price could be an asshole sometimes, he knew it. and you knew it too. he always made you cry during arguments, storming out of your shared place by slamming the door and only coming home the next morning with an apology and some flowers.
you always forgave him, much to his surprise.
but today was different, he had been really mean and price knew that he messed up badly this time. he hated how he could be when angry.
"i forgive you" price eyes looked up to you, a hint of hope in it.
"are ya serious ?" he asked with his rough voice, his heart beating a little faster. he released the breath he didn't even realize he was holding when you nodded yes. you opened your mouth, "one condition" you looked at the floor, "I want to spend one night with lieutnant riley." price cringed at the way you said his name, bliking at you with big incredulous eyes.
"she really said tha' ?" price hated simon's smug smirk, the man visibly flattered by his captain's woman's wish. "who am I to disappoint the missus"
price hated even more watching you and simon have sex, even though he insisted on being here.
your body was smashed against the mattress, the bed hitting the wall as the lieutnant's hips roughly pounded into you. you were enjoying it, john knew by the loud moans that were uncontrollably leaving your mouth. he saw how you tried to hide it at first, probably in order to not make your husband insecure ; however as simon fucked you dumb, you became a moaning and drooling mess.
price clenched his jaw as he watched you both make out, he couldn't help but observe intently how simon's angry cock would thrust in and out of your pink pussy, all slick with the previous orgasms you had.
"gonna cum..." you whimpered pathetically as you shut your eyes, your nails piercing the lieutnant's back. a whimper escaped you as you felt simon's hand come rub your clit to help you climax, the delicious feeling making your toes curl.
after you came, price watched you lay on your shared bed, completely cock drunk. he completely ignored the cocky expression simon had on his face.
"next time don't be a dickhead, captain" price mentally cursed as the lieutnant walked out of the room, enjoying the situation too much for his liking.
Sure, John knows how much energy his sweet little wife has tucked away at all times, but you're definitely a whole other person when you don't feel well.
You wake up and crawl out of bed, tugging your blanket behind you like Linus from the peanuts, heading to his home office. He doesn't bat an eye when you whine and wiggle your way into his arms.
He sits back to adjust himself better to make you comfy, wrapping you in your blanket and pressing a kiss to your temple as he works. He doesn't realize how he's changed but you do.
He stops working every five minutes like clockwork to tug you closer and rub circles on your back, it's started as nausea and after a week it hasn't gone away.
You find out in a doctor's office, that you're not sick, you're pregnant with your little girl. From that day on, he coos to your tummy, "Don't ya be hurtin' yer mama, that's my wife, young lady" every time she kicks your ribs, the same voice the boys hear on base but softer.
She's gonna be a daddy's girl.
And Simon's girl.
And Johnny's.
And Kyle's.
And mama gets to relax knowing her babygirl is safe no matter who she's with.
tws: public (?) nudity, boat sex (is that a think) hints of price’s breeding kink, unprotected sex, bodily fluids, very much “he fell first and harder” vibes, dacryphilia, +18/mdni!
more on vacation!price, who can’t help how he’s grinding his pulsing, swimming-trunk-covered bulge into your ass while the two of your enjoy the pretty waters of the early evening. the man's already unstrapped your top, replacing the fabric with the warm cupping of his hands and pinching fingers. he's mumbling something against your neck in between every other kiss, accent thicker than usual. tipsy off you and the drinks from dinner.
the man cock's feels as if it's going to burst through his shorts when your hand wraps along the back of his neck, tugging at him with a needy grip. he receives the message instantly, unlatching his mouth to slot his mouth onto yours. he kisses you until your lungs start to burn and then a moment longer before rutting his thick against you a grunting at the heating twitches at his core.
john has you back on the rental boat and cock sinking inside your hole before you can think about anything else except how loud he’s grunting and panting like a man possessed. his belly presses into your front as the both of you hang halfway off the cheap leather seats, your legs hooking around his waist to clutch him for dear life. you don’t even bother complaining about your bikini bottoms that he’d yanked in half, voice stolen and restricted to choking groans while john rails you at a godly angle.
out loud, all he can do is croak about how good you take it when he stretches you out. tell you how stunning your eyes look when they get all they like this. on the inside, he’s concocting up a half-impossible, lust-driven plan so he gets to see this, you—whining under him and begging for cum he was thinking of stuffing you with from the moment he laid eyes on you—for the rest of your lives.
hmm. he’ll figure it out. there is absolutely no way he’s leaving this place without you in his arms and his mind racking up names for your first kid.
I’m fucking gagged thank you for getting my first post to 1500 wtf guys 🤍😵💫 ANYWAY have some bear!price on the house 🐻
Bear hybrid!John Price x sleepy!reader 2k
Cw: slight dubcon (sleepy sex ig)
It starts when he has to wake you from a well-deserved nap. A what-year-is-it kind of sleep. It was the first thing taught at military school, how to fall asleep on your feet. You took that personally and made it an artform. That's how Price finds you, knocked out on the rec room couch after cleaning up after someone else’s mistake as soon as you got back from deployment. Poor little scrapper.
He’s horribly endeared by it and his deep-seated instincts pull him to join you when his duty demands otherwise. Not his fault you look so cozy, curling around yourself and burying your nose in the blanket Gaz threw over you when he found you.
He tries calling out to you but you are dead to the world, so he lays a warm palm on your shoulder, rocking you gently to ease you back to the waking world. He answers your soft sleepy sound with a deep chuff, his bear endlessly pleased you feel safe enough to sleep so heavily around him and his team. You’re awake but definitely not alert, so he lets himself sit by your legs as you shake off the grip of sleep.
“Cap?”
“Meeting in ten, grab some joe.” He tells you, paw heavy on your head as he gives your adorable bed-head a ruffle. You’re too gone to sleep to wrinkle your nose at the treatment.
“Yessir.” You slur, and he has to make himself walk out the rec room at the sound of your sleep rough voice.
When he sees you again your eyes are brighter and you grip your coffee cup like a lifeline. You don’t get much of it down before you’re pulled to another task, looking down at it, forlorn, before putting in front of Price. A silent offering and he’s not one to turn down caffeine and if he does, take him out back and finish him off. And it certainly has nothing to do with the fact he gets to swallow down the lip-print you left on the rim. Honey-flavored chapstick. He doesn’t stop the happy rumble coming from his chest and you give him a small slight smile before you’re off. He adds the look to the catalogue of secret smiles he's won from you.
Next time it’s you that catches him napping. You come well prepared, armed with coffee and the flask of whiskey you keep hidden in your vest. He doesn’t even hear the door to his office open, chin tucked to his chest, still gripping a pen. The approaching winter had him at its beck and call, quick to sleep and slow to wake.
“Your neck is going to kill later, Cap.” He rouses at the sound of your voice, soft and to his right. You’d lingered a little longer than you’d like to admit, barely controlling the urge to rub the fuzzy little ears he usually keeps hidden under his hat. He looked younger in his sleep, without the furrow in his brow and stern frown on his lips, like a big oversized teddy bear, but you’ll keep that one to yourself.
On que he lifts his head, neck cracking loudly. His wince has your hands itching to lift and massage the soreness out for him. You sigh, a little frustrated at yourself for fanning the flame of the embarrassing crush you have on your boss. You told yourself it was the trauma bond, nothing like shedding blood to bring two people together. It’s just the inevitable coworker crush you tell yourself, even when he’s the last thing you think about before falling asleep and the first when you wake.
It gets exponentially worse when he yawns, not looking as he reaches out to the general direction he heard your voice and patting around lazily. You can’t help but step up from your extremely respectful and professional distance away from his desk. The meaning of the words fizzle out when he catches a belt loop and reels you in.
