Hai…I am in dire need of more fat / retired Price and you said you had no idea so have a coupling my half baked ones!
- cuddle time with him / you like him laying on you because he feels like a giant weighted blanket
- maybe you get into baking and he’s required to be your test dummy ft. The rest of the team
- going clothes shopping and realise you both have gained a little weight
- Price teasing you because the same thing that’s happened to him has happened to you
- you have kids and they love it just as much as you do
I know this is literally so random I’m so sorry but I YEARN for bear price bro
The boys have definitely put on some pounds after meeting you, the captain always brings lunchboxes which gets the team excited, surprisingly Ghost finds himself also waiting for Price to come in with a new snack.
You've gained some weight too, your arms softer, stomach rounder, cheeks fuller, john loves it. The boys love it too but keep themselves in check around the big boss.
Cuddling with him is amazing, he's like a space heater, radiating heat even if you're sitting on the other side of the room, meaty hands resting on your waist which warms you up quick.
Don't get me started on the kids, they're all plump and fat, sitting on your hip while you cook, chubby red cheeks grinning widely when they see John.
Your baking phase ends up with the entire team needing new uniforms, their helmet straps digging into their cheeks now, but they always seem to smell like chocolate muffins.. or lemon cake.
Clothes shopping was a little embarrassing to you until John fucked you in that H&M changing room, in the sundress you said you were too fat for.
"What fat? All i see is my beautiful wife in the sundress im gonna buy her. Right after ruining her in it though. Need you dumb on my cock pretty girl."
Hope everyone enjoyed this one!! Same time tomorrow? 👀
A glittering night of honors and watchful allies strips away the spectacle to reveal what truly grounds John Price.
50. Shiny Medals and Quiet Truths
You'd been dreading this night all week.
The invitation had come on official letterhead, sealed, fancy—the kind of thing that meant John couldn't skip it even if he'd tried. It wasn't just another social event. It was a formal recognition ceremony—one that would have his name read aloud, medals gleaming, and a dozen generals shaking his hand.
For him, it was pride.
For you, nearly seven months pregnant and unable to see your feet, it was sheer panic.
The living room looked like the aftermath of a boutique explosion. Dresses, shoes, and a small mountain of discarded shapewear littered the couch.
"Babe," John called from the hallway, voice warm, teasing. "You planning on leavin' anything alive in there?"
"Don't start," you muttered, holding a gown against you in the mirror. "Everything either itches, pinches, or makes me look like a circus tent."
He leaned against the doorway, tie half-done, grin smug. "Love, you're glowin'. You could wear a bin bag and still outshine the whole bloody room."
You shot him a glare that didn't quite land. "Easy for you to say—you just have to put on a suit and smolder."
He came up behind you, hands finding your hips, voice dropping low near your ear. "S'not smolderin', it's sufferin'. These bloody medals weigh more than Peach's car seat."
That made you laugh, the tension easing a little.
"You look perfect," he murmured, kissing the side of your neck. "And I'll be proud as hell walkin' in with you on my arm."
By the time you reached the hall, the nerves were back.
The place was massive—crystal chandeliers throwing light like shards across the ceiling, flags lining the walls, the hum of conversation blending with the delicate clink of champagne glasses.
You could feel eyes turning as you and John walked in. It wasn't the bump that drew attention—it was him. Captain Price. Sharp in uniform, medals gleaming, hand resting at the small of your back like it belonged there.
He leaned down, voice warm against your ear. "Don't worry, love. You're with the best-dressed man here."
You elbowed him lightly. "I'm sure Kate would disagree."
"As if summoned," Kate Laswell appeared from the crowd—hair sleek, smile bright, whiskey already in hand like it was part of her uniform.
"She's right, John," Kate said, looking him over with theatrical approval. "You look like you ironed yourself into that."
"Good to see you too, Kate," he replied dryly, but the affection behind it made the words softer than the tone.
Kate's gaze slid to you, and her expression gentled. "You look lovely. I can't believe you came out tonight."
You smiled. "I told him I wouldn't miss seeing him get one of those shiny medals he's always pretending he doesn't care about."
Kate laughed. "He'll pretend it's nothing, but trust me—he's been polishing it all week."
John grumbled something under his breath, but his hand squeezed yours, pride written all over his face.
