposed to get home?” you croak. The tow truck driver hitches your car to the bed of the lift and pulls it up, your little car looking pathetic all alone up there. 

“I’ll drive you home then bring mine in later.”

“Why can’t I drive my car to the garage too?” You’re petulant now that you’ve learned that he won’t bite, and you know it’s petulance because you don’t actually put up much of a fight to get your car taken off the tow truck. 

That petulance trembles when his expression grows stern again. “You’re getting it checked by a mechanic before you get behind the wheel again,” he tells you in no uncertain terms, eyes daring you to contradict him.

You don’t. It’s hard to argue with someone so adamant on your wellbeing. A mechanic in later days will tell John, with you by his side, that your car was mostly fine apart from some slight damage to the bumper, but that you made the right call to bring it in just in case the frame cracked during the accident.

John’s arm will be around your waist at the time and he’ll pull you tighter into his side when the mechanic says that. And what do you do but go with it, curling into his side like it’s natural. You’ll have already fucked him by then anyway. It’ll be no less forward than letting him take you for coffee and then back home, following you up to your apartment and into your bed. 

Now though, you let him usher you into the passenger seat of his car and shut the door behind you, the wind cutting off abruptly. It only comes back when the door opens on his side. 

You rattle off your address and watch bemusedly as he programs it into his GPS and hits save. You don’t have the temerity to question him, to poke a hole in the bubble of familiarity ballooning around the two of you. The real world seems far away in his car, like you’re in limbo, the rules different here somehow. 

“How about a coffee?” he asks at the next light, putting his hand on your thigh and shaking when you don’t respond right away. “Does a hot drink sound good right about now?”

“I guess?” you say. In truth, it sounds great, but you’re losing the thread of this conversation, your old preoccupations getting further and further away from you. 

John gives your thigh a squeeze, lingering for a beat before pulling away. “Good. It’ll be a nice little pick me up before we go home. My treat.”

All you can do is nod, your throat dry.

[sigh-tofm]

“come to bed, love.”

“john…”

“come.” he pulls the duvet away, making room for you. your space, with him at your back. of course you come.

“there you go. isn’t that better?” he asks and kisses the top of your head once you settle next to him. you make a noncommittal sound, but shut your eyes tightly and pinch your lips together to keep yourself from crying. you never did that in the beginning, but the last two or three years the tears come sneaking when you least expect it, at the most inopportune times in the days before he leaves. he’s stopped asking about them because the answer is always the same.

“it’ll be alright, darling.”

“you’re leaving me,” you choke out, and you’re not quite sure what time perspective you’re talking about. whether it’s for the next month, if everything goes as planned, or for good, if everything goes to hell.

the room is dark and your back is pressed to his front, but he knows your shapes and sounds so well that he doesn’t need to see your face to gage your state of mind. his big hand smoothes over the side of your face, the other one holding you tightly against him.

“you have me all night,” he mutters into your hair. “i’ll hold you for as long as l can.”

you don’t hold back your tears anymore, and until the early gray morning comes and laswell sends him a text affirming time of pickup from base, john doesn’t stop holding you. when he leaves he pauses to watch your sleeping form from the doorway to the bedroom. you’re all bundled up under the covers and wearing his shirt. desk duty never looked so good.

[fandom-random-help]

Price tried.

I could see him trying to drop something off to you at work, but your coworkers harrass him.

Like, he could be dropping off your work badge and your coworkers ask how he knows you. When Price says he's your boyfriend he immediately hears the loudest cackles echo through the hallway. When he eventually finds you he hands you your badge and gives the longest kiss you've ever gotten from him.

Or the one time he brought you lunch and a coworker asks who invited the eye candy. The amount of unwanted flirting and lewd comments aimed towards him was astounding.

So imagine Price lets the rest of the 141 tag along with him to drop off a bunch of food you made for a workplace potluck. You swore every man had the deepest shade of red painted across their faces by the end of the interaction...even Ghost.

[dawnofvenus]

king!price who hates how his little wife is constantly losing herself to the lush forests on the outskirts of his kingdoms walls

always preaching that you should be more cautious; sighing into your neck when you return at dusk when you left at dawn. it's always nerve wracking, his instincts to protect his precious dove flaring every time he watched you ride out the front gates. it was beyond difficult, repeatedly watching you go when the world has proven to be so unsafe.

but he's seen how mouthy you get whenever you don't get your freedom. the bitterness of your tone whenever you're kept inside because of one thing or another was something he definitely preferred to not deal with.

so he watches you leave nearly every day. flowing dress fluttering behind you, cloak flying even higher than the silk of your skirt. he's learned to trust your judgement, but he still strips you bare every night to assure the safety in your rides; checking for bruises or cuts.