“You got something for me?” He rasps, prompting you for an update, and the way his voice rumbles out of his chest and buries itself between your legs is beyond unfair. You start with the coffee, waiting a second before putting the flask down next to it. He lets out a grateful huff and you know you’re going to need to change your underwear after all this.
“Laswell touches down in twenty.” You ruin your own pleasant haze you’ve been floating in since he pulled you close enough to feel the heat coming off of him. The frown and furrow are back. He’s all squint, 90% bushy frown, hat forgotten on the desk in front of him.
“We best be meeting her then, hm?” He sighs, coming to a stand. You cannot be bothered to step out of his space but especially when you get a delicious whiff of his cologne and cigar smoke. Drenched. Ruined. In need of some alone time in the showers later.
You hardly breathe when his sleep-warm palm comes up to hold the back of your neck, steering the both of you out of his office. You stop moving all together when he lets go to open the door. He looks down at you when you don’t follow him through the door, the corners of his eyes crinkling.
“Keep up, trouble.” He chuckles, like he wasn’t the one caught napping on the clock.
“Right behind you, sir.” You hum. He doesn’t have to pretend to hear the warmth in your voice.
It isn’t long before John’s instincts have him searching you out at night, driven by your raw scent, fresh from the shower before you get ready for bed. It's getting worse day by day, so drawn in by your earthy sweetness that he lingers silently outside your door for far too long, holding his bear by the metaphorical scruff. You look longingly at the shadow under your door, fingers slipping through your folds wetly hoping he hears your need.
It’s not until he comes home limping that he finds his control slipping through his fingers, frost in the air. His senses are fuzzy and nothing feels right, his bear huffing and puffing just beneath his skin keeping him from sleeping off the pain. He barely hears the medic giving the usual warnings to take it easy before he’s bullying past them back to the barracks. His den calls to him, nearly dead on his feet when he smells you. It feels like every knot, every inch of tightness in his shoulders unravels as he breathes the remnants of you that linger in the common room. He doesn’t even realize he’s darkening your door until it pushes open under his palm. The sight of you asleep on your bunk, rolled half onto your stomach with your leg hiking up, settles him. The long line of your body has his mouth watering and teeth aching to sink into your plushest parts. You don’t stir when he looms over your bed, only when he sinks a knee down on the mattress. He lets out a pained groan when he sheds his shirt and drops down next to you, mattress squeaking violently under his weight and stitches in his side pulling tight.
“Mhm. Price?” You slur, head lifting off your pillow. He makes a pleased chuff, you don’t sound alarmed that he’s crawling in your bed at this hour, the fact you knew without even seeing him.
You try to roll over, giving him room, but he hushes you and presses a big paw on your back. You jolt, remembering you went to bed without a shirt when you feel his palm on your bare skin. He soothes you, big palm petting down your back as he urges you down with a grumble in your ear. His breath is hot on your neck as he rolls over onto you, thick pelt of his chest meeting the sensitive skin of your back as he eases his weight onto you with a satisfied sigh. You make a high pitched squeak at the contact, body going tight as he maneuvers you how he likes. Hooking a heavily furred thigh around your own and giving the padding of your tummy a grope as he settles. Your room was coated in your scent, your pillows and sheets even more so. He wanted to roll around in it until it settled under his skin permanently.
“Shush now, let ‘m get a feel cub, that's it.” He pushes a hairy arm beneath your chest, thick fingers groping your tits as he presses wet bristle-y kisses to your shoulders. You can’t stop the sleepy whine that leaves you, oh god please don’t let this be a dream, please please please-
The bulge pressing under the cleft of your ass is too hot and hard to be a dream. You can’t help but roll your hips back to feel more of him. You can feel how slick your lips are, slipping together wet and syrupy with your want.
“Price-“ the want in your voice and the smell of your need in the back of his throat is all the approval the bear needs.
“Settle down.” He slurs, but the way he humps against the plush of your ass has you doing the opposite. One particular rut has him pressed right up against your heat, underwear clinging to your folds as he pushes around your slick with the heft of his cock. You can do nothing but lay there with the way he has you pinned, legs tangled together as he grinds into you with sleepy rolls of his hips.
“Perfect thing, huh? Feel so good and you’re not even on my bloody cock yet-“ his moan has your eyes rolling to the back of your head.
“oh-“ your throat closes up on a desperate whimper when the hand pinned between your chest and the bed falls lower and cups your pussy, playing the damp fabric keeping him from your slick and pinching your puffy lips together.
“There she is.” His hips fall harder as he stuffs his face in the crook of your neck, breathing you in like it would get him high. He pulls them to the side and his thick calloused fingers are there to catch the obscene amount of slick, pooling on his fingers and down his palm. He knew it would be fucking good, knew you’d drip down his fucking balls like this-
You reach back, hands patting at the thick of his stomach hanging over his waistband before finding your prize, pulling his throbbing cock free and feeling it bounce up against your thighs. He wraps both his arms around you, banding you to his chest and hooking his chin over your shoulder as his thick cock slots against your pussy, drooling pre against your clit.
“Go on, honey, just put it- fuck, yeah.” He grunts, lips to your ear as your shaky hands obey and notch his cock against your aching hole, a twisted version of the kiss you always wanted from him.
He’s rolling on top of you, nearly pressing his full weight against your back and working your hips up with a meaty paw. Your brain is leaking out your cunt at the realization he’s mounting you-
“One big push, honey, sh sh sh-“ he’s cut off by his own groan as the tip pops inside you, immediately driving further into your tight heat. Your walls seize around him and the animal part of your hindbrain tells you to crawl away, but a firm hand on the back of your neck has you still. He clicks his tongue at you, silly thing, didn’t anyone ever tell you not to run from a bear?
He’s quick to remove the thought from your head entirely, arm closing under your chin to keep you still as he leans over you.
“Come on luv, just a little kiss.” He meanly squishes your cheeks with his fingers, turning your head enough to plant a mess open-mouthed kiss on you. He swallows every little noise he’s punching out of you and in their absence the steady plap, plap, plap of his heavy balls slapping your mound fills the room. The next time his gooey tip presses up against your sweet spot, you let out a desperate whine and clamp down tight on him, a foaming, creamy ring forming around the base of his cock. You feel every throb of him against your sensitive walls, milking himself with your pulsing pussy as he pants and groans into your mouth.
You are taken down with him as he flops back down on his side, cock still chubbed in your pussy. He doesn’t pull out, not even when his breathing evens out and he’s humping your sticky pussy in his sleep. His warmth and the delicious stretch of your pussy around him eases you into a deep sleep, completely surrounded by your Captain and stuffed with another load by morning. He’ll even let you yell at him in the morning for crawling in your bed wounded when you find a little blood on the sheets, it’s all worth it as long as he gets to crawl home to his little mate again at the end of the day.
Sheriff Price has a habit of pulling you over, and you have a habit of seeing how far you can push him. It’s a game you've been playing for years—a harmless one, until he gives you exactly what you’ve been asking for.
⤿ based on this | [ AO3 ]
18+ AU, fem!reader, small town vibes, porn with minimal plot, smut, oral (m receiving), dom!john (back and forth between hard and soft), bratty—sort of pathetic reader, fingering, squirting, public sex, smidge of voyeurism, size kink if you really read the fine print, implied slight age gap [ 6.6k words ]
You weren’t going that fast.