Kate tipped her glass toward the room. "Come on. There are some people you should meet before the speeches. And before John gets kidnapped by generals."
John's mouth twitched. "Wouldn't be the first time."
You followed them through the crowd, the noise shifting around you like water—polished shoes, dark suits, uniforms with ribbons you didn't recognize. People nodded at John as you passed, some with genuine warmth, others with that careful, respectful distance you'd only ever seen aimed at men who'd become stories.
Kate slowed near a cluster of dignitaries. "Farah."
The woman who turned at her name didn't look impressed by the chandeliers or the flags or the formal smiles. Farah Karim stood straight-backed and unadorned, dark eyes steady as a sightline. It was the kind of stillness that made a room recalibrate around her.
John's posture shifted—not stiff, not formal. Familiar. Respect.
"Farah," he said, and there was something quietly reverent in it. "Didn't think you'd come."
"I don't like ceremonies," she replied, her accent crisp, her tone honest. Then her gaze moved to you.
It wasn't rude. It was... thorough. Like she took inventory in a single breath and decided whether you belonged in the orbit of the man beside you.
John turned you slightly closer, his hand a steady anchor at your back. "This is—"
"I know who she is," Farah cut in, and the faintest hint of amusement touched her mouth. "You look happier."
You blinked, caught off guard by how direct she was.
Farah's eyes dropped briefly to your belly, then back to your face, and she gave you the smallest nod—quiet approval, like a stamp you didn't know you'd been waiting for.
"Congratulations," she said simply.
Your chest warmed. "Thank you."
Farah's attention shifted back to John. "You earned this," she told him, like the medal was just a detail and the meaning was the point. "But don't let them turn you into a symbol. Symbols are easier to sacrifice."
John's expression sobered, but he nodded. "I'll try."
Kate guided you onward before the gravity could settle too deep. "Next—Nikolai."
A man stepped into your path like he'd been part of the room all along, despite the fact you were positive he hadn't been there a second ago. Nikolai's smile was easy, eyes bright with mischief, suit immaculate in that way that didn't look like effort—more like habit.
"Captain," Nikolai greeted, spreading his hands as if welcoming an audience. "Look at you. Very handsome. Very official. I barely recognize you."
"Yeah," John said, but his eyes softened. "You clean up too, Niko."
Nikolai's attention turned to you and, unlike most people tonight, he didn't look at your belly first—he looked at your face, like the person mattered more than the situation.
"And you must be the reason he is impossible to reach lately," Nikolai said, warm and amused. "Hello. I am Nikolai."
He offered his hand like you were an old friend, not a new piece on the board. His grip was gentle, careful, and somehow it made you feel seen rather than inspected.
"It's nice to meet you," you said.
"It is nice to meet someone who makes John Price look... grounded." Nikolai's smile widened at John's glare. "Ah. Don't worry, Captain. Your secret is safe. I will tell everyone you are still terrifying."
John huffed a laugh through his nose despite himself.
"And this," Kate added, angling you toward another man who looked like he'd rather be anywhere else, "is Sergeant Kamarov."
Kamarov's face was carved out of suspicion and fatigue. He didn't smile when he looked at you. He didn't soften the way Nikolai had. His gaze was blunt, heavy, assessing, and it made your shoulders want to tighten.
John's voice dropped into something firmer. "Kamarov. Behave."
Kamarov's stare flicked to John—held for a beat—then returned to you. Something shifted, not kindness, exactly, but respect. The kind you earned by being protected by someone like Price.
"You are... civilian," Kamarov said, like it was both question and warning.
You swallowed. "I'm—"
"She's mine," John cut in, calm as a blade. "And she's family."
Kamarov studied John's face like he was weighing truth. Then, curtly, he nodded once.
"Good," he said. "Then you know what it costs."
You didn't know what to say to that, but Kate stepped in like she'd been doing this your whole life.
"She knows enough," Kate said, then squeezed your arm. "Come on. You're about to meet someone who'll talk your ear off in the best way."
You barely had time to breathe before a man with an open smile and the posture of someone who could switch from charming to lethal in half a heartbeat stepped toward you.
"Alejandro Vargas," he said, and his voice carried warmth that felt like sunlight cutting through the chill of the room. His hand went to John first—firm, friendly.
