#captain jonathan price

[cupids-dove]

I keep saying I'm not into John Price, but shit like this keeps appearing....

HORNY PRIEST JOHN PRICE

warnings: breeding kink, sacrilege (?)

john joined the church after leaving the military, though he never spoke much about what led him there. some men left war and found peace in quiet towns, in family, in distance. john, meanwhile, found himself in the shadow of the cross, searching for something he couldn't name.

he knelt, prayed, studied scripture— not because he'd had a sudden divine vision, but because he’d needed something to tether himself to.

he's never been one to talk about faith in absolutes. the young priests, fresh out of seminary, speak with a certainty that makes him envious. they talk of god’s mercy like it’s a thing they’ve held in their hands, like they’ve never doubted it for a second.

john doesn’t have that luxury. his hands have held a rifle, pressed down on wounds, ended lives.

what right does he have to stand in the confessional and tell a man his sins are forgiven when his own are still heavy in his chest?

he doesn’t let it show. not when he stands before his congregation, not when he delivers the homily, and not even when he listens to the confessions of those who kneel before him.

the words come easy. “god is love. god is mercy.” he says them with the confidence of a man who believes them. perhaps if he says them enough, one day it'll drive home.

he's decently well-respected in his parish. john speaks in measured tones, and listens with the kind of patience that makes people trust him. he’s rarely if ever unkind, never raising his voice even when the children at sunday school test his patience or when the older priests debate doctrine with a stubbornness he doesn’t bother entertaining.

the congregation admires him for it.

he keeps a well-worn rosary in his pocket, fingers brushing over the beads when he’s deep in thought. it’s an old habit, one he never lost even when he stopped saying the prayers as often as he should. late at night, when he can’t sleep, he walks the empty church, the only light coming from the red glow of the tabernacle lamp.

he runs his fingers over the smooth wood of the pews, listens to the creak of the floorboards beneath his boots, and exhales smoke into the dim air. it feels like a kind of penance, staying here long after everyone else has gone, keeping watch over something he’s still not sure he belongs to.

the first time you meet, it’s in the courtyard after sunday mass.

you’re new to the church. new to the neighborhood. moved in just a month ago, so he’s heard. he hadn't taken much notice at first— he rarely does. parishioners come and go, faces blending into one another over time.

but then he sees you. all wide eyes and bright smiles, the late-morning sun catching the warmth in your hair, laugh spilling out like a song. you shake hands with mrs. calloway, nod attentively as she chatters on about her garden, and there’s something about the way you tilt your head, the way your lips part in quiet amusement, that makes something ugly and raw twist in his gut.

john shouldn’t be looking. he knows he shouldn’t be looking.

and yet.

you catch sight of him, and your smile brightens, something open and eager in your face as you step forward. “father price.”

your voice is softer than he expects. sweeter. a fact not good for his health.

he nods. “you’ve settled in well, i see.”

“i have. everyone’s been so kind.” your hands clasp in front of you, fingers tangling. “i wanted to introduce myself properly. i should have done it sooner, but-” you shake your head, sheepish. “i guess i was nervous.”

nervous? of who— him?

he watches the way you glance down, the way your teeth catch the plump of your lower lip, the slight shift of your weight from foot to foot, and something slow and molten pools in his stomach.

and then, unbidden—

i want to fuck her mouth.

the thought slams into him. his fingers curl, blunt nails pressing into his palm. john's throat tightens, heat crawling up the back of his neck, shame dragging its claws down his spine.

he schools his expression, keeps his voice level. “there’s nothing to be nervous about.” a beat. his gaze lingers on your lips a second too long. “i hope you find what you’re looking for here.”

your eyes meets his then. for a moment, he swears you see it. the crack in his composure, the way his restraint stretches thin around you like fraying rope.

but then you just smile again— so fucking gentle— and bid him a polite goodbye before slipping back into the crowd.

he exhales, tries to control his breathing, before turning on his heel and heading inside.

it doesn’t get better after that.

oh no. in fact, it only gets worse.

because you linger. you stay. you join the congregation, sit near the front every sunday, your hands folded neatly in your lap, your lips parted slightly in quiet reverence as you listen to the sermon. you bite your lip when you concentrate, tuck your hair behind your ear absentmindedly, shift in your seat just enough to make his mind wander places it has absolutely no right to go.

and it haunts him.

creeps into his thoughts when he thinks he's already run far away from it. slips into his head when he least expects it. a slow, insidious thing, winding around his ribs, sinking its teeth into the softest parts of him.

john finds himself getting lost in his imaginations more and more as the weeks pass by. it starts with something simple. something small.

you, in his kitchen.

the space is yours as much as it is his now— he hardly steps foot in it unless you usher him in, your hands on his arms, guiding him to sit, to rest. the scent of warm bread and roasted meat fills the house, seeping into the wooden beams, the stone walls. the windows are cracked open just enough to let the breeze in, carrying with it the scent of the fields, the distant bells of the church.

you hum as you work, a quiet little tune under your breath, flour dusting your fingers, smudging along the curve of your cheek. you’re barefoot, the hem of your dress skimming your ankles, your apron tied neatly at the back. domestic. wifely. His.

"you’re spoiling me, love."

you laugh, glancing over your shoulder at him where he sits at the table, his elbows braced against the wood, his chin resting on his hand. john hasn’t even touched the sermon notes laid out before him, hasn’t even opened the book he’d planned to read. no, his attention has been on you— watching you move, watching the light catch on your hair, watching the way you fit so perfectly in his home.

"you work too hard," you murmur, turning back to the stove. "someone has to take care of you."

the words sink into him, low and warm, wrapping around something deep in his chest.

you do take care of him.

you set a plate before him, still warm from your hands, and press a kiss to the top of his head, your lips soft against his hair.

you fold his robes neatly after they’ve dried in the sun, pressing your hands over the fabric like a prayer. you pluck a stray thread from his collar before mass, your fingers deft and careful, your brow furrowing in quiet concentration.

you brush his hair back from his forehead when he sits too long at his desk, rubbing slow circles at his temple, your fingers easing away the weight of his work.

and in the evenings, after the dishes have been washed and the fire burns low, you climb into his lap with a soft sigh, tucking yourself against his chest.

"long day?" you ask, your fingers smoothing over the front of his shirt.

"mm." john presses a kiss to your hair, lets his hands settle at your waist, palms warm through the thin fabric of your nightdress. "better now."

and it is better, with you here, with your warmth seeping into his, your breath brushing his throat.

he wants all of it. the soft, easy domesticity. the routine of waking to you curled beside him, of pressing sleepy kisses to your bare shoulder before dragging himself out of bed. of watching you move through his home with the comfort of a woman who belongs there.

and, god help him—

john wants to fuck you too.

until you leaked him, until his seed dripped down your thighs, making a mess of soft, perfect skin. wants to bend you over his desk, press your face into the worn wood, break you open on his cock until you sobbed for him, begged him to fill you. he’d grip your hips hard enough to leave bruises.

he wants to whisper filth into your ear, his breath hot— gonna fill you up, love. gonna fuck you so full of me you’ll be dripping for days. you want that, don’t you? want me to breed you like the needy little thing you are?

he wants to press his fingers into your mouth, make you suck them clean before shoving them between your legs, fucking them into the soft clutch of your pussy until you cried for him.

and when he finally sinks his swollen cock inside you— he’d make you feel it.

john wants to fuck you raw, grind his hips against yours, keep you pinned beneath his weight, stuffed full of his cock. he’d press a hand to your belly, feel himself inside you, make you watch as you take a cock too big for you.

and when he’d spill inside you he wouldn't stop. oh no— he’d fuck it deeper, press his fingers to your swollen clit, make you come with him, make your body take every last drop of his seed.