Maybe nudging 35 in a 25, but the road was empty—just you and the soft, golden light of a July evening slipping into dusk. The cicadas hummed their lazy symphony, crickets chirping in harmony, while the air carried the scent of fresh-cut grass and summer warmth. It was the kind of night that wrapped around you like a blanket, slow and sweet, the kind that made you want to roll the windows down and let the world drift by.
But then the sirens sliced through the calm, sharp and jarring, shattering the stillness. Red and blue lights flashed in your rearview, splashing the road ahead in a chaotic swirl of color. Your hands tightened on the wheel, that familiar knot twisting in your gut. You didn’t even need to check the mirror to know who it was.
Sheriff John Price.
The small-town Sheriff (asshole) that had a sixth sense for catching you when you weren’t even doing anything wrong. The guy who’d written you up for a rolling stop at an empty intersection, or a right on red at 2 a.m. when the streets were dead silent. Sure, maybe you were five over on a straight stretch of road, but come on—did he really have nothing better to do than hassle you over that? It was starting to feel like he was just looking for excuses to pull you over.
At this point, you figured you were practically on a first-name basis. Hell, you were probably the most frequent flyer on his ticket roster. But that was the trade-off for living in a town where the sheriff knew everyone’s business—and apparently, yours most of all.
You eased the rickety old Nissan Skyline to a crawl, tires screeching softly as you pulled onto the shoulder and shifted into park. Your fingers moved on autopilot, fishing the registration out of the center console before he even asked. If John Price had one talent, it was knowing where you were before you did—and you’d learned the hard way to keep things within arm’s reach.
The music blared for a second longer before you killed the volume, the sudden silence pressing down on the summer night like a weight. You rolled down the window, letting the warm, sticky air flood the cabin, thick with the scent of grass and distant rain. Leaning back in your seat, one hand resting lazily on the wheel, you waited. Same old song and dance.
First came the slam of his cruiser door, sharp and final, like he was already annoyed at the prospect of dealing with you. Then the crunch of his boots on the asphalt—slow, deliberate, each step dragging out the inevitable. It was almost comical, the way he took his time, like he wasn’t the one who’d flipped on the lights and sirens.
The window hissed as it rolled down, the sound jarring in the quiet, and before you could stop yourself, a smirk tugged at the corner of your mouth. You didn’t bother hiding it this time. If you were walking away thirty dollars lighter, you might as well make it entertaining.
"Evenin’, John," you drawl, letting the words hang in the air with a playful edge that makes his jaw tighten.
He leans in, his arms braced against the window frame like he owns the whole damn road. His face is all sharp lines and shadows in the fading light, the faint scent of cigarettes and worn leather wrapping around you, mingling with the heavy, humid air of the summer night.
“Don’t call me John,” he grumbles, his voice rougher than usual, like gravel under tires.
You raise an eyebrow, your lips curling into a grin. “Why not?” you tease, letting your fingers trail lazily along the steering wheel. “Thought we were friends, John.” You bat your lashes, adding a pout for good measure, laying it on thick just to see how far you can push him this time
He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t even blink. His eyes narrow, the muscles in his jaw twitching as he leans in closer, his presence crowding you. “We aren’t ‘friends,’” he says, his voice low, almost a growl. “You know why I pulled you over?”
It’s not really a question—it’s a challenge, and you can’t help but rise to it. You tilt your head, letting your gaze linger on him, your smirk widening. “Hmm… maybe ‘cause you’re a sucker for a pretty car?” you suggest, your tone dripping with sarcasm, sweet enough to sting.
John’s lips press into a thin line, but the subtle shift in his posture tells you everything you need to know. His gaze is unrelenting, sharp enough to cut through the cool facade you’re trying so hard to maintain. Internally, he’s fighting not to laugh—you can see it in the way his shoulders tense, like he’s holding back a cackle.
“If this—” he steps back, his eyes sweeping over the exterior of your car with deliberate slowness before landing back on you, “—is your idea of a ‘pretty car,’ I might have to issue you a ticket for driving without glasses.”
You lean back in your seat, arms crossing over your chest, your mouth hanging open in mock offense. Just because Fergie was old didn’t mean she was ugly. “Has anyone ever told you you’re an ass?”
He stands there for a moment, just watching you, his expression unreadable. It’s like he’s weighing how much more of this he’s willing to put up with. Finally, he tilts his head, his voice dry as dust. “Has anyone ever told you you’re a brat?”
“Touché.”
You two had been here before. Over and over again. Ever since you’d come back home from college, he’d been hot on your trail—always showing up at the worst possible moments, right when you thought you might’ve gotten away with it.
This was your town. You’d grown up here, knew every road, every corner, every face. It was small, sure, but it was yours. And then John Price showed up. Sparkling, brand new hot-shot sheriff, fresh off the Mayflower. Sworn in by all the touch-starved wives and swooned over by every teenage girl in a fifty-mile radius. Ever since he’d arrived, it was like Elvis all over again
You figured he didn’t have the right to boss the locals around like he owned the place. No shiny badge or gun on his hip was going to earn him any respect from you. This wasn’t some big city where the badge meant everything. Out here? You could be just as stubborn as he was.
Still, he had a knack for showing up when you least expected it, always lurking in the background, keeping an eye on you for reasons you couldn’t quite figure out. No one could explain it, but there he was, always hovering like you were some kind of problem. But you never did anything wrong. Not really.
“I bet you 50 bucks there’s about five disgruntled teens smoking pot under the high school bleachers as we speak,” you say, leaning back in your seat with a grin tugging at your lips. “Surely, they deserve your devotion and attention more than little ol’ me.”
He pauses, clearly weighing your words, and you can see the flicker of recognition in his eyes. “I don’t want your money,” he mutters, his tone dry but with a hint of amusement—and something else you can’t quite place. “Besides, I doubt you’ve got 50 dollars to spare, considering how often you’re in the precinct paying off tickets.” He leans in just a little, his gaze sharp, like he’s daring you to argue.
You shrug, playing the part, even though you know he’s right. “Hey, I’m just saying. You’re wasting your time with me. I’m practically a model citizen. Those kids under the bleachers, though? They could be causing all kinds of trouble.”
You give him a sidelong glance, letting the playful challenge hang in the air between you. “I’m just trying to help you out here, Sheriff.”
Your tone is sweet—too sweet—and you can almost see the gears turning in his head as he tries to figure out whether you’re messing with him or just being your usual self.
He takes a slow breath, clearly trying to keep his composure. His hand pinches the bridge of his nose before he exhales, the sound heavy with exasperation. “Oh, I’m sure you are,” he says, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Big help, givin’ me that advice.”
You raise an eyebrow, leaning forward just enough to close the distance between you, your voice dripping with mock sincerity. “What can I say, Sheriff? Someone’s gotta make your job worthwhile.”
For a moment, the world seems to narrow to just the two of you. The air grows heavy, charged with something you can’t quite name, and the silence stretches taut between you. But then the faint hum of a car engine cuts through the stillness, tires rolling past on the asphalt—a sharp reminder that you’re not alone out here.
“Step out of the car.” His voice is calm, steady, but there’s a flicker of something darker beneath the surface, a low undercurrent that sends a shiver down your spine.
Your jaw tightens, anger flaring hot and sudden in your chest. He’s never asked you to step out of the car before, and the demand catches you off guard. You can’t afford to be arrested—not with a shift at the diner at 6 a.m. tomorrow morning, not with the way your life is already balanced on a knife’s edge. The thought of cuffs, of being hauled into the precinct, makes your stomach churn.
But you don’t move. Not yet. Instead, you meet his gaze, your own sharp and defiant, and for a heartbeat, the two of you are locked in a silent standoff.