"Captain."
"Alejandro," John replied, the corners of his mouth tugging upward. "Didn't think you'd trade a battlefield for this circus."
Alejandro's grin flashed. "For you? I can tolerate a circus. Besides, I wanted to see if you really know how to stand still for more than five minutes."
Then he turned to you, and the warmth in his expression sharpened into something respectful.
"And you must be the woman who has finally managed to make him behave."
You laughed despite yourself. "I wouldn't go that far."
Alejandro's eyes dipped briefly to your belly and back to your face with the kind of careful courtesy that didn't make you feel like a spectacle. "Congratulations," he said softly, sincerity threaded through the charm. "He is a good man."
John's throat worked once, like he didn't know what to do with praise in public. "Alright, Vargas."
Alejandro chuckled. "And this is Rudy," he added, motioning to the man at his side.
Rodolfo Parra didn't take up space the way Alejandro did. He existed like a quiet guardrail—present, solid, eyes always tracking exits without looking like he was tracking anything at all.
"Ma'am," Rudy said, polite, voice low. He offered his hand carefully, like you were fragile in the way that mattered, not weak. "It's an honor."
"Nice to meet you," you said, and meant it.
Rudy's gaze flicked once to John—something like reassurance passing between them—and you realized this was the kind of loyalty you didn't buy with rank. You earned it with blood and decisions and showing up.
Kate stepped back, surveying the circle she'd assembled like she'd built it on purpose.
"There," she said, satisfied. "Now you've met the people who actually matter."
John gave her a look. "Kate."
She smirked. "What? I said what I said."
Before you could reply, the room shifted toward the stage—subtle, collective movement as chairs straightened and bodies turned. The speeches came next: long, stiff, heavy with formalities.
You zoned out through most of them, palm resting on your belly as the baby shifted softly inside you—your own private reminder that this glittering room wasn't the real world. Not for you. Not for John.
But when John's name was called—
You straightened, heart swelling so hard it ached.
He stepped up, posture perfect, voice deep and steady as he accepted the commendation. It was strange seeing him like that—Captain Price, the soldier, the man the world saw. You were used to John in a hoodie, teasing Peach, rubbing your aching back at night.
Here, he was larger than life.
And still, as he spoke, his eyes found you.
Like you were the point.
When he returned to your side, medal now pinned over his chest, you leaned in and whispered, "Proud of you, Captain."
He smiled down at you, softer around the edges than anyone else in this room would ever be allowed to see. "Just doin' my job, love."
Kate, seated across from you, rolled her eyes. "He'll never admit it, but he's blushing."
Across the table, Alejandro lifted his glass toward John with a grin. "He is blushing."
Farah's mouth twitched, almost a smile. "Good. Let him."
Even Kamarov, two seats down, made a sound that might've been approval if you squinted.
Nikolai, of course, looked delighted. "I told you," he said to you, conspiratorial. "Terrifying. But soft. It's very funny."
You met more of John's peers—officers, analysts, the occasional squadmate who spoke to you with quiet admiration, each one trying not to look starstruck by the Captain's heavily pregnant fiancée. It was like watching the ripple effect of a man's life—how far his decisions had reached, how many people carried some version of him in their memory.
Soap and Gaz arrived fashionably late, sliding in like they owned the place.
Soap winked the second he spotted you. "Didn't realize we were underdressed, eh Gaz? Look at the lady o' the hour!"
Gaz smirked. "Careful, Soap. The Captain might toss you out before dessert."
John gave them both the look.
It was enough to send them to the bar immediately.
Later, when the music softened and couples drifted to the dance floor, John held out a hand.
"C'mon."
You blinked at him. "John, I can't dance. I'm seven months pregnant."
"Then I'll do the dancin'," he said simply, helping you to your feet like it was the easiest thing in the world.
He kept one arm firm around your waist, the other holding your hand as you swayed together under the dim lights. The bump pressed between you, his medal cool against your chest.
For a moment, you forgot about everything—the months apart, the stress, the exhaustion. There was only him.
Farah watched from the edge of the floor, expression unreadable but steady, like she was seeing something she rarely got to witness: John Price alive in a way that had nothing to do with war.
