hiiiiiii big fan of your work, and i finally gathered up the courage to send you something! 🖤
https://vm.tiktok.com/ZMAfjYvN2/
this but 141 guys + alejandro if you can. already excited to read whatever you write!!!
I've come across this prank before (back when I still had a TikTok.) For those who somehow can't access the link, it's women putting pregnancy tests in their shopping carts to see how their partners will react. The prank is that they may or may not be pregnant. The ones I've seen at least have been wholesome, and the little drabbles I wrote are also wholesome. Enjoy!
For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE
ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist
John Price
With a casual toss, the pregnancy test lands in the cart with a soft thud. John’s head turns, lips in a small frown. Gaze roaming downward, that frown only deepens.
“No,” he says, denying the pregnancy test in the cart. “No.” He lifts it out. Places it back on the shelf. “No.”
“John,” you gently scold.
He holds up a hand in silence, sighing heavily.
There is no pregnancy. You only wanted to see his reaction.
“It’s late. Just late,” he groans, turning the corner, leaving you behind in the aisle.
“John,” you laugh, following.
“No!” from an aisle over.
John "Soap" MacTavish
You place the pregnancy test in the cart, making eye contact with Johnny. His mouth forms a small o and then he beams like the summer sun. Strapped to his chest is a baby, chubby legs sticking out the sides.
“Gotta call me ma,” laughs Johnny, digging around in his pocket for his phone.
Bending to the side a bit, reveals another baby, this one completed passed out, strapped to his back. Twins.
“You don’t need to do that,” you giggle nervously, reaching for the phone.
Johnny pivots quickly, tapping away at the screen. “Told ya I had good swimmers.”
Simon "Ghost" Riley
“This real?”
Simon is staring. In your hand is a box containing a pregnancy test.
Is it real? No. Thought you’d test the waters a bit. See how he feels.
“What?” you blurt, because you’re unable to tell the truth and you fail at coming up with a lie.
Slowly, Simon’s gaze grows soft, the corner of his mouth quirking up.
Shit.
“Oh,” you laugh nervously. “No. No. Nevermind.”
Simon’s smile fades, then returns with a smirk. He steps up to you. “But you’re thinking about it.” He leans in, voice dripping with lust. “Leave the cart. We’re going home.”
Kyle "Gaz" Garrick
“What’s this?” Kyle’s voice is choked.
In his right hand, he holds the box you’ve just tossed in the cart. Pink with white lettering, what he clutches is a pregnancy test. Not that you’re actually pregnant. But you and Kyle have talked about it. From the conversations, he’s been open to the idea, but still hesitant.
You sigh, reaching for it. “Thought I grabbed tampons.”
Kyle holds the pregnancy test out of reach, holding up a single finger for silence. He takes one step back from the cart, his mouth turning upward in a huge smile, excitedly punching the air.
Alejandro Vargas
“Can you put this in the cart?”
You hold out the pregnancy test, purposely keeping your gaze averted, holding in a laugh that wants to burst forth.
Alejandro hums gently, taking the box. He hasn’t noticed what you’ve handed him.
One, you count.
Two.
Three.
You hear a choked sound, and turn. Alejandro, mouth slightly open, stares at the box.
“You need this?” he finally asks, eyebrows raised like he can’t quite believe it.
“Yes.” Alejandro’s gaze drops down. You place a hand on your heavily pregnant belly. “And?”
Using the box, he gestures toward you. “Think we’re past that.”
I was online shopping for a new anklet and got an idea:)
cw: cuteness aggression; smut; established romantic relationship; wee bit of foot fetish/feet
Simon “Ghost” Riley
You sit on the edge of the bed after your everything shower, lotioning your legs slowly. Simon leans in the doorway, arms crossed, watching like he always does, because the domesticity of it grounds and calms him.
When you reach your ankle, the new rose-gold chain glints—delicate links with a tiny skull charm and a little heart dangling beside it. He goes perfectly still, like an apex predator zeroing in on his next meal.
You glance up and a slow smirk spreads on your lips. “Like it, babe?”
Simon scoffs quietly as if the answer is obvious, crosses the room in three strides, drops to his knees without a word, and wraps one large hand around your calf. He lifts your foot to his mouth, presses a kiss to the inside of your ankle right above the chain, then traces the metal with his tongue.