You don’t say a word, just reach down to unclick your seatbelt with an indignant sigh, movements slow—like dragging out the inevitable might change the outcome. The latch pops, the sound too loud in the quiet, and you open the door, letting the evening air rush in, cool against the heat prickling at your skin.
You step out, tugging your shorts down where they’ve ridden up, keeping your gaze on the ground, on the cracks in the pavement, anywhere but at him. You try to keep your breathing steady, try to act like this is just another bullshit stop, just another way for him to waste your time and break your wallet. But your heart’s already racing, faster than you want it to.
Then his hand is on your hip.
Firm. Unmoving. Not quite guiding, not quite restraining. Just there. A weight that lingers, like a silent reminder that he’s the one in control here, no matter how much you want to believe otherwise.
For a second, you freeze.
He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, just watches you. The silence stretches, thick and heavy, charged with something you don’t want to name.
You swallow, still refusing to look at him. “Gonna write me a bullshit ticket, John?” Your voice is casual, flippant—too much so. You know it, and so does he.
He doesn’t answer right away, and that makes it worse.
Because the truth is, you’d rather he just do it. Write the damn ticket, hand you the fine, and send you on your merry way. That would be easy. It’d be normal.
But nothing about him has ever been easy. And this? Whatever this is? It sure as hell isn’t normal.
His fingers tighten—just slightly—but it’s enough. Enough for you to catch it, that flicker of something dark and barely restrained. His jaw tightens, his nostrils flare, and you realize he’s at his limit.
Like he’s weighing his options. Like he’s wondering if he should just give you the damn ticket and walk away.
You tilt your chin up, finally meeting his gaze, like a challenge. Would he?
His voice is tight when he finally speaks, low and strained, every word biting through the air.
"You think this is a game?"
You pause, letting the question linger as you ponder. Is it a game? Is that what this has always been? This back-and-forth, this constant chase—where you go about your life, minding your business, and he shows up, lurking, watching, like he’s got nothing better to do than make you his personal problem.
Would he really arrest you? Pin you against his cruiser and throw you in the back? Take you downtown like you’re some criminal? The thought sends a slow, involuntary shiver down your spine, but the more you think about it, the more ridiculous it sounds. If he was going to do it, it would’ve happened already.
He’s just a big softie. A stubborn, gruff, self-righteous pain in the ass who acts like he’s got the whole town in a chokehold but has spent too many years shadowing you for it to be a coincidence.
And deep down, you reckon he must have some sick, weird crush if the only way he can muster up the courage to see you is by stuffing a white slip of paper under your windshield wiper, like he can’t even be bothered to have a conversation without the safety of bureaucracy to hide behind.
You don’t even have to think about it anymore.
This is a game.
You keep your gaze steady, watching him. Watching the way he’s fighting to maintain that authority, to keep control. And through the harsh headlights from his car, it’s almost cute—the way his jaw tightens, the way his nostrils flare ever so slightly, the way his fingers twitch against your hip like he’s waging a war with himself. Like he thinks he can win.
But he can’t.
Not really.
His grip on you tightens, fingers pressing deeper, slipping beneath soft flesh to squeeze the bone. Like he’s trying to ground himself. Like he thinks if he just holds on tight enough, he can remind himself who’s in charge here.
But you see it—the shift in his expression, the cracks forming right in front of you. His eyes are darker now, narrowed with something he’s still pretending isn’t there, and his teeth grit like it physically pains him to keep standing here.
You just can’t resist.
You lean in just enough, close enough that your breath tickles his cheek, and with a slow, knowing smirk, you whisper, “You’ve been dying to get your hands on me, haven’t you, John?”
The words hang between you, sharp and saccharine, and for a moment, it’s like the world holds its breath.
His eyes go dark, that flicker of anger flashing through them like a warning. But it’s not just anger anymore. It’s something else, something raw. For a split second, you’re certain he’s off the deep end.
Before you can even blink, his hand moves. It’s fast, and suddenly, he’s grabbing you by the arm, yanking you toward him with a force that steals the breath from your lungs.
“Get over here,” he growls.
The words are rough, guttural, scraping against his throat like he’s been holding them back for too long.
The next thing you know, he’s dragging you to the hood of his cruiser, his grip tight and bruising as his fingers wrap around your wrist, effortlessly dwarfing it. The cold metal of the hood bites against your skin as he shoves you down, bending you over the car.
And then he’s on you.
His chest is solid heat against your back, his weight pressing you into the hood like he’s making sure you stay there. Your breath catches, chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven movements as you try to process just how quickly the shift between you has turned into this.
“Talk so fuckin’ much,” he mutters through clenched teeth, his voice a growl of frustration and something deeper, something rougher. His breath fans against your ear, hot and unsteady, sending a shiver down your spine.
One hand clamps over your wrists, holding them firm against the small of your back, while the other tangles in your hair, yanking your head back just enough to expose the vulnerable line of your throat.
The grip is possessive. Unforgiving, like he’s staking a claim.
“You think you can just keep pushing me? Keep fuckin’ with me like this, hmm?”
A soft whimper tumbles from your lips, and you bite down hard on your bottom lip, the rest of the sound dying in your throat. His hand pulls on your hair, making your neck arch back, and the sharp tug sends a jolt straight to your cunt. You try to choke back the reaction, but it’s impossible—the way he’s holding you, the way he’s pressing into you with every word, every move.
His body presses into yours, the intensity of it all making your pulse race. Despite everything, despite the situation, a shiver runs down your spine. You can tell he’s holding back by the way his teeth grit, the sharpness in his voice.
You smirk, tilting your head slightly to meet his gaze from the side. “By the way John Jr’s more sprung than a rainy day in April, I’d say you like it,” he groans and you chuckle, “You do like it, don’t you, John?”
The words slip from your lips, taunting him, and you can feel the shift in his posture before he even moves. His grip on your hair tightens, pulling you back further, forcing you to arch your neck more as he leans in, his breath hot and heavy against your skin, each exhale brushing over you like a warning.
“Think you’ve got me figured out?” he growls, teeth grazing the curve of your ear, his words a promise and a threat all at once. “Since you’re so fuckin’ knowledgeable, tell me something…”
Your pulse quickens, the anticipation like the loaded gun in his waistband. “Tell you what?” you ask, your voice quiet, almost breathless, but your eyes never leave his.
“Tell me what I do t’dumb girls that don’t know how t’speak only when spoken to,” he murmurs, his grip shifting, pulling you in closer, his body pressing against yours in a way that makes it impossible to ignore the growing bulge in his pants.
You can feel his cock twitch with interest in his jeans, and instinctively, you roll your hips back into his. The firm bulge presses against your pulsating cunt, offering just the smallest bit of reprieve from the ache in your clit and you can’t help but whimper. “You give them a ticket and send them on their way?”
“Nice try, love,” he says, the words dripping with disappointment, like he’s genuinely let down by your guess.
Before you can even react, his hand leaves your hair, and you hear the cold click of the cuffs snapping around your wrists.
You jerk against the restraint, but it’s useless. You turn to look up at him, but the look on his face—hands on his hips, blue eyes locked on you—makes you stop.
No smirk, no joke. Just intensity.
“Get on your knees,” he says, voice low, rough, without hesitation.
You bite your lip, the urge to snap back hitting you. But instead, you swallow it down and push yourself up, kneeling before him on the pavement. The roughness of it bites into your skin, the cuffs digging into your wrists, each pull reminding you of just how much control he has in this situation.
His boot taps lightly against your thigh, the sound sharp in the quiet air, a silent demand for your attention. You glance up, meeting his gaze, and the intensity in his eyes makes your breath catch. It’s a look that makes your pulse quicken, as if he can see right through you, into everything you’re trying to shovel deep..