Alejandro murmured something to Rudy that made him exhale a quiet laugh.
Nikolai raised his glass toward Kate, who looked like she'd rather die than admit she enjoyed anything, ever.
And somewhere behind you, Soap was absolutely, one hundred percent trying to convince a decorated general to do a shot.
You leaned closer to John. "Did I tell you how proud I am of you?"
He smiled faintly. "Not as proud as I am of you."
"Why?"
"'Cause you've given me everythin' I never thought I'd have," he said softly, brushing his thumb against your cheek. "A home. A family. A reason to bloody stay still."
Your throat tightened, eyes burning. "You're gonna make me cry in front of the generals."
He chuckled low. "Let 'em see. They should know what real strength looks like."
You rested your head against his chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat grounding you.
And for the rest of the night—141 causing chaos at the bar, Kate trading sarcastic quips with the brass, Farah staying near the edges like she was guarding the room from its own ego, Nikolai treating every moment like a story worth telling, Alejandro and Rudy standing like men who never truly stop watching—
Captain John Price didn't look like a soldier or a legend.
He just looked like yours.
The night air hit you the second John guided you out of the venue—cool, clean, smelling faintly of winter and exhaust and the city's last breath. The noise dulled behind the heavy doors like someone had shut a lid on it. No more speeches. No more eyes. No more smiling until your cheeks ached.
Just you and him.
John didn't say much. He didn't need to. His hand stayed at the small of your back, warm and steady, steering you down the steps with that same quiet vigilance he carried everywhere—like the world could still try to take something from him even in a parking lot.
His driver was already waiting. The back door opened, and John helped you in first like you were something precious, like even your comfort mattered more than the formality of his medal still pinned to his chest.
Once he slid in beside you, the door shut with a soft thud that made the night feel far away.
The car pulled out, tires whispering over pavement.
For a while, there was only the steady hum of the engine, the gentle sway of streetlights passing across John's face in slow bands of gold and shadow.
He reached for you without looking—just found your hand like it was instinct, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
You laced your fingers with his, and he squeezed once. Firm. Warm.
"You alright?" he asked quietly.
"Mm." You leaned your head back against the seat, exhaling. "I'm tired."
His thumb brushed over your knuckles, slow and soothing. "I know, love."
You glanced at him. The medal caught a passing light and flashed bright for a second—too shiny, too loud for how gentle he looked right now. The lines at the corners of his eyes softened when he met your gaze.
"You did good," you murmured.
John huffed like he didn't want the compliment. Like it was a thing he couldn't hold without cutting himself on it. "Wasn't for me."
"It was for you." You tipped your head. "You just don't like being seen."
His mouth twitched. "Don't like bein'... watched."
You smiled faintly. "Well. Everyone watched. And you still came back to me after."
His eyes dropped to your joined hands, then to your belly, and his voice went quieter—almost rough, like emotion made it heavy.
"Always."
The silence that followed wasn't awkward. It was the kind that felt earned. The kind where you could breathe.
John shifted slightly, then let go of your hand just long enough to slide his palm over your thigh, thumb tracing slow circles through the fabric of your dress. Not possessive—anchoring. Grounding. Like he needed to feel you there, real and warm and safe.
Your body softened at the touch automatically.
"You're still wearin' it," he said after a moment, almost like he'd just noticed.
"The medal?" you asked.
He glanced down at his chest, then back to you, brows lifting. "The dress. The whole... fancy thing."
You laughed under your breath. "I wasn't about to change in the bathroom of the venue, John."
"Aye, fair." He paused. "Just... you looked beautiful tonight."
The words sounded like they'd been sitting behind his teeth for hours, waiting for the right moment. No audience. No bright lights. No generals.
Just you.
Your throat tightened in that ridiculous way it always did when he got soft.
"Thank you," you whispered.
His thumb pressed lightly into your thigh, then he leaned in and kissed your temple—brief, careful, like he was aware of every inch of you lately. Like pregnancy made him reverent.
"You know," you said, voice teasing to cover the feelings, "Farah terrified me."
John's breath puffed out, a quiet laugh. "Yeah. She does that."
"She looked at me like she could see my whole life."
"She probably can," he murmured. "But... she nodded at you, didn't she?"