The cool rose-gold warms against your skin as he growls low, “Bought yourself somethin’ pretty to show off for me, yeah?” His other hand is already sliding up your thigh, pushing the towel apart while you giggle with giddiness.
“Fuckin’ lovely.”
By the time he has you flat on your back, he’s sucking marks around the anklet, muttering filthy praise about how gorgeous your thick legs look like this, all adorned with jewelry and taken care of. Simon fucks you slow and reverently, eyes locked on the way the little skull charm jingles with every deep thrust.
Johnny “Soap” MacTavish
You’re in the kitchen, humming a tune while making a snack for yourself and him, when Johnny comes in from the garage, still greasy from tinkering with his truck.
You’re wearing shorts for once because it’s warm inside the house despite winter warring outside, and the silver anklet with its tiny star and moon charms catches the light as you shift your weight.
Johnny stops dead, toolbox clattering to the floor. “Fuckin’ hell, hen.”
Next thing you know he’s on you—grubby hands on your hips, spinning you, lifting you onto the counter as you yelp. He drops to a crouch, mouth hot against your calf, kissing up to the anklet like it’s the sexiest thing he’s ever seen.
“Johnny!”
“Look at this wee beauty,” he groans, teeth grazing the chain as your protest dissolves into flustered giggles. “Makes yer legs look even more edible.”
“Jesus Christ, Johnny—” you bemoan in fond exasperation while he spreads your thighs wide to bury his face between them, licking over the seam of your cotton shorts until the fabric is soaked with his saliva and your own slick before he yanks it down your thick legs, panties included.
“Not in front of the bloody sandwiches!” you squeal, but our thighs part wider for him, and Johnny eats you out right there on the kitchen counter, groaning and slurping into your cunt until you’re shaking, keeping one greasy hand wrapped around your ankle, thumb rubbing over the charms like he can’t get enough.
John Price
You’re curled on the couch beside him watching some documentary he picked. You’ve kicked off your warm slippers; legs stretched across his lap.
The new gold anklet—simple chain with a tiny compass charm—gleams against your skin when you flex your foot and wiggle your painted toes absently. Price’s hand stills on your thigh. His gaze drops, then darkens instantly.
“When did you get that, love?” he asks, his voice a rough murmur while his calloused thumb drags over the charm.
“Yesterday,” you answer with a cheeky smile as you clock that look in his eyes. “Used your credit card like you told me to.”
John lifts your leg gently, brings your foot to his mouth, and kisses the inside of your ankle right where the chain rests with a low groan. The gold warms against his lips, his coarse beard rasps against your supple skin.
“Christ, you’re trying to kill me, sweetheart.”
And he spends the next twenty minutes worshipping your legs—slow kisses up your calf, teeth scraping the soft flesh of your thigh—until he’s hard and aching against his pants. Then he pulls you into his lap, slides your panties aside, and sinks into you in one smooth thrust, hands locked around your ankles so the little compass jingles softly with every roll of his hips.
Kyle “Gaz” Garrick
You’re getting ready for bed, sitting at the vanity and fixing your bonnet in your robe, when Kyle walks past in his boxers, stops, and does a double take.
You’ve crossed your bare legs, and the delicate silver anklet with its tiny butterfly charms catches the lamplight.
He’s behind you in seconds, hands on your shoulders, mouth at your ear. “Now when did you start wearing that?”
You flash a cheeky smile at his reflection. “Thought it was cute.”
“Cute,” Kyle repeats with a snort, like the word personally offends him. He spins your chair, kneels, and lifts your foot into his lap. His thumb traces the chain, then the curve of your ankle, then higher. “You’ve no idea what this does to me, do you?”
You’re very aware that he has a thing for your feet, and the anklet pushes him straight over the edge.
“Oh, I have a little hunch, Garrick,” you snicker while Kyle kisses every manicured toe, gently licks along the smooth arch of your bejeweled foot, then works his way up your calf while his free hand slips between your thighs, finding your pussy bare.
“Need you, baby. Please,” he groans helplessly, peppering kisses along the inside of your plush thigh like you’re the queen and he’s the devoted subject.
However, by the time he’s got you maneuvered on the bed, Kyle fucks you with your legs thrown over his broad shoulders, folding you in half with his hazel eyes fixed on the way the butterflies flutter and dangle so prettily against your skin with every thrust, telling you breathlessly how perfect your thick, soft legs look wrapped in silver.