“Sit,” he commands, the word simple, authoritative.
It takes you a second to realize what he means, but when his boot nudges against your clothed cunt, you get it.
You lift your hips slow, like you’re not sure but can’t help it, settling atop his boot. The sensation makes a shiver run up your spine. His fingers find your hair again, firm, enough to tilt your head back and make you look up at him.
“This’s been a long time coming, hasn’t it, dove?” His voice is quiet, almost a whisper, like he’s savoring the sight of you—knees to the ground, wrists bound, eyes wide as you stare up at him. He can’t help but palm himself at the sight.
Your heart pounds against your ribs, heat simmering in your cheeks with anticipation. “I’m not gonna beg,” you sneer, defiant like your cunt isn’t already drooling for him. The lie sits thick on your tongue, heavy enough to choke on.
He smirks—slow like he’s amused, but there’s something else there, like he’s already decided how he’ll play with you.
“That’s cute,” his fingers tighten in your hair, tilting your head back just a little further. Your lips part on instinct, a quiet, pained mewl slipping out before you can stop it.
“but you will,” he hums with a smile so saccharine, it makes you want to smack it off his face. His free hand reaches for his belt, fumbling with the leather as he pulls it out of the buckle. You can feel your body buzzing with anticipation, the tension building in every nerve of your body. Everything in your mind is screaming at you, telling you how wrong this is, how this can’t happen. But deep down, you know he’s right. This has been a long time coming.
But fuck, he’s a literal cop, the Sheriff. This has to fall under some public indecency law.
But despite everything, despite all the warnings your mind throws at you, the pull is stronger, too real to ignore. And you can’t stop yourself from leaning into it.
He peels down the zipper of his blue slacks and the sound echoes in your ears. You’re on your knees on the shoulder of a road, the last vestiges of daylight fading, and God help you, your mouth waters when you see the outline of his solid cock through his boxers.
He doesn't break eye contact, his other hand still tight in your hair, daring you to even try to look away. The recklessness, the sheer audacity of him whipping out his cock in the middle of a traffic stop. It’s all so palpable, like a stack of weights on your chest. He tugs down his boxers in one fluid movement, his cock springing free, and you can’t help but try to back away at the sight.
He's massive in every sense of the word. Dark curls trail from his navel to the base of him, thick but neatly kept. His cock hangs low and heavy between his legs, thick and long with a few veins and just the softest blush of pink at his tip. There’s no way you can take him all, let alone in your mouth.
He could see the shift in your eyes, the sudden apprehension in your demeanor, and the hand in your hair loosened. He trailed his fingers from your scalp to your cheek, his thumb wandering to the plump flesh of your parted lips.
“You can say no, dove. I won’t hold it against you,” he says softly, giving you an out. His blue eyes soften as they meet yours, and you know he wouldn’t force you. But the way the hard leather of his boot presses through your shorts, firm against your clit, has you fighting the urge to grind against him. You want—No, need him. Badly.
You bow your head to meet his cock, tongue darting out, hungrily swiping up the drop of precum dangling from his tip. He automatically groans and his hands find their way back to your scalp, feeding his cock into your mouth. Your lips tighten around him immediately, suckling as he presses in and stretches you out.
“Fuck— that’s it, love, so fuckin’ tight,” he babbles as he watches his length disappear in your mouth over and over. His eyes flutter shut as he tips his head back—he knew if he looked at you any longer he’d blow his load too soon. Your tongue is just so hot. He hadn’t expected it to be ice, but God you were sweltering. He nestled himself in the back of your throat so nicely, tickling and toying with your gag reflex each time you bobbed your head. You coat his length with slick spit, the sounds of your gags subconsciously making him push your head down even further.
You focus on steady breaths through your nose as his grip tightens. Your hands strain against the cuffs, aching to touch, to feel, to at least stroke where your mouth can’t reach. So pretty like this, he thinks. The way you look up at him, defiant yet desperate. The way your breath catches and your throat flutters around his mushroomed tip.
It drives him crazy—how much he wants to break that control, to make you lose it completely. His groans only spur you on further, your tongue moving with purpose, tracing the prominent vein along his underside.
Your hips jerk against his boot as spit gathers at the corners of your mouth, knees grinding into the asphalt, but you barely notice the sting. All you can think about is the way it makes heat pool in your cunt—sends sparks up your spine.
You can’t help it—your hips keep moving, grinding against his boot, the rough leather driving you wild, and you’re sure you’re leaving a wet spot. The friction is delicious, and you’re so lost in it that you almost miss when he speaks.
“Look at you,” he says, smirking despite how badly he needs to cum. “Can’t even help yourself, can you? Just a needy little mutt, humpin’ my boot.”
His hand tugs your strands, not rough but firm, just enough to make you gasp. “Just need your pretty pussy touched, that right?” he tuts softly, pulling you off him, a thin strand of saliva connecting your glistening lips to the tip of his cock. “On your feet, come on.” He guides you up, your legs shaky and chest heaving but his grip steadies you. “There you go, sweetheart.”
The sky’s a deep blue now, the sun long gone, the cruiser’s headlights casting faint shadows. He shoves you back against the hood, the metal cool against the backs of your thighs. His hands are on you immediately, rough and demanding, squeezing your thighs, your tits, like he’s marking his territory.
You bite your lip, trying to steady your breathing, but it’s useless. His fingers dig into your flesh, and your hips jerk instinctively, craving more. “So quiet now, hm?” he hums, his face centimeters from yours. “What happened to that smart little mouth of yours?”
The way he switches from caring to being so dominant, it makes your head spin. You glare at him, but he doesn’t care. His hand slides under the waistband of your shorts, fingers dancing over your soaked panties, and you can’t stop the way your hips roll into his hand, desperate for any touch he’ll give. “All this for me, sweet girl?” he mutters, middle finger slowly circling your sensitive clit, “All wound up, yeah? Need me to set you straight?”
“Fuck—,” you whine, your hips bucking into his hand, you can feel his breath against your lips as he chuckles. He deftly pulls your panties to the side, groaning when his fingers slide through your folds. His lips find your neck and he mouths at the sensitive patch of skin above your pulse, sucking a dark, red splotch into your skin as if you’re his.
You instinctively toss your head back, letting him lick hot, wet stripes from your clavicle to your jaw. He slips a single finger into you and your cunt squelches embarrassingly.
“Feels so good, John—,” you whine into the evening breeze as he pumps his finger in you, curling to hit your g-spot with precision you’ve never experienced. He smiles against your skin before enveloping your lips with his.
It’s hungry, messy, and desperate. His tongue crowds your mouth trying to drink you whole, like he’s been parched, waiting for you to quench his thirst since he first met you. He swallows your whines and pleas for more as he works you open, grinning when he slips in his ring finger alongside the middle and you gasp.
It’s a pathetic attempt, really, to kiss him back—to try to match his fervor. He has you at his mercy and you’re near collapsing into him as he finger fucks you, low heat pooling in your belly as the coil tightens, as you claw at the hood of the car, wishing the cuffs weren’t there—wishing you could claw at him instead.
“Feel you gettin’ all tight ‘round me, dove. Gonna cum? Gonna soak my fingers, doll?” He questions against your lips. Your walls are squeezing him so tight, sucking him in and keeping them there. So greedy, he thinks.
You nod vehemently, biting your lip so you don’t scream—or sob, you aren’t sure how to feel—into the air. He grinds the heel of his palm against your clit, and that’s all you need to finally break. You near black out when you cum, sparks shooting up your spine and making your vision go black for a moment, his fingers lazily working you through your orgasm as your legs shake and your walls damn near break his fingers.