"She did." You smiled to yourself. "That felt... weirdly important."
John's fingers tightened—just slightly. "It is."
The car rolled through calmer streets now, the city thinning out into neighborhoods that slept behind dark windows. The driver's presence up front was respectful, distant—like he could hear the tenderness in the backseat and chose not to intrude on it.
You shifted carefully, one hand drifting to your belly. The baby gave a little shove, like a reminder—like a tiny, impatient knock on the door of your ribs.
John noticed immediately. He always did.
"Move again?" he asked.
You nodded.
He slid his hand from your thigh to your belly like he had a right to it—like this was home, too. His palm spread warm over the curve, fingers splaying gently, and you felt him go still.
A quiet, stunned sort of still.
Then the baby kicked again—harder this time—and John's face changed completely.
There was no Captain Price in that expression.
Just John.
"Bloody hell," he whispered, awed.
You laughed softly, watching him. "She's strong."
"Just like her mum." His voice was so low it almost disappeared into the hum of the car.
Your eyes burned, sudden and stupid.
John looked up at you and immediately sighed like he'd caught you on the edge of tears.
"Hey," he murmured, thumb brushing your cheek. "No cryin'. We're done with the speeches now."
"You're the one who made me cry," you accused quietly.
He gave you a small, guilty smile. "Yeah. Probably."
Your breath shook. "It was just... a lot. Seeing you like that. Everyone talking about you like you're... untouchable."
His gaze sharpened, like he didn't like that word.
"I'm not."
"I know," you said quickly, squeezing his hand where it rested on your belly. "I know you're not. I just..."
You searched for the right words and found them in the simplest place.
"I missed you."
John's jaw flexed. He leaned in, forehead resting against yours for a heartbeat—heavy, warm, grounding.
"I'm here," he said. "I'm goin' home."
Home.
The word settled in your chest like something precious.
The car finally turned onto your street, tires crunching faintly. House lights. Familiar shapes. The outline of your porch like a promise.
John's hand slid back down to your thigh, steadying you as the car slowed.
"Peach'll be asleep," you whispered.
"Maybe," he said, voice fond. "Or she'll be fightin' bedtime like she's negotiatin' hostage terms."
You laughed, wiping quickly at the corner of one eye.
The car came to a stop. The driver opened the door, and John was out first, rounding to your side before you could even think about moving.
He offered his hand. You took it.
The cold night kissed your cheeks again as you stepped out, and John immediately slid an arm around you, pulling you into his warmth. The medal on his chest tapped lightly against you as he guided you toward the front door.
Quiet. Safe. Home.
As John fit the key into the lock, the porch light glowed above you like a halo.
And inside—somewhere beyond the door—was Peach, your bed, your soft life waiting.
John glanced down at you, eyes tired but steady.
"Alright," he murmured, thumb stroking your knuckles. "Let's go home."
The front door clicked open with a quiet groan, and John stepped through first, his hand steadying you as you shuffled in behind him, heels already dangling from your fingers and your swollen feet nearly sighing in relief with every step.
The house was dark except for the warm glow of the kitchen light. And sitting at the counter, a half cup of tea in hand and glasses perched on her nose, was John's mum.
She looked up, and her face broke into a wide grin. "There they are. My glamorous kids."
You tried not to laugh, too tired to do much more than smile. "Hi, Anne. She do okay?"
Anne stood, brushing down her jumper and walking over, already reaching for your free hand. "Darling, she's a menace and a miracle all in one breath. Wouldn't eat her dinner unless it was on the blue plate—not the pink one, god forbid—then insisted I tuck her in like her 'daddy does.'" She looked at John pointedly. "Took four tries and a dramatic retelling of Bad Kitty."
John huffed a quiet laugh and kissed his mum on the cheek. "She missed me, then."
"She misses you even when you just go out to the garden," you murmured, leaning against him.
Anne stepped back, eyes softening as they dropped to your belly. "And this one... she's been busy. You're definitely carrying higher now, aren't you? You're glowing, sweetheart. Positively shining."
You felt John's fingers curl gently around yours.
Anne turned toward him. "Alright, I'll leave you to it. You two look absolutely knackered." She kissed you on the cheek, whispered something about being proud of you both, and padded out the door into the cool night.