Nikolai
You’re in the hangar next to his cabin in the mountains, barefoot on the cold concrete, helping him sort through a crate of smuggled parts.
The new gold anklet—thick chain that resembles the one he wears around his neck—shifts against your skin as you bend and stretch.
Nikolai notices, pauses mid-reach, dark eyes narrowing. A slow, predatory smile spreads across his handsome face.
“Milaya moya,” he drawls, voice thick with his accent, “what is this little thing you hide from me?”
“What do you even mean?” you reply with a soft huff, still rummaging and shifting on your feet as the cold starts biting your skin.
He drops the wrench with a clang, crosses the space between you, and lifts your leg without warning, hooking it over his hip while you yelp then giggle.
“This,” Nikolai growls. His rough palm slides up your calf, thumb pressing the chain so the metal bites just enough to make you gasp next. “Gold suits you,” he murmurs, leaning down to drag his teeth along the links. “Makes me want to mark you with something even prettier.”
“Oh… that—” You squirm in his grip as he handles you so effortlessly; his eyes flick up to meet yours. “Da, that.”
You end up braced against the side of his helo, legs spread wide and standing on your tiptoes, his cock buried deep from behind while one mammoth hand of his stays wrapped around your throat, gentle and grounding.
“Next time, you’ll wear one with my name on it,” he growls against your nape, groaning shamelessly in between thrusts while your nails scrape against metal.
Alejandro Vargas
You’re barefoot in the kitchen of the ranch house, reaching for a glass on the top shelf. The late sunlight catches the new gold anklet—thin chain with a tiny sun charm and a little seashell dangling beside it.
Alejandro freezes in the doorway, duffel still over his shoulder from the drive home, the collar of his fatigues clinging to his sweaty neck. His dark chocolate eyes lock on your ankle, then slowly travel up the curve of your calf, the soft thickness of your thigh under the pale blue sundress.
“Ay, mi vida,” he breathes, his voice turning rough at the edge. “¿Cuándo compraste eso?” He drops the bag with a thud, crosses the room in two strides, and sinks to his knees right there on the tile like he’ll start praying any second.
“Today,” you answer, smiling down while you rake your fingers through his messy, raven locks. “Bought it as a little treat for myself… and you.”
He chuckles, eyes glinting mischievously while his strong, gloved hands slide up your legs, thumbs tracing the chain gently. He presses open-mouthed kisses along your ankle, teeth grazing the gold until the metal warms against your skin.
“Looks so damn pretty on you,” Alejandro growls, already pushing the dress higher before disappearing under the flowy skirt, his next words muffled as he presses his face against your clothed cunt: “Makes me want to ruin the rest of you.”
“Alejandro!”
You gasp audibly, hands grappling to grip the edge of the kitchen counter for support while he’s too busy mouthing at the thin cotton of your panties.
Rodolfo Parra
You’re curled on the couch, reading, when Rudy enters through the open sliding doors facing the backyard, still dusty from training recruits all day.
You stretch your legs across his lap when he sits with a tired groan, and the delicate silver anklet—a simple chain with a tiny heart and a little cross charm—glints against your skin.
His breath audibly catches. You glance up from your book, blinking slowly as you watch and feel his hand on your calf, one thumb brushing the chain like it’s fragile before he lifts your leg to take a closer look.
“Hermosa… when did you start wearing this?” His voice is soft, almost reverent.
“I found it in my jewelry box today,” you answer, closing the book without bothering to remember the page. “Thought it might be cute. Is it too much?”
“Too much?” His pupils blow as he lifts your foot, kisses the inside of your ankle right over the anklet, then higher, slow and deliberate, while your breath keeps hitching and your cheeks begin to burn.
The metal cools then warms naturally under his lips and sweet attention.
“Come here, cariño. Let me love you.”
And you end up straddling your husband on the couch, dress pushed up to your waist, his hands cradling your thick thighs while he rocks up into you. Every slow thrust makes the anklet chime softly against his wrist while keeps whispering “tan perfecta, mi amor” against your neck until you’re both trembling and sated.
Phillip Graves
You’re lounging by the pool at the ranch house your husband bought for you in Texas, legs dangling in the cool water, when Phillip steps out in swim trunks and aviator sunglasses.