'didn't matter anyways. the only marks that decorated your skin cluttered around the bones of your hips, which were born of his bear-ish grip while he fucks you silly. you shouldn't expect any less, given your absence throughout most of the week. it's a good reminder, forcing you to remember who you belong to. your his queen, you're lucky he loves you so much so he allows you to even leave castle grounds — let alone the kingdom itself.

[luvbabydoll]

5. Housewife Reader Has a Secret Side Hustle

Maybe an OnlyFans, baking blog, or online store.

Reader is lowkey rich and her soldier husband has no clue.

Ghost/SOAP/Price finds out when one of the younger recruits is like, “Hey, sir, isn’t this your wife?” holds up iPad

Cue chaos.

[daisies-daydreams]

Dad!John Price Headcanons

Just thinking about how great John Price would be as a dad…

Dad!Price rushing to the hospital right after the 141 touched back down into London. The man is on a new mission: to be there for his family.

Dad!Price nearly choking up as he holds his newborn baby in his arms. Their blue eyes sparkling just like his as tears roll down his cheeks.

Dad!Price making sure to be extra careful on his drive back home. He’s always checking on you while also gazing at your sleepy baby in the rear view mirror, his heart feeling more full every time he looks back.

Dad!Price who gets up in the middle of the night when your newborn starts to cry. Reassuring you to get some rest while he tends to your baby.

Dad!Price who can’t get enough pictures of your baby. Whether they’re fast asleep during nap time or trying a new food, Price wants to capture each and every moment.

Dad!Price trying to be the stern Captain when he’s on duty, but when he’s home, that facade quickly slips away. He speaks so softly and gently whenever he’s around your baby, smiling when they coo and gurgle and laughing at their silly expressions.

Dad!Price who enjoys reading stories to your little one, just like his mum used to. His soft voice gently lulling your baby to sleep, his warm smile reflecting only a fraction of the joy he feels.

���♥༻

Thank you for reading!

Taglist: @lavenderbabu @famouscattale @spktrgantenk @zombieblogx @mrswhitethornbelikov @migueloharastruelove @theloneshadow24 @xxkay15xx @inspace1 @manlikemilesmyguy @ghostslynx @oharasfilipinawife @acotarobbsessed @rattybimbo @veras-fanfic-reblogs @galaxy-dusk @synamonthy @scaleniusrm @8xbygirl @catchmeupimgettingoutofhere @lyrasdrawer @mcmiracles

Want to be a part of my taglist? Comment down below!

[midnight-shadow-cafe]

may i request john price with pregnant reader 🥺

A Kettle on the Stove and a Hand on Your Belly

Pairing: John Price x Pregnant!Reader

Warnings: extreme fluff, soft domestic scenes, implied marriage, pregnancy themes, emotional vulnerability, baby shopping, nursery decorating, Price being the softest husband

Author’s Note: This one is for the soft hearts who love the idea of tough military men melting over the idea of fatherhood. John Price is absolutely that man.

Summary: John Price spends his mornings whispering to your bump, decorating the nursery with you, and spoiling both you and your unborn child with love. It’s domestic bliss, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Masterlist

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

The sound of the kettle whistling was the only thing breaking the stillness of the early morning. Outside, the sky was a soft gray, the clouds heavy with the promise of rain, and the house was warm with the scent of tea and something faintly sweet—maybe the last batch of muffins you’d baked late last night when your pregnancy cravings hit full force.

John stood by the stove, hair still slightly tousled, wearing just a pair of joggers and one of his threadbare t-shirts that clung to the muscles of his back. He was moving slowly, quietly, like the world didn’t need to rush anymore.

You were slow to wake these days—pregnancy had a way of draining your energy even before your day began—but when you noticed the absence beside you in bed, you’d followed the whistle of the kettle straight to the kitchen.

He heard your footsteps and turned with a soft smile, eyes dropping instantly to the sight of his hoodie stretched over your body, resting above the gentle curve of your belly.

“Mornin’, love,” he said, voice thick and low with sleep. He crossed the room to you in three long strides and cupped your face, pressing a kiss to your temple before letting his hand drift down to your belly. “How’s my girl?” he added—whether he meant you or the baby, you weren’t quite sure, but it made your chest warm either way.

“You didn’t wake me,” you mumbled, leaning into his touch.

“You looked peaceful,” he said. “Didn’t want to disturb you. And… I like seeing you like this. In my clothes. Barefoot in the kitchen. It’s… bloody perfect.”

You rolled your eyes with a smile, but your heart fluttered at his words. He pulled out a chair for you like the gentleman he always was and guided you into it with a steady hand on your back. Once you were settled, he placed a steaming mug of tea in front of you—your favorite blend, made just the way you liked it.

John crouched in front of you then, his big hand gently resting on your belly, thumb stroking circles over the fabric. The baby shifted, a small kick tapping against his palm, and he let out a quiet chuckle.