because he wouldn't just fill you. he’d breed you. over and over, until you couldn't keep yourself up, too boneless to thrust back into him, too full to take any more.

but he was a man of god.

and men of god did not shove their sweet, willing parishioners over their desks, did not drag their teeth down soft skin, did not slap needy little cunts until they were wet and dripping.

they did not fuck desperate little things in church pews, in quiet confessionals, did not fist their hands in soft hair and shove pretty mouths onto their cocks, did not whisper filth between gasped-out prayers.

they did not spend their nights with their heads buried between trembling thighs, devouring the taste of sin, holding squirming bodies still as they licked deep, sucked hard, forced sweet, innocent things to come against their tongues.

they did not rut into them like beasts, gripping soft wrists, pinning them down, owning them with every brutal thrust. they did not press their hands to swollen bellies, fill their women over and over until their bodies were wrecked, too full of come to take another drop.

men of god did not fuck.

but god forgive him, he would.

all those thoughts come to this moment, this night—

john finds himself alone under the dim glow of candlelight, sitting on the pews, head tilted to the cross.

his breathing is uneven, ragged in the dim hush of the empty church. each inhale scrapes against his ribs, sharp and burning, like penance for the filth curdling in his mind. his hands tremble as they move beneath his robes, fingers fumbling at the buckle of his belt. the metal clinks, far too loud in the sacred silence, but he doesn’t stop.

can’t.

his breathing is uneven, ragged in the dim hush of the empty church. each inhale feels like it scrapes against his ribs, sharp and burning, as though the very air is punishing him for the thoughts festering in his mind. his hands tremble as they move beneath his robes, fingers fumbling at the buckle of his belt. the metal clinks softly in the quiet, a sound far too loud in the sanctity of this space.

the leather gives way, and his cassock feels suffocating now, the fabric too heavy against skin flushed with heat. his fingers slip lower, dragging the waistband of his pants down his hips with shaky, desperate movements until he’s free— finally free— from the painful confines of his underwear.

his cock springs forward, already hard in his hand, flushed dark at the tip, the skin tight and aching. a bead of precum glistens there, catching in the flicker of candlelight like something obscene in the house of god. he wraps his hand around the base, his grip firm but not enough to ease the pressure coiled in his gut. the heat of his palm sends a shudder rolling down his spine, breath hitching as his thumb swipes over the sensitive head, smearing the slick wetness down the length.

his cock is long, veins pulsing along the shaft, the kind of thick that demands attention. his foreskin still covers the swollen head, slick with the evidence of his own arousal, precum smearing against the soft skin of his lower stomach. he hisses through his teeth as he wraps his hand around the base, fingers barely closing around the girth, feeling the steady throb of blood pulsing beneath his grip.

his balls hang full and tight, pulled close with need, the skin sensitive to the faintest brush of fabric. every movement is torment, the soft rub of his cassock against his bare thighs sending a shudder through him, making his hips jerk forward, seeking relief.

he strokes himself slowly, dragging his foreskin back to expose the flushed, leaking head, then rolling it forward again, savoring the sensitivity. his thumb swipes through the slick wetness pooling at the tip, smearing it down the length, adding just enough glide to make his fist slip easier over his cock.

his grip tightens, dragging the pleasure out like a prayer he’s too ashamed to speak aloud. the church is silent around him, the air thick with the scent of burning wax and old stone, but all he can think about is you.

on your knees before him.

john sees it so clearly, feels it like it’s already happened. the way you’d sink down, your eyes looking up at him through thick lashes, expectant. your soft lips parted just enough for your tongue to wet them before stretching around his cock. the thought makes his stomach clench, his fingers twitching as he strokes himself tighter, his foreskin gliding over the swollen head before he pulls it back again.

you wouldn’t be able to take all of him at once. he knows that much. He’s too thick, too long— your jaw would ache just trying, your tongue pressing firm against the heavy weight of him, struggling to make space. the first inch would be easy, maybe even the second. but when he pushes deeper, when his tip nudges the back of your throat and you gag, just a little, he knows he’d lose whatever control he has left.

he swears he can see it— your fingers curling against his thighs, the little choked noise you’d make when he holds you there, when his cock throbs against your tongue. your throat would flutter, swallowing around him, trying to adjust to the stretch. and oh, god, the way your lips would look wrapped around him, swollen with abuse and slick with spit and precum. john nearly loses himself at the image alone.

his hips jerk forward into his own grip, chasing the fantasy, breath coming through the vaulted ceilings of the church. he’d guide you through it, hand buried in your hair, tilting your head just the way he likes. gentle, at first. Letting you set the pace. But then when you get too comfortable, when you start to tease, pulling back just to trail soft kisses along his length— he’d snap.

he’d pull you down, bury himself deep in the hot sleeve of your mouth until your throat clenched around him and you whimpered against his balls. his other hand would cup your jaw, feeling the bulge of himself pressing against your cheek, watching as tears bead at the corners of your eyes, shuddering from the effort of taking him.

he wonders if you’d try to pull away, fingers gripping his thighs in a silent plea. would you struggle? would you whine? would you let him break you like this?

john groans, his grip tightening almost painfully. he pumps himself faster now, the obscene slap of skin against skin filling the empty church. his balls are drawn tight, aching with the need to spill, and in his mind, he’s not coming into his own palm.

he’s coming down your throat.

you’d swallow, wouldn’t you? just for him. he can see it— his cum thick on your tongue, your lips parting to show him before you close your mouth and swallow it down. maybe a little would escape, dripping down your chin, and he’d swipe his thumb through it, pressing it back to your lips.

“messy thing,” he’d murmur. “but you took it so well.”

the thought sends him over the edge.

his hips stutter, cock jerking in his grip as his orgasm crashes over him, hot and sudden. cum spills over his knuckles, , dripping onto the cold stone beneath him. his breath comes in harsh, broken gasps, his thighs trembling as he rides out the aftershocks, his vision hazy with the force of his release.

and when it’s over— when he finally stills, his body spent, his mind heavy with guilt— he drags his gaze upward.

The cross looms above him, watching.

if this is damnation, he’ll sin again.

[lyeofhell]

you know John’s petty as hell. like no one that controlling and obsessed with caretaking is normal. if you unbuckle your own seatbelt and open your own door before he can jump outta the driver’s seat and do it, he’ll run around the car and shut the door back in your face just so he can open it for you djskdskd

[chamomiletealeaf]

Price fucking you over the table but he positions you so your clit rubs against the corner just right every time he thrusts into you.

The pressure and friction is so good you can't help but squirt all over him, yourself, and the table.

[peachetteprice]

42-year-old John Price;

Who gets a cramp in his bottom when he's knee-deep inside you and can't keep his grunting at bay. You find it hilarious how he instantly seizes up and mutters that he needs a minute, panting heavier than he did when he was pounding away at your poor cunt, bless him.

Your sweet John, who lets out an anguished whine and a hushed 'Christ on Earth', as he pulls from inside of you, cock turgid, pulsing and slick with the scent of your mingled cum, who stays on all fours all throughout the duration of the cramp, huffing through flared nostrils, occasionally relinquishing one hand from the mattress to clutch his left buttock (it's always the left buttock, never the right), exclaiming 'I'm not the man I used to be, love,' which, in any other regard would have been downright upsetting, but is ultimately what sends you into a fit of laughter.

And, when the muscle finally relaxes, and you give it a massage to make sure it's loose, pliable and ready for action again - dare a smack - he crawls back over the top of you, gives his cock a light pump or two to ensure the peak of its stiffness before sinking it back into your cunt, with a little more vigour, this time, thanks to the mid-coitus breather (that he later suggests should be mandatory on these nights, for the sake of his old bones), praying that he won't seize up again just before he's about to spill himself inside of you.

| Masterlist |

[ragingbookdragon]

Price is the type of dad that when his kids start acting up, he grabs them by the scruff of their shirts and growls at them, “Act right before I make you.”