“That’s my girl, knew you could do it,” he hums against your temple, wiping away tears you hadn’t known fallen.
You hadn’t cum that hard in your life. Not by yourself, and most certainly not by any of the lame frat boys you fucked in your college days.
But John isn’t in a frat.
And he certainly isn’t just a boy.
He gently slips his hand out of your pants, bringing his fingers up to his lips before popping them into his mouth. The way his eyes flutter shut, eyebrows pulling together softly as he groans at the taste of you on his tongue, it’s all fucking sinful. You watch him, mesmerized as he pulls the glistening digits out of his mouth with a pop.
He dips his head to yours, kissing you again, but much softer this time, less hungry, more savoring. You can taste the subtle tang of your own juices on his tongue, and you’d be a liar if you said it didn’t turn you on further.
John subtly tugs your shorts and panties down, the fabric whispering against your skin. He fishes for a small key in his pocket, before using them on the cuffs. They open, releasing your raw wrists with a near-silent snick. You feel the moment the cuffs fall away, and your hands move as if drawn by an invisible force, reaching for him, clutching at his jaw, pulling him closer with urgency. Your fingers roam his shoulders, his neck, tracing the hard lines of his body as he spreads your legs, tossing your discarded shorts aside. He settles between them, lazily pumping his cock with his free hand.
“You want this, love?” he whispers against your lips.
You nod almost imperceptibly before crashing your lips back to his, like you just can’t get enough.
He kisses you back like a magnet, but just as quickly, he pulls away again.
“Words,” he says sternly.
You huff, ever the impatient brat. “Put your fucking cock in me or I swear to God, I'll get in my car and drive right out of here.”
“That right?” he scoffs, "You gonna drive off?" He brings his angry red tip to your sodden folds, teasing your sensitive clit with each brush, making you jolt, “You want t’act like a brat,” he whispers, his breath warm against your ear. “Then we can do this the hard way.” He leans in, his lips brushing against yours. “Unless,” he murmurs, ghosting the head of his cock into your hole, “you'd like to ask nicely.”
You bite your lip as you watch him tease you, fighting a groan at the way your cunt squelches and stretches around just his tip.
“She’s so greedy, already tryin’ to suck me in,” he coos, “don’t want to deprive her, now do we?”
You whine as he notches just the head in. He pauses, waiting for you to speak before he moves any further. You open your mouth and your voice just breaks as you leak and drip around him and onto the hood of the car.
“Please, John, Please, I need you—Please, I’ll be so good,” You break and claw at his shoulders and back, desperate to pull him closer to you, to have you flush against him, chest to chest and full of his cock.
“See how gorgeous you sound when you’re nice? See where that gets you, love?” He coos as he inches his cock into you. Your walls are already fluttering, still all worked up from your last orgasm. He has to fight the urge to cum right then and there, gritting his teeth as his grip tightens on your thighs, fingers dimpling the fat as he spears you open.
You’re slack jawed, eyes glassy as he bottoms out. You’ve never been so full and stretched in your life. You can feel him in every orifice of your body, you feel him in the pits of your stomach, in the hollows of your lungs, in the cavern of your throat. His tip nudges against your cervix and all you can manage is a strangled sob.
“Oh none of that, lovie, none of that,” he hums, pecking your lips and wiping the tears from your eyes with the pads of his thumbs.
“Gonna fuck you real nice,” the thumb he used to wipe your tears away travels south, finding your clit and drawing soft, slow circles that have you gushing and relaxing around him, “Just be a good pet and take it.”
You nod as he cradles your head in his hand. He gently moves his hips, inching his cock out of your cunt before sliding back in, squeezing the air out of you like a fucking balloon.
Gasps fall from your lips with each stroke, not entirely from discomfort, but from the sheer intensity of the feeling. He repeats the motion, a slow, deliberate push and pull that sends shivers down your spine. He keeps his thumb on your clit steady, making your legs shake, a burning heat already blossoming low in your belly. You grip his shoulders, your nails digging into his clothed frame as you try to anchor yourself against the rising tide of sensation.
He continues, his movements becoming more insistent, more demanding. Each thrust is deeper, faster, steady plaps from where his hips repeatedly meet yours. He knocks the breath out of you, each stroke forcing a soft mewl from your lips, your body trembling with anticipation. The world narrows, focusing on the rhythmic movements of his hips, the feel of his skin against yours, the sound of your ragged breaths mingling with his.
He leans, his lips brushing against your own. “That's it, doll,” he murmurs, his voice low and husky. “Take it all.”
His words ignite a fire within you, a raw, primal need that surges through your veins. You arch your back, meeting his thrusts with a ferocity that surprises even yourself. His pace quickens, his movements becoming more urgent, more erratic, and you know he’s getting close. The burning in your abdomen intensifies, spreading outwards, and throughout your body.
His name falls from your lips in a litany—John, John, John, john—a prayer, both a plea and a demand as his cock plows into you with staggering precision. Your cunt clenches around him, milking every ounce of pleasure from each stroke. He groans, cursing as his grip tightens on your hips, until you wail, toes curling and clawing at his back, your voice hoarse as you squirt all over him. He continues to move, his rhythm relentless, until he too reaches his peak, groaning as his body shudders, as he spurts hot ropes of cum deep inside your cunt.
You’re breathless, spent, your limbs heavy and relaxed. The dampness of sweat cooled on your skin, a pleasant contrast to the lingering heat between your legs. The world slowly comes back into focus and a soft smile plays on your lips as you trace the line of his jaw with your fingertips.
“That was…” you murmur, your voice still rough.
He nuzzles your neck, his breath warm against your skin. “A lot,” he finishes for you, his voice low.
You hum in agreement, tightening your grip on his jaw just slightly. You don't need to say more. The silence that settles between you is comfortable. He shifts slightly, and it reminds you he's still there, sheathed inside you.
You close your eyes, savoring the warmth of his body against yours, a comforting heat that seeps into your skin. Every nerve ending still fires, buzzing with aftershocks.
Slowly, he inches out of you. It feels weird to not be full of him, a sudden emptiness that makes you instinctively clench. He's out, and the cool air against your skin is a stark reminder of the reality of the situation. Of the fact that you’re literally on the side of the road. John reaches for your discarded clothes, picking them up with a casualness that borders on audacious.
He starts with your panties, briefly bending down in front of you as you step into them. He pulls them up your legs, snapping the elastic against your hip. “Sheriff’s discretion,” he murmurs, his eyes glinting with amusement as he fastens your shorts too. “Wouldn't want you getting a ticket for indecent exposure.” Fucking knew it.
You raise an eyebrow, a smirk playing on your lips. “You were just as indecent as I was, if I recall.”
He shrugs as he tugs up his own pants, a picture of nonchalant authority. “Evidence suggests otherwise, doll,” he counters, his gaze dropping to your lips. “Besides,” he adds, his voice dropping to a low rumble, “I'm the one writing the tickets.” He finishes buttoning your shorts, his fingers lingering against your skin.
The world sways for a moment, your legs still a little shaky. He steadies you, his arm around your waist. He walks you back to your car, the silence between you comfortable, filled with unspoken understanding. He stops just short of the driver's side door, his hand resting comfortably on your back.
“Drive safe,” he says, his voice softer than you've ever heard it.
You nod, your eyes meeting his. You stand on your tip toes and kiss him, a soft, lingering peck on his lips that’s got him feeling like a teenager again.. He responds in kind, other hand moving to cup your cheek. Judging by how he holds you close, he’s reluctant to pull away.