“Oi, none of that,” he murmured to your bump, lips brushing against your stomach. “Be nice to Mum this morning, yeah? She needs her tea and at least one hour without you trying to stretch out like a starfish.”

You carded your fingers through his hair, soft and messy, and your throat caught as you whispered, “You’re going to be such a good dad.”

He looked up at you, blue eyes warm and tired and full of something you couldn’t name—something deeper than love. Reverence, maybe.

“Only because I’ve got the best mum sitting right here,” he said.

There was a moment—just a moment—where everything paused. The weight of it all settled in your chest: the quiet mornings like this, the way he spoke to your belly like it was already a person he loved, the safety in his presence.

John leaned forward, resting his forehead gently against your bump, and you saw the way his eyes slipped closed, like he was praying, or maybe just soaking in the peace of it all. “I still can’t believe we’re doing this,” he said quietly.

“Me neither,” you whispered. “But… I wouldn’t want to do it with anyone else.”

He stayed like that for a long while, his hand resting on your belly, the other tangled with yours on the table. And when the first raindrops tapped against the windowpane, you both simply stayed there—two people waiting on a new life, already in love with it before it even arrived.

——

The Next Day

The morning began the way most of them did lately: quiet, slow, warm. The rain outside was a whisper against the windows, and John’s hands were steady where they rested on your belly. The soft hum of the kettle sounded in the background, and you leaned into the comfort of his touch.

He was crouched in front of you, lips brushing your bump, whispering things only the baby could hear.

“I don’t know if you’ll have my eyes or your mum’s,” he murmured, thumb rubbing in slow circles over the fabric of his hoodie you were wearing. “But you’re gonna be beautiful. And clever. Maybe a bit bossy, if your mum’s anything to go by.”

You swatted him lightly, laughing, and his eyes flicked up to you—those warm, sea-blue eyes overflowing with love. He reached up to cradle your face before pressing a kiss to your lips, slow and lingering.

“You didn’t wake me,” you mumbled, still sleepy.

“You looked peaceful,” he said. “Didn’t want to disturb you. Besides, I like seeing you like this. In my hoodie, in our kitchen… belly full of our future.”

You felt your eyes prick with emotion. How did he always know the exact right thing to say?

---

A Week Later – The Baby Store

You weren’t planning on buying anything that day. You just wanted to browse. But the moment you stepped into the baby store, all bets were off.

“I feel like we’re being hunted by pastel colors,” you whispered.

John laughed, pushing a cart now half-filled with onesies, tiny socks, and a baby monitor you “absolutely needed” because he insisted on the best.

He picked up a navy onesie that read “Captain’s First Mate.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“Too on the nose?” he asked, grinning.

“No. It's perfect.”

You stood there in the middle of the store, cradling the onesie between your palms, imagining your baby in it. John slipped an arm around your shoulders and pressed a kiss to your temple.

“We’re really doing this,” you whispered.

“We are,” he said. “And I’ve never been more ready.”

——

Later – The Nursery

The crib was half-built. John sat cross-legged on the nursery floor, frowning at a piece of the frame like it had personally insulted him. You were sitting on the glider, sipping juice, watching him like you always did—full of admiration, pride, and a little bit of amusement.

“You sure you don’t want the manual?” you teased.

“Love, I’ve led black ops missions across enemy lines. I think I can handle a crib.”

You tossed him a plush bear. “You also spent ten minutes trying to screw the leg into the wrong side.”

He smirked but said nothing, returning to the crib with newfound determination. When he finally finished it, he stepped back, arms crossed, chest rising with satisfaction.

The room was slowly coming together. Muted tones, soft blankets, the faint scent of baby-safe detergent. On the wall above the crib was a handmade sign John had surprised you with:

“Welcome Home, Little One.”

You walked over and leaned against him, arms circling his waist. His chin dropped to your shoulder.

“You’ve made this a home,” he whispered. “Before you, it was just four walls and a bed.”

You turned in his arms, sliding your hands over his chest. “Now it’s where our life begins.”

---

That Night – In Bed

You were curled into John’s side, one of his hands splayed across your belly like he was guarding both you and the baby in his sleep.

Then the baby kicked.

His eyes snapped open, breath catching.

“There it is again,” he said softly, palm warm against your skin. “She’s getting stronger.”

“She likes your voice,” you whispered. “Always responds to you.”

“She, huh?” he teased. “You picking favorites already?”

“She’s got your whole heart and she’s not even here yet. Of course she’s my favorite.”

He kissed your forehead. “You’ve both got mine.”

You laid in silence after that, your bodies tangled under the blankets, your hearts so full it felt like you could float away. You could feel it in the air, in every kiss and whispered promise between you:

You were loved. Fully. Fiercely. Completely.