Gaz is the type of dad who simply says, “Don’t make me get mum,” and then for the fun of it, hollers “MUM!” at the top of his lungs while his kids screech, “NO!”

Ghost is the type of dad who’s mastered the art of “The Look©️,” and simply has to meet his kids’ gazes before they realize “Oh shit, dad’s serious.”

Soap is the type of dad that when his kids start throwing a tantrum for not getting their way, that he erupts into a bigger, more dramatic tantrum to establish dominance.

[no-one-fights-alone]

[eccentricallygothic]

| Older |

Pairing: Boyfriend's Dad!John Price | Son's Girlfriend!You.

Description: Guys your age just aren’t the same.

Warning(s): Infidelity, age gap, Cap being a badass, teasing, thumb sucking, stuffie riding, Daddy kink, Cap smokes, allusions to biting, little boob play, lowkey intimidation kink bc it's me, power imbalance-ish. MDNI. 

Note: I, infact, am not sorry. I guess the son and Reader are in college/uni? Ps, Barry Sloane is becoming an obsession. HELP!  

MASTERLIST

. . . 

It wasn't supposed to happen and you didn't mean for it to.

Not at first, anyways. 

But your boyfriend's good natured, authoritative, brave and yet mysterious dad was always so calm and cool and laid-back with a cigarette dangling between his lips and his thick maney arms and tattoos that often hid under his shirts. He always knew what to say and what to do. Nothing was a big deal to him and he always had your boyfriend's back in the most warm and wholesome way. He was a man who understood how to take care of things and he knew everything and you were convinced there was not a problem he didn't know his way around.

At first it was curious glances on your part, then it was friendly and innocent grazes on his. It moved onto lasting looks and then longing touches. The two of you never said a word, though. No. There was no address, no discussion. Just a chilly day when you had been a little cold and your boyfriend hadn't been home. 

Class had been a little too upsetting and your boyish partner had been too caught up in his own worries. You had been in need of comfort and some big love and John had been your knight in shining armor. He had come around looking for his son in that truck of his, sensed your distress, sat beside you and reassured you like no one had ever before. His gentle voice and careful caressing was something you'd never forget. However, your other memories of that day were foggy, you were not sure whether it was out of how small your mind had become or due to the burning guilt of what it had started. But one thing had led to another and one moment you were nuzzling into his warm arms, then your soft cheek was rubbing against his beard, next your noses were touching and then your lips were on each other’s, his mustache tickling your skin as he had went about exploring you with his scarred manly hands. So on and so forth, it hadn't stopped from that day on.

Time was against the two of you and every minute was valuable. 

But that didn't stop the Captain from being an absolute tease who often brought tears to your eyes. 

Like he was doing right now. 

“Daddy, please…” You whined as you rocked yourself harder on the soft toy, your baby blue dress bunching on your thighs that were covered in his bite marks -thank God your boyfriend was out of town on a school errand- as your hair fell about your face. “Hnng…” Your hips ached a little from the strain you were putting on them but the heat scorching your loins was way too compulsive for you to even think about stopping. 

John's heavy form was relaxed against the headboard as he lazily took another drag of his cigarette, cool eyes watching you almost casually. “What is it, babygirl?” You whined at the name he used and how the baritone of his voice drilled into your soul as he did so, causing for more slick gush out of you as a result. “Hm?” Your pussy was so puffy and needy. 

“Need you, Daddy, please!” You cried out your plea, feeling yourself on the verge of tears. 

“You do?” You vigorously nodded to his raised eyebrow. John snorted before tilting his head to one side and shrugging. “I don't know, baby” you pouted at his words, gulping a thick bile down your parched throat. Your lips were so dry. “Mr. Octs looks quite cozy tucked in between your pretty little thighs” it didn't matter what you looked like, he had a way of always making you feel like the smallest most precious thing alive. 

“But Daddy!” Your protest transformed into a moan midway.

The soldier exhaled a white cloud of eye watering smoke, his eyes squinting as he did so. “Aw,” he chuckled, leaning forward to finger your hair away so he could look at you better. “But what, precious?” His eyes darkly flickered down to your flushed lips and he connected the poisonous stick to his lips again, its lit end glowing a bright amber as he did so. 

“W- Want you!” You were dangerously close but it wasn't enough. “Want you o- only!” You needed him most, always. 

“You do?” He feigned surprise as his voice strained due to how he pushed the cloudy venom into his lungs.

“Yes!” You couldn't believe it. You were doing a hell of a job at showing him what he appeared to be dubious about. He was too mean. But that was exactly what you loved so much about him; the perfect mix of strict and soft.

John shrugged. “I don't believe you.” 

Your eyes widened. “Please!” Your voice became a little too agitated and the man looked at you a bit dangerous now. 

One of his eyebrows raised. “Please… what?” 

Your pussy clenched. God. He was too much. Your chest that spilled over the neckline because of how he had pulled your dress down ached from how it was heaving. “Please, D- Daddy…” A satisfied half smile quirked one side of his mouth up. “Please, n- need you…”

“Yeah?” He cupped one side of your face and collected the half tear that threatened to trickle down your face. 

It was a sign. You must show him. Daddy needed to be earned.

So you obediently wrapped your lips around the thumb he pushed in your mouth after tracing its shape with his rough thumb pad, exhaling through his nose as his eyes squinted again and the sight made you moan. You felt your cheeks hollow as your lips made an embarrassingly loud squeaking sound but you were way too far gone. 

“Oh, baby” John chuckled as he looked down at how you were animalistically grinding against the plushie. Your knees were getting tired and you were desperate. You needed him to lay you down or bend you over or put you on your side and take you until you were full and sore from his girth. “You are drowning Mr. Octs down there” his dirty words both added to the heat in your cheeks and between your legs. You moaned out loud and your eyes rolled to the back of your head. 

“Pweeee—” you tried to plead but his thumb alone was too much for you. You were just a little girl after all. You gagged. 

“Is that how you'll suck me dry, baby? You will be good like that for me?” He watched your glittery lip gloss coat his digit as he took a small suck of his dying cigarette. You hoped with everything you had for him not to light a new one. You eagerly nodded. “Gonna be good for your Daddy?” You meweled out a yes, feeling a cold droplet of sweat trickle down the side of your face.

“Mmm” he snuffed out the cigarette in the glittery ashtray that you had bought for him in secret and hid in your boyfriend's presence -since he didn't smoke and neither did you- like your life depended on it. “And how would you like Daddy to be good to you?” The remainder of the smoke escaped his mouth as he spoke.

“Nnng” John pumped his thumb in and out of your lips now. You settled the plushie in a slightly different position so you could free one hand. “Dada~” you lisped out through his digit as you cupped your pussy before moving to your ass and squeezing it before giving yourself a light spank, the twinge of pain bringing you to your orgasm and you threw your head back, feeling your thighs violently shake as you rubbed your cunt hot on Mr. Octs' belly, feeling your insides boil over with the sweet turbulent pleasure.

“Good girl,” the Captain praised as he unplugged your mouth to shrug his flannel off. “You did such a good job for Daddy” your hands desperately darted to your boobs as you squeezed them and pinched the nipples to show him how you wanted them to be treated. Although you knew right then that John would do better and more. He always did. It was the reason why you betrayed your loving boyfriend the way you did. “Now lay back for Daddy and let him take care of you.”