But he does, and he turns and walks back to his cruiser. Eventually, You watch his car fade away, a strange mix of emotions swirling within you. Then, with a deep breath, you turn and get into your car. The door shuts and you just exhale, replaying everything that just happened.
You reach to crank the keys sitting in the ignition and your eyes fall on a small white rectangle tucked under the windshield wiper. You get back out of the car and pull it free.
⸺ 'old man' used romantically, mw4 beard price, infidelity, oral sex (f!receiving), piv, price is a genuinely bad father, age gap (price is old!!), overstimulation, daddy kink, past mentions of virginity loss & 'cherry popping', light teasing & humiliation kink, outfit & hair descriptions. 18+ only / all characters are 18+.
“Come on then, give your old man a kiss. Put that down for a second.”
You looked up from the impeccably dressed box of chocolate-coated strawberries in front of you—Price's sorry excuse of a make-up present for disappearing on a military stint unannounced—blinking slowly at him like a feline, your legs kicking behind you with ballet-slipper-pink shimmering on your toes. You weren't supposed to be there and you knew it.
He could practically see the gears turning in your head. His very own calendar kitten, gauging whether the specimen in front of her was a hazard or a toy. Or rather, in this case, if John was a worthy playmate. Though it was too late from the moment you hopped into his Jeep, for what it's worth, you were still cautious, thoughtful—he liked that, even if it only served to delay the inevitable. Big or small, a cat is prideful.
His belt was level with your face when you lifted your head, his hands resting on the buckle as he shifted his weight. Your lips puckered around the heart-shaped treat and a ragged breath hissed past his teeth, strawberry juice popping in your mouth. The tent in his pants was hard to miss, but it's totally not your fault for holding out all that time, spending your time licking juice off your fingertips. Totally, wholly, completely, not your fault.
Before you could reach for a tissue from the nightstand, Price's hand slid to your jaw, swiping his thumb over your sugary lips. The same hand guided you up to kneel in front of him on the foot of the bed, the spill of your cheek in his palm. “Stop,” you giggled despite yourself as his thumb breached your mouth, reaching up to touch his wrist. He bent over your kneeling form, slanted his mouth over yours.
“You taste sweet.” At first, you'd thought the remark rather cheesy—a sign of old age, perhaps—but it was literal. An observation, one which he superseded with another, fuller kiss, sucking on your bottom lip for size. “I could just eat you right up,” Price teased with an affectionate growl, nipping the tip of your nose with his lips and eliciting a giggle right from your chest, your fists going up to bat his chest just before you fell over backwards on the bed.
The sheets billowed around you as you landed while giggling behind your hand, your hair spread out like ivy along the gaudy floral print bedding. You felt yourself being dragged further down the bed weightlessly until your legs dangled off the edge, the springs of the cheap motel mattress squeaking as the pressure shifted, his arms going under your thighs.
Mr Price, nice and warm between your legs. Price. Your boyfriend's surname.
You peered down at him as if seeing him for the first time and wrinkled your nose with renewed embarrassment. “Hi, down there,” you murmured through a nervous laugh. The gauzy overhead lights swathed the room in a murky amber like swimming through honey, his stark blue eyes oddly anchoring through the fuzzy shadows.
“Hey there, pet.” The hem of your babydoll top tented over his head as he skimmed his lips across your navel, his wiry pepper-and-salt beard tickling your sensitive skin. A satisfied hum rumbled in his throat upon feeling the tremor of your skin under him—the way your breathing immediately fell out of rhythm.
The button of your denim shorts popped off with a soft clink and he dragged the shorts down with your panties without delay.
“Comfy?” Price asked, squeezing the ball of your heel in his big hand and rubbing the soles soothingly, then drifting his hand up to your calf as he held your knees open around his head. His warm breath fanned against your slick cunt unhurriedly, a shudder going through you as you wrought your fingers through his hair and dropped your head back.
“Oh, shush.” Between your legs wasn't the best place for conversation, you thought, your cheeks burning, though Price seemed perfectly in his element, mouthing against your inner thighs. It didn't seem right to affirm how good all of this, something so wrong, felt—you liked it far more than you should—but actions speak louder than words anyway.
He lowered his face to the top of your mound, kissing softly, a heavy breath rumbling through his chest as his big hands roamed along your hips and your belly with a certain reverence. You certainly weren't his to love and to hold, but the taste of you, so tangible and pooling on his tongue, felt like holding you in the palm of his hand, the heartbeat between your thighs a persistent flutter.
Before you, Price's relationship with his son may as well have been nonexistent. That was especially true after the fateful night when his son decided to rekindle their relationship to introduce his new girlfriend, and brought home… you. The same broad Price had shagged one year ago. A mindless one night stand between deployments. Price had popped your cherry before Tommy even got to third base.
It wasn't cheating at the time; you weren't dating anybody back then. Not officially, at least. You wanted to gain some experience before standing ten toes in with the guy you were seeing, learn what you were getting yourself into so you could do it right, on your own terms, when the time came.
Price could've, should've kept it that way—clean, in the past. You probably wouldn't have been able to stay with Tommy after knowing what his dad sounded like in bed, but you would've moved on eventually. But Price, when presented with the forbidden fruit right in his backyard, knew right then that he wasn't going to stay away. It wasn't in his nature. Tommy may have been the result of a mistake—another, one night stand—but you were no mistake. No one could convince him otherwise. He chose you and continued choosing you between every, 'We shouldn't be doing this,' and, 'We should stop meeting like this,' leading into bed.
His tongue dipped between your folds, just tasting, lapping up the slick that gathered there with your hips twitching against his mouth, his throat bobbing as he looked up at you and tilted his head.
“Is this cunt off limits, baby?” There it was. You hesitated, feeling quite dumb and exposed with your legs spread around his shoulders while he reminded you that you in fact weren't supposed to be doing this, and wanting to beg him not to stop now. Quite frankly, Price was having fun. Watching you get all wound up and off-balance with an amused crinkle around his eyes, though he presented a sympathetic croon at your plight. Price was unfair.
He bit a fair chunk of your thigh for a reaction. “Come on, baby, tell me. Should I stop touching you here?” You shuddered as the pad of his thumb circled your clit languidly, tugging on his hair on instinct, a traitorous trail of arousal running down the cleft of your ass.
“Stop it--”
“Stop touching-?”
“No!” A whiny, petulant noise unlike anything you've heard from yourself filled your ears, you may as well have been kicking your feet. “Stop bein' gross.”
That earned a truly hearty chuckle from Price—the old, distinguished kind, crow's feet deep. Pearly strands stuck to his fingers as he pulled his hand away from your seam, caressing your thighs as if calming a small, angry animal. “Gross? You're right, baby, we should stop. I mean, look at you—you're soaked. This is just filthy, darling. You don't want these dirty old hands touching you, do you? This is gross.”
“That's not what I-” You were getting all puffed up and red, he knew. Overwhelmed, even. It required too much brainpower to keep up with his games while your cunt was all achy, and his mouth was right there. “Please don't stop, Iʼm so, so wet, I don't wanna think about him right now-”
All in one, long-winded breath.
“Atta girl.” The vibrations of his voice rumbling through your sensitive bundle of nerves made you gasp out, his middle and ring finger plunging inside your cunt before you could ever catch your breath. The achy throb between your legs was tuned into a deep, perfect fullness that left no room for thought as his fingers curled inside you.
You never mentioned 'him' in these moments, refused to acknowledge his existence altogether. But that was too safe, too easy. Price didn't offer you the respite of ignoring reality, to languish in a safe little bubble where you forgot your obligations to your lover for a while. That might have went over with another man, but not one like Price, who thought the forbidden—Or perhaps just seeing you compromise your morals for the pleasure he gave you—was half the fun.