The new rose-gold anklet—delicate links with a tiny lone star and a little horseshoe—catches the sun as you kick and splash lazily. He stops mid-stride, shades sliding down his nose as he tips them dramatically.
“Well, damn, darlin’.” He’s in the water before you can blink, strong hands on your hips pulling you to the very edge.
“What?” you ask languidly (because you know it gets him hot and bothered every time), adjusting your own sunglasses with the tip of your manicured finger. “Watch it. I just put on some tanning oil.”
Phillips grins dangerously, flashing pearly white teeth as he gropes and massages your calves. Water drips off him as he stands between your plush thighs, mouth already on your ankle as he lifts it, sucking the wet chain between his teeth and tugging playfully.
“Buying yourself pretty things that make your legs look this edible oughta be illegal, honey,” he drawls smugly in between kisses.
“Ugh, shut up, you silly man.” You tut, nudging your toes against his buff pecs, though it merely makes him groan aloud, blue eyes twinkling behind tinted glasses. “Make me.”
Phillip eats you out right there on the pool deck, water lapping at your calves; his merciless tongue greedy and shameless as ever as he devours his pretty wife. When he finally fucks you, it’s hard and fast against the lounger, one hand always gripping your ankle like he owns the jewelry and the woman wearing it.
König
You’re lounging on the large, custom-made bed, scrolling through your phone, when König ducks through the doorway, fresh from the gym.
You lift one leg to reach your foot and scratch an itch, and the sturdy silver anklet—a thicker chain to survive his handling, with a tiny crown charm—flashes against your moisturized skin. König visibly freezes at the sight, hood still half-on, big baby blues wide behind the T-shirt mask.
“Gott im Himmel,” he mutters, his voice slightly muffled. He’s across the room in a heartbeat, faster than anyone might expect, massive frame folding to his knees. Careful hands—always so incredibly careful with you—lift your foot like it’s precious.
You’re already smiling behind your screen when he presses his masked mouth to the chain, then yanks the fabric up just enough to kiss the skin underneath.
“So goddamn beautiful on you, Schatz,” he rumbles, his Austrian accent thick. “Makes me want to make a mess and keep you in bed forever.”
König has obvious foot worship tendencies, and the anklet sends him into overdrive.
“Can… I?” he asks tentatively, cock visibly straining against his grey sweats. And you roll your eyes with fond exasperation before resting your foot on his meaty thigh encouragingly. “Sure, baby. Go ahead.”
A visible shudder wrecks through him while he whimpers and fumbles to free his fat length, already flushed and weeping pre from its slit. And König spends ages kissing and massaging your feet and calves with one hand while stroking his cock with the other; fucking into his big fist until he paints your foot and delicate anklet with his load before licking it all clean under your gentle praise afterwards.
Keegan P. Russ
You’re sprawled on the couch in one of his old and worn-out Marine Corps hoodies and not much else, curvy legs stretched out leisurely, watching that one guilty pleasure Reality TV show of yours while eating popcorn.
The new matte black anklet—tactical-looking chain with a tiny skull and a little dog tag charm—catches the soft lamplight when you wiggle your toes to keep your feet from falling asleep.
Keegan, walking past and cracking a cold beer open, nearly stumbles. “Jesus Christ,” he groans, setting the can down hard on the coffee table as you glance up at him curiously. You’re ready to defend the show stubbornly, but he’s on you in seconds, tackling and pinning you on the couch beneath him while you squeal in surprise; long fingers tracing the black metal like it’s classified intel.
“Tryin’ to fuckin’ kill me again, baby?” His voice is lower now, rougher, and playfully accusing.
“What the fuck are you ta—AH!” He lifts your leg over his shoulder, mouth hot against your ankle, teeth scraping the chain before he bites your Achilles tendon. “Good enough to fuckin’ eat,” he growls. “Fuckin’ flexible, too, huh.”
That’s enough to knock the last bit of air from your lungs and make your pussy drip, and you watch his glacier blue eyes darken as soon as he catches onto that. His plump lips split into a shit-eating grin before he rocks his hips against yours.
“You’re such an asshole,” you whine, squirming helplessly.
“Tit for tat, baby,” Keegan murmurs, dipping his head to mouth and kiss along your neck; one large hand keeping a firm grip around that bejeweled ankle of yours.