You obeyed but your mouth began to run from the sensitivity and need. “I— Daddy— I—”

“Hey,” the old(er) man pushed you further down with one of your boobs and then crawled over you like a vulture. “Shut up” he softened the blow of his words with a soft kiss, making your upper lip tickled with his bushy mustache. “I got this” he knew you had nothing valuable to say. Your mind just ran too fast sometimes. Fortunately, you had your boyfriend's dad to take the weight off your shoulders. “I got you.” 

. . . 

I appreciate feedback, reblogs and thots. Let's cry about our Daddy together <3 

[parkersbliss]

Snow Days with the COD Men

pairing: ghost, gaz, price, soap AND KEEGAN! x reader

synopsis: Some cute snow days with your favs!

warnings: sexual innuendo for soap, pregnancy with price

a/n: inspired by the actual snowstorm that's kept me inside for two days now lol

Masterlist | Taglist | Prompt List

requests open for call of duty

—

Ghost:

“Hey,” You said softly, opening the door to your porch. 

Simon doesn’t bat an eye, continuing to sit on your couch and stare at the pine trees in front of you. “Hi, love.”

“What are you doing?” You ask, coming to take a seat next to him. The hot chocolate is warm in your hands, and you take a small sip. Your eyes remain trained on your husband, his cup in hand, as he watches the glittering snowflakes.

“Just watching,” He hums. 

You set your cup on the table, leaning your head on his shoulder as he wraps an arm around you. You’re not sure how long he’s been sitting outside, but it’s impossible to tell because he’s as warm as ever. You can feel the heat on him through your puffer jacket as you turn to watch the snowfall. Already, a few inches have covered the grass and your driveway. The snow comes down in big plumps, twirling in the wind as they make landfall.

His hand squeezes your shoulder, rubbing soothing circles as he sips at his drink. “Think we should get married in the winter.” 

 “Yeah?” You said, glancing at the ring on your finger. You hold up for both of you to admire against the snowy backdrop. 

Simon smiles at it, the diamond glinting in the snow. “Yeah. A couple of pine trees, string lights, and plush snow.” 

 “Sounds cold.” 

 Your fiancee wraps your hand in his, pressing a kiss to the back. “Sounds bloody perfect,” he corrects. “A nice cabin trip for our honeymoon. Far off in the mountains, away from everyone.” 

You can’t deny the temptation of that. Your mind wanders to the idea of you in a white dress, in an even whiter background—bridesmaids in a dark green dress and pinecones as decor. 

“As long as there’s a hot tub,” You said. 

“I’d make one for you.” A piece of snow lands on your nose, and Simon’s hand comes up to brush it away. His touch was gentle as always like you were made of porcelain. He cups your cheek, pressing a tender kiss to your nose. “I love you.” 

The snow falls harder, the wind picking up and blowing it in your direction. But you feel warm inside at his words. “I love you too.” 

Gaz:

Your cheeks sting from the cold, little needles pressing their way into the fragile parts of your face. It doesn’t matter though, your determination keeps you hot. You cup your hands tightly, pressing the snow together as you scan your backyard for your opponent. 

A plight of snow hits you in the back, making you spin around. You chuck your snowball at your boyfriend, who laughs as he ducks. 

Kyle is already scooping up more snow as you huff and waddle through the snow towards him. You scoop up another ball on your way, hiking your feet in and out of the 2 feet of snow. 

“Get back here!” You shout at him, tossing the ball at his arm. It explodes in a flurry of white, and he chucks one back at you. 

You drop to the snow, already forming more artillery. Meanwhile, Kyle is scooping up huge amounts of snow with his hands and making a wall. You keep scooping up more snow, trudging towards him. You can see his blue puffer in the waves of white, slightly peeking over the fortress he’s built for himself. 

Another snowball is hurled at you, leaving flecks of snow in your eyelashes. “Kyle!”

He laughs, hearing the sharp pitching of your voice. “What, babe?” 

 You push yourself faster through the snow, gripping your snowball until you get the perfect angle and nail him in the back of his head. He gasps, rubbing the ice off of him and spinning to face you. 

You give him a friendly wave, holding another snowball in your hand. 

“We can talk about this,” He said, holding up both of his hands. 

“Really? Should’ve thought about that an hour ago.” 

 Kyle tilts his head. “Yeah, probably. But—” 

He rushes at you through the snow, tackling you into it with a soft “poof” as you sink into it. 

You shriek, snow falling into your face as Kyle wraps his hands around your waist. He smiles down at you, lips widening at the scowl on your face. Before you can scorn him again, his lips find yours. They’re ice against yours, but you can’t deny the way you melt into it anyway. 

“I’ll make it up to you, babe,” he said, standing up and offering you a hand. He pulls you into his chest, hands flying to your waist. “How does a warm bath sound?” 

You shake your head. “It sounds like a good start to an apology.” 

Soap: 

You watch your boyfriend dart around the yard, shoveling more snow into his ever-growing dome-shaped monstrosity. Johnny’s cheeks are tinted red from the cold, frost nipping at his nose, but he doesn’t care. He’s smoothing out the edges of his soon-to-be igloo, piling more snow on and pressing in. 

You’re carrying over the pre-made snow bricks like some animal crossing task as he stacks them on one another. As soon as you’d woken up, Johnny was shoving himself into a snowsuit and rushing for the door. You had gotten a good foot of snow, and he was determined to make a creation. 

You suggested a simple snowman, but he denied it. 

He pats them down, using nimble fingers to carve out the caking between each brick. 

“’s gonna be a real beauty,” He said, standing back to admire his work. “Gonna have tea parties in here, aye?”

You tilt your head. “I don’t know about that. Think it’ll freeze.” 

 Johnny’s nods. “You’re right. Well, then we can have… a snow cone party.” 

 You snort, handing him another brick. “What flavor?” 

 Your boyfriend gives you a devilish grin, once you’ve gotten used to that translates to no good. “Yellow, my favorite.”

“You’re gross,” You scoff, coming to stand next to him as he carves more patterns into your backyard igloo. 

Johnny tosses an arm around your shoulder, pulling you closer to let you rest on him. “That’s not what you said last night when I—” 

 “Okay!” You said loudly, glaring at him. “That’s different.”

“I suppose.” He reaches a hand forward to tweak one of the snow bricks. “Think we should live in the Arctic.” 

 “Think you’re fucking crazy,” You quip back. “You’re almost frozen solid, babe.” You place a hand on his cheek, rubbing it to try and warm him up. Despite the snow gloves, you could feel the biting sting of the cold on him. Johnny was invincible, as ever, and didn’t seem to notice. Or care. 

“This igloo won’t build itself.”

 You cup his face, making him face you. “It won’t be built period, if you die of hypothermia.” 

“May I remind you, lassie, I’ve been swimming in the Arctic before?” 

 You roll your eyes. “The igloo will still be here tomorrow. Besides.” You drop your hands to his arms, tracing them up and down. “Got a few ways we could warm up.” 

 Johnny’s eyes light up. Within seconds, he hauls you over his shoulder, trudging back to the house. “Forget the igloo. I like the sounds of that much more.” 

Price:

“Are you sure you don’t want any help?” You ask as your husband clears another line of snow out of your driveway.

John grunts in response, stopping to rest on the handle of his shovel. “Honey, you shouldn’t even be out here in the first place.” 

 You pout. “But I feel horrible leaving out to shovel our whole driveway.”

 John sighs, picking up his shovel and scooping another line. “Don’t. It’s the least I can do after everything you do for me.” 

“But it’s cold,” You continue to protest. “And I can help. Then it would get done faster and—” 

 Your husband gives you a stern look. “No. Call me traditional, but I’d rather you stay warm inside cooking a nice meal than freezing your ass off and the little one.”