Spit and arousal alike dripped down your cunt while he slurped and lapped at your center, thick, deft fingers squelching inside you. His lips closed around your hood, sucking gently as he let out a muffled groan that pulsed through you. "Christ,” Price hissed against you, drawing your hips closer as you mashed your cunt against his mouth. “There's my girl. Don't fucking come until Iʼm inside you. Wanna feel you come all over me.”
The sound of his zipper unfurling made your eyes fly open, met with the blurry sight of a water-damaged ceiling through tears you didn't realize had sprung in your ears. His moans down below had grown more feverish by the minute, and you realized he was fucking his fist. You propped yourself on your elbows as you guided Price's head down on you and let your gaze fall over him, the fabric of his trousers stretched across his thighs as he kneeled on the carpet with his hard cock in his free hand.
“Price-” You preened his name brokenly, only to earn a muffled grunt from him against your clit, his tongue flattening against your folds with each lap. The muscles in his forearm jumped and tightened, veins standing out as he crooked his fingers and worked that spot in sharp, merciless curls. Too close—your thighs cinched around his ears, your fingers curling in his hair like you meant to drag him off, but you only pulled him closer.
Price slid his fingers from your cunt with a wet spray and a whimper fell from your lips, your hips jerking against the air uselessly.
You scrambled up the sheets as he climbed onto the bed, one knee on the mattress, then another. “You close, sweetheart?” Price cooed while settling between your legs, knees pressed wide to accommodate the breadth of his waist, your thighs tender from being scratched by his beard. His big hands haphazardly reached for the fabric of your top and ripped it over your head.
“I-Iʼm close-” You nodded your head, fisting up the sheets restlessly. His heavy cock rested against your seam, dragging back-and-forth through the mess while your walls clamped around nothing. “Please, need it-”
“Fuck—” Your breath mingled together as he pushed inside your heat with a guttural sound, your sloppy cunt practically drawing Price all the way in. “—That's it,” he grunted, “Gonna come for your daddy, luvie?”
You were already close—so close—every nerve pulled taut from what he'd just done to you, but it felt humiliating to finish as soon as he was inside, like some inverse of a teenage boy. Yet, your messy head of hair nodded wildly in the crook of his shoulder, wobbly legs criss-crossed behind his back.
The air knocked out of you as Price bottomed out fully, breathless cries spilling from your lips as your walls spasmed around his girth. His hips pummeled into you impatiently until your release slicked the way for his desperate strokes, a lewd, heavy slap of skin connecting with his beefy body bearing down on you, mattress springs groaning. A weak, trembling hand pressed against his stomach, trying to push him back, but his hand closed around yours, pinning it to the mattress as he drove into you through the oversensitivity, a guttural groan rumbling from deep in his chest.
“Ssh, I know, darling, I know,” he murmured, voice ragged, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “It's my turn now. You can take it.”
— writing cheap sleazy porn intended to be sold at half-price bookstores as usual. just a quick oneshot to give my brain a break from my longer wips! you guys should be grateful i took a break from bingeing TWD to post something. + sorry if there's any inconsistencies in the tenses, iʼm a little rusty with using past tense ever since i started writing fics.
ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist
John Price
“This for me?” John saunters over to the bed, absently rubbing his hairy chest. “And above the sheets?”
“No,” you warn, because you know that look. You know what John is up to. “Don’t think about it. Not tonight.”
He cocks an eyebrow, all flirty mischievousness. “Have I done something?”
“No,” you repeat. “It’s hot. And you’re a furnace. You’ll get me sweaty.”
It’s the wrong thing to say.
John dives at the bed, crushing you beneath him. “Doesn’t have to be a cuddle, love. Could do something rigorous.”
You twist, evading a kiss. “Stop poking me with your dick.”
Kyle "Gaz" Garrick
You and Kyle lay on your backs, staring at the ceiling. Overhead, the ceiling fan whips up a breeze but offers little to alleviate the heat. Worst heat wave in the last decade. That’s what they’re saying.
“I know,” you reply. “I hate it, too.”
The pillows are gone, bed stripped down to the fitted sheet. Both of you are freshly showered and naked, and still you’re sweating. Kyle’s arm shifts, the side of his hand brushing against yours. Your index fingers connect, hook around each other. Sweat immediately accompanies it.
Kyle reaches for his phone. “I’m ordering another fan.”
John "Soap" MacTavish
“Johnny,” you grumble, half-asleep.
His hand pauses on your bare hip. “Can’t touch you?”
“Too hot,” you mumble. “How are you not hot?”
The bedding is tossed aside, pushed to the edges of the bed. It’s the middle of the night but feels like the middle of the day. Has been for weeks. A goddamn heatwave.
Beside you, the bed shifts. “Not even a hand?”
“No.”
“What about a finger?”
“No.”
Johnny sits up onto his elbow. “A tit?” You open one eye and glare. “A quick squeeze?”
“Fine,” you mutter, relenting. “But only one tit. And only one squeeze.”
Simon "Ghost" Riley
Sleeping naked under the covers isn’t an option. It’s disgustingly hot out. If you just lay here, on your stomach and above the covers, naked, unmoving, you’ll cool off. You just can’t move. You can’t—
A hand comes down on your ass in a sharp, stinging slap.
You bolt up, startled. “What the fuck, Simon? I’m trying to sleep.”
Your husband stands next to the bed, hand still raised like he’s aiming for another. He shrugs. “Couldn’t help myself.”
You roll your eyes but Simon is settling beside you anyway, handsy as always.
Price complained about his lunch to you, his missus. Does not end well for him…
Price had been muttering since morning. Not about the mission, not about the weather, but about his lunch.
“Bloody same thing every day,” he grumbled under his breath while checking his kit. “Sandwiches, sandwiches, sandwiches. They knows I hate cucumber…”
Soap caught it, of course. “What’s the matter, Captain? Yer lady runnin’ outta ideas?”
“Mind your business, Johnny,” Price growled, tugging his cap lower. But his bad mood carried all the way through the day.
When the squad finally sat down for a breather, Price pulled out his lunchbox. He was ready to see another neatly wrapped sandwich, probably the same thing he’d been eating all week.
Instead, when he peeled back the bread, he froze. No cheese. No ham. No cucumber. Nothing but two plain slices of bread and a note shoved between them.
In bold marker, it reads:
“Fuck you. Make your own lunch next time.
<3 –Y/N”
The lads went feral.
Soap nearly fell off his rock laughing. “OH GOD- they actually wrote it out proper! With a heart at the end! That’s marriage-grade fury, Cap!”
Gaz doubled over. “Y/N sick of your whining, mate. You’ve been demoted from sandwiches to bread.”
Even Ghost’s voice carried amusement. “Generous of em, giving you bread at all.”
Price sat there, shoulders stiff, cheeks red, muttering into his mustache. “Bloody hell…”
Soap leaned over with his own sandwich, grinning ear to ear. “Fancy a trade, Cap? Mine’s got cheese and a partner who doesn’t hate me.”
Gaz added between snickers, “Better hope they doesn’t swap your dinner for just a plate with a sticky note that says ‘starve.’”
Price sighed and tucked the note back between the bread, defeated. “Should’ve kept my mouth shut…”
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Part 1. | Part 2. | Part 3. | Part 4. | | Part 5. | Next Part | His seat | His lunch | His coffee | His sandwich | Your Gym Confession | What kind of Protection? | "Luck or skill? Either way, lucky wife." | "Last Blow-" | "Embarrassing Mom" |