John was quiet as he helped you up the stairs, one arm around your waist, the other hand tugging off his tie. His voice was soft as you reached the bedroom.
"Want to shower first?"
You shook your head. "Can't stand up that long. Just—help me out of it?"
He didn't say a word. Just crossed the room, turned on the small lamp by the bed, and came back to you. His hands were warm and slow, careful as he worked the zipper down the back of your gown. The fabric slid down your sides, pooling around your feet like melted velvet.
His breath caught slightly when he stepped back, eyes trailing the curve of your body, the growing swell of your stomach. "You've never looked more beautiful."
You scoffed, reaching for your silk robe. "I look like a water balloon with tits."
He caught your wrist gently. "You look like the woman who made me want forever. And the mother of my girls."
Your eyes met his, heart thudding. "Still feels surreal."
He helped you into the robe, brushed your hair over your shoulders, and kissed the top of your head. "C'mon. Let's wind down before this one starts doing somersaults again."
The two of you settled into bed, limbs tangled under the throw blanket. You laid against John's chest, his hand resting on your belly. The baby kicked softly beneath it.
"I felt that," he whispered.
"She always knows when you're near. You'll never sleep again."
He chuckled, low and proud. "Worth it."
You listened to the rhythm of his breathing, the steady thud of his heart, his other hand softly running up and down your back.
"She's lucky, you know."
"Who?"
"Our daughter. She gets you for a dad."
He didn't speak at first. Just kissed your forehead, hand stroking your side, and finally whispered, "I'm the lucky one."
And for a long, quiet moment, nothing else in the world mattered but the three of you under those sheets—home, warm, safe.
John shifted behind you beneath the blanket, the bed creaking softly under his weight. You felt his hand slide over your hip, steady and warm, pulling you gently back into his chest.
"You alright?" you murmured, eyes still half-closed.
He kissed your shoulder. "Mm. Just not ready for the night to be over."
You smiled into the pillow, your hand finding his where it rested over your belly. "We should sleep."
"We should," he agreed, voice deep and already threaded with heat, "but I can't stop looking at you tonight. Watching you in that dress... you've been in my head all evening."
He rolled you gently onto your back, his body bracing above yours, one arm curled protectively under your shoulders as his palm cradled the roundness of your stomach. You watched the look in his eyes shift — admiration, hunger, tenderness all colliding in the soft light of the room.
"You feel alright?" he asked, thumb brushing under your breast. "Tell me no and I'll stop."
"No," you whispered, and then caught yourself — "I mean... don't stop."
His mouth found yours in a slow, breath-stealing kiss. All patience, all reverence. Like worship.
You felt his touch move lower, his fingers slipping beneath your robe, exploring the new curves your body carried — the way your hips had softened, the swell of your stomach, the full weight of your breasts.
"You're so bloody beautiful," he breathed against your skin. "Everything about you—everything—is driving me mad."
You reached for the waistband of his pants, tugging gently. "Then take them off, Captain."
That made him grin — wolfish, boyish — and he moved quickly, stripping down, then helping you out of the rest of your robe. When he came back down over you, it was with reverence — slow kisses down your neck, along the inside of your thigh, his big hands bracing your hips as he knelt between your legs.
He kissed just above your pelvis, the stretch-marked curve of your belly. "Hi, sweetheart," he murmured to the baby. "Borrowing your mum for a bit, if that's alright."
You snorted out a laugh, half turned on, half heart-melted. "She's going to kick you for that later."
"Worth it."
Then his mouth lowered again, and everything stopped. His lips, his tongue, the quiet growl in his throat when you whimpered and arched beneath him — it all sent heat spiraling low in your core. Even now, weeks into pregnancy and feeling like anything but your old self, he touched you like you were made of gold.
It didn't take long for your body to tremble. And he didn't stop until your fingers were tangled in his hair and your thighs were shaking around his head.
When he finally moved back up to kiss you, you could taste yourself on his lips, feel the hardness of him against your thigh.
"You sure?" he asked again, brushing a thumb across your cheek.
"Yes, John." You pulled him closer, whispered against his lips. "I want you. I need you."
He groaned softly, guiding himself into you with deliberate care. The stretch was different now — fuller, deeper — and he paused when you gasped.