 Your hand comes to rest at the bulge of your stomach. “I already have cookies in the oven, and we’re fine.” 

 He gives you that smile with his lips pressed together. “Then I don’t need anything else.” 

The snow begins to pick up again, flurries dancing and twirling in the air in huge fluffs. You watch as they stick to the driveway, and make a home in your husband's beard. Your mind drifts to next winter when you’ll have a little girl wrapped in bundles of jackets, marching through the snow. 

Your heart clenches at the thought of your husband helping her make snow angels rather than shoveling the driveway. The snow begins to pick up, and you step further into the garage, feeling the familiar twinge of frost on your nose.

You frown as your husband continues to shovel. “My love?” You call out to him. 

He stops, turning to face you. Plumes of snowfall in front of your face as you look out to him, lip jutted outward and hand rubbing your growing belly. Well, fuck him. He grabs his shovel, dragging it back to the garage as you smile and press a kiss to his cheek. 

“Thank you.”

 “I’m going back out there in the morning.” John’s hand falls to your back, a warmth you’ve come to know carrying his kid as he leads you inside. 

“And leave me and the bugger all alone in bed?” 

 John huffs a laugh, closing the door behind the two of you. He wraps both his arms around you, resting them on your stomach and placing his chin on your shoulder. He receives a little kick in response and sighs. “The snow can wait, I suppose.”

Keegan:

Keegan tugs on his mask, tilting his head from side to side. He leaves his snow gloves attached to his hip. “Need any help, baby?”

You huff, fumbling to turn and face him. His eyes crinkle at the sight of you all bundled up in layers of warmth. “I can’t get the zipper.” 

He strides forward, tugging the zipper up to its proper place just below your chin. He leans forward to press a chaste kiss through his mask on your lips. He pulls back and grabs your hand, leading you out the door and fastening his gloves on. He yanks the string of your sled, dragging it behind him. A few kids run towards the hill at the edge of your neighborhood, sleds, toboggans, and snowboards with them. They shout excitedly to their friends, waving hands frantically. 

“What if we take out a kid?” You asked, feet crunching in the snow. 

Keegan shrugs. “They should’ve kept an eye out.” 

 You swat him on the arm, but neither of you feels a thing beneath all the layers. 

He just laughs as you approach the hill. “C’mon. You doubt my steering skills?”

 “I doubt your driving skills, in general,” You reply as he secures the sled in place, using a foot to keep it in place. 

“In you go.” He holds out a hand, letting you grab it as you sit down in the sled. You place both your feet outside it to let Keegan slide into the space in front of you. He grabs the string, making a slapping motion like he’s Santa with the reindeer, and you roll your eyes. You slip your arms around his middle, leaning your head on his back as you push off the hill.

He cheers like a little kid as you both go flying down the hill, snow caressing your cheeks and splaying everywhere. 

 “Hold on!” He shouts, suddenly pulling right. 

“What?” You shriek.

You jerk to the right suddenly, and the sled topples over, and you both land in the plush snow. The cold envelops you for a second, nudging part of your epidermis and deep into your veins before you push yourself into a sitting position. 

Keegan is sitting in front of you, brushing snow off his jacket, and you can see the faint outline of a cheeky grin under his mask. “Whoops. You okay?” 

 “I’m fine,” you assure him as he helps you up and grabs the sled. He turns to face you, raising his gloved thumb to brush some snow from your face. 

“Wanna go again?”

 You sigh, lips quirking upward, unable to deny your boyfriend. “Always.” 

– END –

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[thalia-writes]

Distractions NSFW

Captain John Price X Reader

Summary: You are being reprimanded for being distracted lately, little does John know, he's the distraction.

Word count: 3.2K

18+ only

Minors do not interact!

Warnings: Smut, P!inV!, female reader, praise kink, dom!Price, oral fem receiving, creampie if you squint.

Authors note: This is my second work ever so please any and all constructive criticism/feedback is very much appreciated!

One foot in front of the other, you keep pace with the people around you. You were training with the other recruits, running through an obstacle course. The afternoon sun warms your back, sweat gathering on your forehead. Keeping your breathing as even as possible, you focus on staying centered and pushing through the pain. You were in the zone, absolutely crushing the course. Leaping up onto the wall, you pull yourself over the edge and jump off, landing on your feet and immediately running again. Suddenly pulled out of your focus when you hear Price shouting out to the recruits behind you.

“C’mon keep it moving!! You’ll need to be faster than that to survive out in the field!”

Your gaze locks on him, the pure male dominance radiating off of him. Everything about him screams power and my god does it stir something within you. Your mind starts wandering as you take in his figure, inappropriate thoughts invading your mind. Price turns his head and locks eyes with you, at the exact moment you stumble and crash to the ground, scratching up your palms and knees.

“L/N!! My office in 2 hours at 16:00, understand?” Price yells out at you with a frown. You nod as you stand up, dusting yourself off.

“Good, now go get yourself cleaned up, you’re done for the day.”

“Yes, sir.” You reply, walking back to base, cheeks burning with embarrassment.

~2 hours later~

You’re walking to Price’s office, anxiety stirring in your gut. The closer you get to his office, the harder it is to keep putting one foot in front of the other. You nervously chew on your lip as you stop in front of the door. Taking a deep breath to try and calm your nerves, you gently knock. You hear a gruff ‘come in’ from the other side so you turn the doorknob and step inside, closing the door behind you.

“Evening, Y/N. Please, take a seat.” Price gestures to the chairs in front of his desk. You walk over and sit down, your knees threatening to buckle underneath you. Looking over at John as he finishes up some paperwork, you watch his hands as they guide the pen in his grasp. Soon your thoughts have spiraled into wondering how they would feel guiding your body, touching, caressing, teasing, and trailing across your skin. You’re ripped out of your little daydream when John waves his hand in front of your face. Snapping your eyes up to his, you’re met with a frown and concern flashing across his features.

“This is what I’m talking about! Were you even listening?” John scolds, leaning forward in his chair. Averting your gaze, you ramble out an apology.

“I apologize Sir, I wasn’t paying attention. I got, uh, lost in my thoughts for a moment”

John sighs and rubs a hand down his face before looking at you again, folding his hands together on the desk.

“You seem to be doing a lot of that as of late. What has gotten into you? Like today, one minute you’re running through the obstacle course like an old pro, and the next you’re tripping over air and getting a face full of dirt.” John states, shaking his head before continuing. “This has been going on for a while, and it’s gotten to the point where we need to have a conversation about where your head's at. What has got you so distracted?”

Your heart drops into your stomach. How the hell am I supposed to tell him that he is why I’m so god damn distracted? You think to yourself. You move your head to the side, looking at the wall, cheeks burning with embarrassment.

“I- uh, It’s nothing Sir, just some personal things. I’ll get it under control.”

His intense gaze bores into you, making you shift in your chair. You don’t realize he’s moved until he’s standing right in front of you. His hand grasps your chin, turning your head towards him. You look up at him with wide eyes, catching his piercing blue eyes staring down at you. He leans forward, towering over you, so close that you can smell his intoxicating cologne.

“Something tells me that you’re not quite telling the truth, eh Love?” John scolds, his head tilting to the side as he observes your face. Lips twisting into a smirk as he continues,

“Is it a man? Is a man making you all flustered that you can’t think straight?” Your eyes widen in shock, tearing your gaze away from his, fearing that he’ll be able to see the truth in your eyes. He jerks your chin slightly.

“Tsk tsk, Y/N. Eyes on me.” He scolds. Your eyes immediately find his again, sparks shooting up your spine. Something flashes across his face, and he leans in closer, his lips inches away from yours.