And in a few short weeks, your little one would be, too.

Hope you enjoyed! Please consider liking and reposting! -Midnight💜

[imaginedreamwrite]

For tomorrow’s Wife Wednesday theme can I get ex-spouses -to- lovers fluff. I always think about Price whenever I see this trope, but you can pick anyone. Just fluff, a man quietly (or loudly) earning a second chance to be in the life of a woman he was and always will be crazy about.

He still kept your picture in a drawer in his desk, maybe it was torn at the corners and there were some whiskey spots staining the image but it was you. And that picture spoke more volumes about the inner workings of his heart that his tongue would ever allow.

His ex-wife, divorced after John spent too many hours away. He made you worry too much for too long, kept you wondering if he would return home breathing or in a box. It wasn’t fair to you, and he could never give you as much time or devotion as he wanted.

He still kept your picture, and the wedding ring was always in a pocket in his vest, secured and tucked away near his heart. It was a reminder that the divorce was amicable, that you still loved him but you couldn’t wait to hear he’d been shot dead. John kept tabs on you, he always had, he always needed to be sure that there was never any threat to you because of him.

He visited you often, as often as he could and as often as you let him. It was hard to be together when you were around each other, old feelings crawled to the surface and old itches became satiated. It was a nature of your relationship that your sex life was good while married, vibrant and passionate.

You made the mistake of sleeping together after your divorce, a few times a year which hadn’t aided the mutual feeling that you weren’t fully done with each other. After the last round of sex, John wanted to give the ring back but hadn’t—he couldn’t tell you how much me missed you, how badly he wanted you to be Mrs. Price again.

So when the invitation came to visit again during his leave, John wouldn’t say no. He had fully accepted and even extended his leave time, just to have more hours with you. There was deeply seeded longing that was trapped beneath the surface, a burrowing need to have his wife back.

He stood on the front steps of the house he’d given you in the divorce and raised his hand to knock, almost wishing he didn’t have to. You appeared on the other side rather quickly and it opened it just as fast, wearing one of his favourite dresses.

You were barefoot, of course, you hated wearing shoes in the house, even slippers. You also hated wearing shoes when you gardened, something about feeling dirt beneath your soles was comforting and grounding.

He loved that about you.

“John, hi-”

“Sweetheart,” he leaned in and kissed your cheek, handing you a bouquet of your favourite flowers as you welcomed him in, “how’ve you been?”

“Good, I’ve been…well I’ve been trying to occupy myself.” You take the flowers graciously and lift them to your nose, smiling in that certain way that could bring him to his knees.

“Good.” He steps in and closes the door behind him before he takes his shoes off and pushes them aside, knowing that he’d likely feel your wrath if he tracked dirt in.

“You’re still in one piece, that’s good.” You quip from the kitchen and he follows you, trailing after you while a flood of memories rushes back toward him—slamming straight into his gut with a piercing sharpness.

Want, need, desire, love—

“John,” you put the flowers in a vase and set them on the table, arranging them just how you like, “I wanted to talk to you-”

“You made dinner?” It was there, his favourite, all his favourites, including his desired scotch. “Love-”

“All your favourites,” it was all lined up, all there just how he remembered before the divorce, “I wanted to surprise you.”

He loved you. He never stopped loving you.

You would always be Mrs. Price to him, the woman who was so interwoven into his heart, mind and soul. His darling.

“Yeah, you did this for me?” He walks toward you and rests his hands on your shoulders, squeezing lightly. “Y’always were a sweetheart.”

He leaned in to catch a breath of your perfume, a gift he’d given you on your anniversary, that he always loved. If he could have taken it with him when he went on deployment, just to keep you closer, he would’ve. You were perfect, you always had been, and he was never able to convey that enough to you.

“I miss you, darling.” He confesses as his eyes bore into your own, and his hands raise to cup your cheeks. The intimacy between you isn’t dead, it never has been, and he’s never been bitter toward you.

His first marriage crumbled and his first ex-wife was miserable.

His second marriage was the best he’d ever had, and you were the sun he revolved around. You were it, the centre of his life, the beautiful woman who he could never stop loving.

“I miss you too, John.” He feels you press against him, head against his chest, and his arms wrap around your back, holding you securely. He feels like he’s home, really home now, back in the place he always knew he was meant to be.

You were his home; his wife.

“I still have the ring,” he only pulls away to brush his thumb against your bottom lip, lightly smudging your lipstick, “if you want it.”

“I do.” You answer without missing a beat, and John feels the tension dissipating from his shoulders, weight vanishing as he feels your bond recommencing itself.

He slips his hand into his pocket and pulls out the ring you’d given him, his fingers twirling it delicately. When it’s within view, he grabs your hand in his and once again, like in your wedding day, he slips it onto your finger.

He and the ring are both home—where they always should have been.