"You alright, love?"
You nodded, holding onto his shoulders. "Just... go slow."
And he did.
God, he did.
He moved like a man in love — slow, deep strokes that kept you breathless, hands roaming, kissing you through every quiet moan. You cupped his face and watched the way he looked at you — like you were his whole world. His safe place. His future.
"I love you," he whispered, hips rocking slow and steady. "Always. Always you."
Your eyes brimmed. You curled around him, legs locked at his waist. "I love you more."
You came together with breathy moans and stuttered kisses, bodies tangled, hearts loud in the quiet dark.
After, he didn't move — just rested inside you, his hands smoothing over your stomach again.
"Think she knows?" you asked, voice barely audible. "That her dad's in love with her mum?"
He smiled, pressing his lips to your collarbone. "She will."
And with the quiet settling in again, the room still warm from love, he kissed your temple and whispered, "Thank you... for every part of this life."
🥃🧸🍪🥃🧸🍪🥃🧸🍪🥃🧸🍪🥃🧸🍪
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(Some smut kinda. Fluff, price is mid 40s reader is 30)
Side note: I'm writing this while my phone is hotter than a ps4 trying to run Minecraft and while on the phone with hb 😭🙏
You and price are married, been happily married for 6 years. There is a age gap, John is in his mid 40s and you are 30. Surprisingly your family absolutely adores John like a son of their own. You and John live in a stunning two story farm house in the middle of no where. Seriously the closes store is 20 mins away, but thats how John likes it. Peaceful, quiet, and he can do whatever he wants with no shame.
While John now retired from military life due to a injury he now farms. He makes a good amount of money just buy selling what he grows and raises, that being mostly chickens and cows. Last time he tried to do pigs but he gave up cus "those lil bacon piles of shit won't let me do anything. Lil fuckers" witch you understand you have seen how pigs can be first hand. So while John works you stay at home cooking, or doing whatever hobbies you do. There are times where you read. All. Day. Long. The only time you stop is to have water, eat, or to use the bathroom.
On the weekends is when you, and John do nothing. Well... Okay that's a lie you both do at least something. There are days where John wakes you up at 5 in morning cus morning wood. He wakes you up by kissing all over your face, and when you finally wake up, the first thing you hear is. "Christ I need you love, I feel bad for waking ya up but God dam I need you." Witch then puts you to this position.
John absolutely must be able to see your pretty face while he's thrusting in you like a teenager boy who's desperate. Hes not rough. He likes to go slow but rough, and God if that doesn't make you melt and whimper his name a million times. You don't complain when you have a damn good view. Buff hairy John price who has a very slight dad bod cus you feed him like you will die if you don't. The beard, his handsome face, his eyes full of love and pleasure, his chest hair that u play with from time to time, and that damhappy trail. Everytime you see his happy trail you have to fight the urge to pounce on him and ride him till hes dumb. "See somthin ya like pretty girl?" John rasps out as he slowly thrusts in you. You look at him like hes a God. You nod and moan as you rub his chest and move to his happy trail. "John" you whimper.
The after care? That shit has you melting like someone getting their back cracked for the first time in years. "I got ya lovie. Lets get ya cleaned up ya?" He carrys you to the bathroom and makes you a nice, warm bubble bath. Bath salts? Bet your ass hes adding those to the bath. After the bath and getting you nice and clean, he wraps you up in a fresh towel and carrys you to the bed. He grabs one of his old hoodies and grabs a pair of underwear and gets you dressed. He tucks you in and holds you close like you will vanish. He kisses your jaw "good night love... Il be right here" and you know he will. He falls asleep and snores like a dam lawn mower trying to start. You giggle at that, you always tease him by calling him your old man or peepaw. Tho last time you called him either of those you ended up in bed for 3 hours straight just so he can prove that "I ain't old huh love? Ya that's it... Such good girl."
(Again I haven't wrote smut or anything similar to this so let me cook)
When I was a young girl, well, I had me a cowboy
He weren't much to look at, just a free ramblin' man
But that was a long time and no matter how I try
The years just flow by like a broken-down dam
Make me an angel that flies from Montgomery
Make me a poster of an old rodeo
Just give me one thing that I can hold on to
To believe in this living is just a hard way to go