“That’s a good girl, so obedient.” He muses, the smile on his face nothing short of predatory. A shaky breath escapes your lips, a flame igniting in your stomach. You can feel his breath fan across your face, his cologne completely invading your senses. When you say nothing he smirks and continues.

“So who is he? Hmm? Who is the man that’s occupying that pretty mind of yours?” He coos, leaning closer, his hand falling away from your chin. His lips so close to yours you could feel his beard tickling your skin. All you could think of was how good they would feel. You glance down at his lips before locking eyes with him once again. You’re frozen in place, brain short circuiting from the situation.

“Tell me, tell me who’s distracting you, Love.” John says softly, his nose bumping against yours slightly. His pupils dilated and chest rising and falling with his heavy breathing.

“You.” You whisper and the second the words leave your mouth, his lips are pressed against yours. They dance together slowly, John's hand cupping the base of your neck to pull you closer. You melt into the kiss, gasping when he gently bites your lip. He takes advantage of this and slides his tongue into your mouth, exploring and tasting you, as he deepens the kiss. You tangle your hands into his hair, softly moaning. Suddenly you’re off the chair as he picks you up, your legs wrapping around his waist and his hands grabbing your ass. He walks you to the desk, clearing a spot off with his arm, before setting you down on top of it. John pulls away slightly, leaving your mind reeling and your chest heaving.

“Such a pretty little thing.” He coos, before bringing his lips to yours once again. His right hand grips your waist tightly. The other trailing up your side before grasping a handful of your hair and pulling your head to the side, his lips kissing, and nipping at your neck. Heat pools in your abdomen. You’re becoming more and more aroused with every second that passes, hardly able to restrain yourself from ripping his clothes off.

“Captain…” You moan, tilting your neck even further to give him better access. His lips stop their motions on your neck, releasing his grip on your hair, he raises his head to look at you.

“I’m not your captain here Darling. I’m John. Not Bravo SIx, not Captain, just John. Alright?.” He says sternly, staring at you with an intensity you’ve never seen before.

“Okay Cap- John. Okay John.” You say, nodding your head. Desperate to feel his lips on you once again. You squirm on the desk, silently begging him to continue to touch you, your wetness seeping into your underwear.

“Fuck, my name sounds so good coming from that pretty mouth, Love.” John groans, stepping closer to you.

Dipping his head down he captures your lips with his, moving against yours languidly, pulling every coherent thought out of your head. Your hands trail to his waist and you tug at the hem. Taking the hint, he slides off his shirt and you unabashedly stare at his muscular torso. Your hand reaches up and touches his pec before tracing down across his abs, following that sinful trail of hair. Before you can continue with your exploratory touches, John grabs the bottom of your shirt and pulls it over your head. Reaching behind yourself, you unclasp your bra and let it fall to the floor, exposing your bare breasts to him. He lets out a low groan at the sight, his rough and calloused hands immediately cupping and kneading the soft flesh.

“Fuuck darling, such gorgeous tits.” John rasps, and dips his head down to start kissing your breasts before wrapping his lips around one of your nipples and his hand playing with the other. You throw your head back as you let out a soft moan and slightly arch your back. His cock stiffening and straining against his jeans at your sounds. He licks, and nips your breasts for a while before pulling back, his hand cupping your cheek as he looks into your eyes.

“I’ve wanted you for so long, Love. I want to take you to my bed and worship your body, but I can’t withhold myself from you any longer. I need to taste you, to feel your body against me, right fucking now.” John says, his voice heavy and laced with desire.

“Please, John, I want you too, so badly.” You plead. Reaching forward and hooking your fingers in his belt loops and tugging him closer to you. John's eyes glaze over as he feels your fingers tug at his belt. His hands find their way down your body, tracing your curves as a smile spreads across his face. Making quick work of your buttons he slides your pants down as you lift your hips to help him. Your skin burns with every graze of his fingers, his entire presence consuming your every thought. You feel yourself growing wet for him, your body craving every touch. John's hands trail up your thighs and caress your hips, taunting and teasing. You move your hips towards him, desperate to feel his hands on your dripping cunt. John lets out a dark chuckle at your movements, placing his fingers on your clothed core. Lightly pressing down and moving agonizingly slow.

“Ohh Darling, you’ve soaked through your underwear. Are you that desperate already?” John coos at you, putting more pressure onto your clit through the fabric. You let out a whine and shift your hips again, yearning for more friction.

“Please John… No teasing… I need more.” You breathe. Reaching forward, you palm the hard bulge in his pants eliciting a hiss from his lips. He swiftly slides your underwear off and immediately is on his knees looking up at you, his hands gripping your thighs tightly.

“Need to taste you Sweetheart, be a good girl and spread your legs. Let me taste your sweet pussy.” John demands in a low voice. Slowly you spread your legs further apart for him, his cock is hard and throbbing at the sight of your glistening pussy. He’s nearly drooling as he sees you all exposed and bare for him. Placing kisses along your thigh he works his way to your core, sticking his tongue out and licks a stripe up your wet pussy, pulling a sharp gasp from your chest. Groaning at the taste of you, he keeps his head buried in your thighs, licking and sucking at your clit. Soft moans are falling from your lips, his tongue making the flame in your stomach erupt into an inferno. John raises his head, his lips wet with you, you let out a whine from the lack of contact.

“I promise, next time, I'll make you come on my tongue until you beg me to stop. Ya taste so sweet, but I need to be buried deep inside you. Need to get you ready for my cock okay Darling? ” John says before slowly dragging two of his fingers through your folds, gathering your slick on them before gently pushing them into you. Your back arches and you gasp at the intrusion. Two of his fingers stretch you out as he pushes them in and out as he starts to kiss and suck on your neck. Soft moans erupt from your throat, completely focused on the feeling of pleasure he is giving you. Speeding up his fingers, he starts to curl them just right to hit that spongy spot inside you. A loud moan escapes you, you slap a hand over your mouth to try and keep quiet.

John can feel his cock, painfully hard, leaking against his pants. Your sweet moans mixed with the sounds of his fingers sliding in and out of your wet pussy is music to his ears. He is so desperate to feel you wrapped around him, it's almost unbearable. Moving his thumb in circles against your clit, you clench around his fingers, the knot in your stomach becoming tighter and tighter.

“Come on baby, cum for me. Be a good girl and cum all over my hand.” John murmurs against your neck, he curls his fingers once more and sends you barreling over the edge. Your body tenses up as a strangled cry rips through your throat. Waves of pleasure coursing through you. John continues to move his fingers, working you through your high before slowly removing them and bringing them to his lips, sucking them clean.

Reaching forward you undo his pants and push them and his boxers down, causing his cock to spring free. Eyes widening as you take him in, his cock is long and thick, his tip flushed and leaking pre-cum. You wrap your hand around him and slowly move up and down his hard shaft, causing a low moan to escape John. You try to move off the desk and onto your knees but he grabs your waist and places you back on the desk.

“That’s going to have to wait for another time, Love. I need to be inside of you.” John groans, stepping out of his pants and kicking them to the side. He drags the tip up and down your slit, coating it with your arousal, before slowly pushing in. You moan as you feel him fill you with his big cock. John covers your mouth with his, kissing you to try and muffle the moans that are coming from both of you. Your hands grabbing his biceps to try and ground yourself. As he fills you to the hilt, he stops, allowing you to become accustomed to the size of him.

“Fuck baby, your pussy feels so good. Squeezing me so tight.” He gasps, his hands on your hips, holding you flush against him. John was consumed by the feel of you around him, gripping his cock so tight.

“Please move John, fuck me.” You plead, moving your hips as much as you can, pulling a low groan from John.

“How could I refuse when you asked so nicely.” John coos at you. Slowly he pulls almost all the way out before sliding back in. Your eyes flutter closed as you feel every thick inch of him split you apart. Soon John picks up the pace thrusting into you faster, his grip on your hips tight and near bruising. You kiss him again fervently as his cock rails into you, brushing that sweet spot deep within. You claw at his shoulders and wrap your legs around his waist, to be as close to him as possible.

“Shit, John. That feels so fucking good, don’t stop!” You cry, completely lost in the pleasure already.

“That’s a good girl, taking my cock so fucking well Sweetheart.” John praises, his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling your sweet scent. He was absolutely obsessed with the feeling of his thick cock sliding into you, the feel of your fingernails scratching his back, and the sounds of pleasure coming from you. Abruptly he pulls out, pulls you off the desk, and turns you around. A gasp escapes you as he pushes down on your back so your hands are braced on the desk and your back is arched away from him, ass on display.

“Oh this ass, look at this fucking ass,” John says, giving it a smack, “You’re gonna be the death of me Love.” He smacks your ass once more before positioning himself at your entrance and pushing in again, causing you to moan and arch your back even more. John begins a brutal pace, thrusting into you fast and hard, with his hands gripping your hips again.. His tip kisses your cervix every time he bottoms out, making you moan louder and your eyes roll to the back of your head.

“That’s it baby, doing such a good job for me. Taking it so well, such a good little slut for me aren’t you?” John praises, leaning forward to grab a handful of your hair and pulling your head up. You’re completely cockdrunk, unable to form a coherent sentence, his praises making you clench around him. The knot in your stomach returns, tightening as your orgasm builds with every thrust.

“Oh you like that don’t you? Getting told you’re doing so well for me? You like hearing how you’re a good little whore?” John groans against your ear. You can only moan in response, which John doesn’t appreciate so he smacks your ass again.

“No no Darling, I want to hear how much you like it. Go on baby, use your words.” He coos against your ear.

“Yes!” You gasp out, “So good John, please don’t stop!”

“Oooh that’s my good girl.” He growls in your ear. He can feel his own orgasm growing, the feeling of your wet pussy clenched around him is driving him insane. John moves the hand on your hip down to your clit, rubbing small circles on it. You throw your head back as a choked moan escapes you, John’s name spilling from your lips like a prayer.

“I’m so close, John, please let me cum, please!” You cry out, the pleasure coursing through your veins becoming almost unbearable.

“Come on baby, let go, cum all over my cock.” John groans, his own orgasm nearing its peak as he continues to thrust into you at a fast pace. As soon as the words leave his lips your orgasm washes over you, your walls clamp down on his dick as he fucks you through your high. Your fluttering walls cause his orgasm to tear through him, a loud groan erupting from his throat as he finishes and stills inside you.

The only sound in the room is the labored breaths, as the both of you come back down to earth. Your knees threaten to buckle underneath you so John pulls out and cleans the two of you up before helping you slide your pants back on and setting you down on the small couch in his office. He brings you your shirt and gets dressed himself before sitting beside you.

“I gotta go back to work, Love, but I’ll come see you tonight, if that’s what you would like?” John says, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“I would like that a lot.” You say softly, getting up on shaky knees and pulling him in for a kiss. You pull away and begin to walk out of his office when he grabs your waist, presses himself against your back and places his lips on the shell of your ear.

“I’ll see you tonight then, Darling, but don’t think I forgot about disciplining you for your distracted behavior.” John whispers in your ear before smacking your ass as you walk out the door. You hurry back to your room before anyone can see you leaving John’s office with swollen lips, messy hair and an excited smile across your face.

(There will be a part two)

[msilwrites]

The Catfish

Catfish! Reader, Depressed! Reader, Dead Inside! Reader, Maladaptive Day Dreamer! Reader, Sad! Reader, Unemployed! Reader, Shy! Reader, Morally Grey! Reader, Yandere! Price, Yandere! John Price, Obsessive, Price, Obsessive! John Price,

A/N: I’ve seen a lot of morally grey Y/N OCs out there, and I thought, why not take it further? Let’s push the limits. Let’s get into the darker side, where the lines blur and nothing’s ever as simple as it seems.

----------

Your life feels like it’s at a standstill—unemployed, or simply watching opportunities slip through your fingers, to depress, too weak, to down to go for it. Every day blurs into the next, doom-scrolling through social media, drowning in the curated lives of others, trying to ignore the quiet ache of dissatisfaction.

Books are your escape. A mix of romance and dark, Machiavellian stories fills your time, each one offering a temporary reprieve from the monotony and gloom. Instagram reels and TikToks flood your feed, booktok recommendations mixing with relationship advice, until one thought lingers—why not try a dating app? Not for love. Not even for a real date. Just for something. Attention, validation—some small proof that you still exist.

Dating isn’t new to you, nor are dating apps. But right now, you don’t have the energy to take a new picture, to present yourself in the best possible way. Instead, you pick an older photo—one with just the right lighting, the right angle, something that has an air of mystery. With a few subtle edits—smoother skin, slightly sharpened features—it becomes something almost... unreal. Perfect in a way you aren’t. Unrecognisable enough to be safe.

You swipe. Browse. And then—you see him.

John Price.

Something about him makes you pause. Maybe it’s the rough-edged charm, the mix of gruff and steady. On impulse, you swipe right. When it’s a match, you hesitate before messaging first—but when you do, the conversation flows effortlessly. You pretend to be someone else, someone confident, intriguing. And for the first time in a long time, you feel that way too.

Days turn into weeks. Weeks into months. You talk every night, each message pulling you deeper into something you can’t control. You never planned for it to last this long. Never expected to enjoy it. And then he asks—Let’s take this off the app. Let’s talk properly.

Panic coils in your chest. Giving him your number is out of the question—it would expose too much, make you traceable. Instead, you suggest a messaging app that keeps your identity hidden. He agrees. The illusion remains intact.

And still, it grows. You’re not just talking anymore. You’re something. His words make your heart race. His voice, the rare times he sends recordings, leaves you breathless. It’s intoxicating. Dangerous. Because eventually, he asks the one thing you can’t give.

Let’s meet.

Excuses become your shield. You’re busy. Traveling. Something came up. You deflect, redirect, anything to avoid the inevitable. But you can’t do this forever. And deep down, you know it.

So you end it.

A long, heartfelt message—apologies wrapped in regret, a quiet confession that you just can’t. That it was never meant to go this far. That he deserves better. Before you can talk yourself out of it, you block him. On the dating app. On the messenger. Everywhere.

Your heart aches. Not just because you liked him, but because you’ll never know what could have been. Because you destroyed something that wasn’t even real in the first place.

But what you don’t know—what you can’t know—is that John Price isn’t the kind of man who lets things go.

----------

What you didn’t know—what you couldn’t have known—was that John Price wasn’t just some “government employee.”

He didn’t put specifics on his profile. No mention of his career. You assumed, based on his dry responses and the absence of bragging, that he was just another pencil-pusher, a bureaucrat with a good-looking face, one who maybe dealt with spreadsheets and red tape. Easy to dismiss. He didn’t seem like someone who could leave an impact.

But you were wrong.

John Price is SAS. Trained to track. To hunt. His mind, to never let go.

The moment you broke things off, he didn’t disappear. He didn’t move on. He didn’t even give you the satisfaction of feeling like you were in control of the situation.

John’s mind doesn’t work like yours. He doesn’t take “no” for an answer.

You thought he’d accept the closure. That you’d get away clean, hidden behind the veil of your catfishing persona. But for him, that’s just the beginning.

In your mind, you justified it all. Surely, you weren’t the only one in line. After all, he’s good-looking, charming, and probably has a queue of women eager to talk to him. He’s the type of man who can have his pick—you’re just a small fry in the grand scheme of things. You told yourself he’d forget about you, move on to someone more real, someone better. This was just a pseudo-relationship, something that never had the chance to be anything more. So why wouldn’t you end it before it got any deeper? Before you could get attached, before he could hurt you with his inevitable disinterest?

It was easier this way, right? He’d find someone else, someone who wasn’t hiding behind a heavily modified picture—unrecognizable, almost perfect—and a name no one would ever associate with the real you. You, the woman who couldn’t even look herself in the mirror anymore without feeling shame. And you—you would never have to face the sting of rejection, the disgust in his eyes, the cold way he would scold you for deceiving him.

You convinced yourself it was the safest route, the only way to keep your heart intact.

But in the back of your mind, there was always the nagging thought: What if he doesn’t forget about you?

You laugh at the thought, shaking your head as if it’s some absurd notion. As if? You mutter to yourself before closing the app, tossing your phone onto the bed. It bounces once, twice, before settling. You let out a long sigh, then close your eyes, willing yourself to relax. A nap sounds nice, maybe just for a few hours—long enough to shake off the weight of the situation.

----------

When he doesn’t hear back from you, when he notices the blocks on the dating app and the messaging app, something in him shifts. He becomes methodical, patient—like a predator picking up a fresh trail.

And he knows how to find you.

He starts with the smallest things. The little details in your conversations—the places you mentioned, the books you read, the music you listened to. He’s tracking. Not just your words, but your habits. Your likes. Your interests. Each clue that could lead him to you, like a breadcrumb trail you unknowingly left behind.

He’s not in a rush. This isn’t a chase; it’s a hunt.

The longer he watches, the clearer it becomes: You’re not just a fleeting encounter. You’re the one. The puzzle he must solve. He knows he has to get close, to get past the walls you’ve built.

And he’s willing to do whatever it takes.

----------

John began his hunt, a quiet, patient pursuit that would leave no stone unturned.

The nickname you had chosen for the dating app—so unique, so personal—was the first clue. It wasn’t just something random, he realized. It was a key to something deeper, something hidden just beneath the surface.

He traced it. The path it led him on was winding, but it was clear and deliberate. Your image, that photo you’d used, caught his eye next. He zoomed in, examining every detail. The way the light hit your face, the angle, the soft texture of the background. It wasn’t just a casual snapshot. It was deliberate, curated. There was something about it that felt... polished.

Then, his eyes locked onto it.

The Royal College of Music. The concert hall.

It was a place he recognised immediately, and for a split second, he allowed himself a small, knowing smirk. You had been there, seated in that hall. The way you looked, so poised, so perfect, in the middle of that sea of sound, it was no accident. Your friend must’ve taken the picture. But even in that moment, you seemed so out of reach, so untouchable.

But that wouldn’t stop him.

He pushed forward, searching for more. Minutes later, his screen lit up with a new discovery—a Spotify playlist. The name was the same as your nickname, and when he clicked on it, the songs flooded in. The same songs you’d mentioned in passing. Those little details you’d carelessly slipped into conversation, thinking they were nothing.

It wasn’t coincidence.

John leaned back, his pulse steady, as he took it all in. It was a breadcrumb trail, and you had unwittingly left the map for him to follow.

And then, something clicked.

The playlist. The songs. The name.

He typed it into his search bar, just to see. Just to see what else would come up.

Your LinkedIn.

His heart skipped a beat. This was it. The final piece.

John leaned forward, fingers moving rapidly as he clicked through. There you were, full name now revealed, a neat professional profile staring back at him. Every detail lined up—your job, your education, even your location.

You were closer than he thought.

He smiled to himself, leaning back in his chair, the thrill of the chase finally rushing through him.

You were no longer hiding. No longer just a name behind a pretty picture. You were real.

And now, he knew exactly who you were.

This wasn't over. Far from it.

It was just the beginning.

----------

You almost didn’t go out tonight.

It had been so easy to just sink into routine—doom-scrolling through your phone, putting off responsibilities, ignoring the world beyond your bedroom. But your friends had insisted. An orchestra performance. You always loved instrumental music. It was one of the few things that could lift your mood, transport you somewhere else.

So, you dragged yourself up and went through the long, tedious process of making yourself presentable—no, more than presentable. Polished. Together. A mask, really, but one you were good at wearing.

The skincare routine, the precise trim of your brows, the careful shaving. Contouring, blending, soft touches of highlight and color to shape the face you wanted the world to see. It was muscle memory now, an exhausting ritual that took time, patience, and just the right amount of self-delusion.

When you finally looked in the mirror, the transformation was complete.

You almost looked like her—the woman in the picture you had used on the app. The confident, successful version of yourself. Not the girl stuck in limbo, unemployed, wasting time. No one would know the difference.

And for tonight, you could pretend, too.

----------

The pub near the concert hall was quiet, barely a handful of patrons scattered across the space. You were early, too early, and your friends hadn’t arrived yet. No sense in standing outside in the cold, so you slipped inside, ordered a pint, and made your way to one of the empty booths near the back.

The first sip was soothing, grounding. You exhaled, letting yourself settle into the moment, allowing the warm buzz of the pub to wrap around you.

And then—

A shadow passed over your table.

Someone slid into the seat across from you, smooth, unhurried. Not a stranger looking for an empty spot. No, this was deliberate.

You barely had time to react before a deep, familiar voice cut through the space between you.

"Hello, Birdie."

Your blood ran cold.

John Price.

He was sitting right there, across from you, arms resting casually on the table, watching you like he had all the time in the world.

Your stomach flipped, your throat tightening. A slow, creeping dread spread through your limbs, pinning you to your seat. This couldn’t be happening. It wasn’t possible.

He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t know who you are.

But he did.

And from the way his lips curled into something almost—pleased—as if he had been waiting for this moment.

For you.

A/N: Wooo!! Maybe I’ll write the next part when the inspiration hits? I’d love to hear what you guys think though! If you have any suggestions, feel free to share—I’m open to ideas! 😊

[anghimalaaynasapuso]

HORNY PRIEST JOHN PRICE

breeding kink, sacrilege (?)

john joined the church after leaving the military, though he never spoke much about what led him there. some men left war and found peace in quiet towns, in family, in distance. john, meanwhile, found himself in the shadow of the cross, searching for something he couldn't name.

he knelt, prayed, studied scripture— not because he'd had a sudden divine vision, but because he’d needed something to tether himself to.

he's never been one to talk about faith in absolutes. the young priests, fresh out of seminary, speak with a certainty that makes him envious. they talk of god’s mercy like it’s a thing they’ve held in their hands, like they’ve never doubted it for a second.

john doesn’t have that luxury. his hands have held a rifle, pressed down on wounds, ended lives.

what right does he have to stand in the confessional and tell a man his sins are forgiven when his own are still heavy in his chest?

he doesn’t let it show. not when he stands before his congregation, not when he delivers the homily, and not even when he listens to the confessions of those who kneel before him.

the words come easy. “god is love. god is mercy.” he says them with the confidence of a man who believes them. perhaps if he says them enough, one day it'll drive home.

he's decently well-respected in his parish. john speaks in measured tones, and listens with the kind of patience that makes people trust him. he’s rarely if ever unkind, never raising his voice even when the children at sunday school test his patience or when the older priests debate doctrine with a stubbornness he doesn’t bother entertaining.

the congregation admires him for it.

he keeps a well-worn rosary in his pocket, fingers brushing over the beads when he’s deep in thought. it’s an old habit, one he never lost even when he stopped saying the prayers as often as he should. late at night, when he can’t sleep, he walks the empty church, the only light coming from the red glow of the tabernacle lamp.

he runs his fingers over the smooth wood of the pews, listens to the creak of the floorboards beneath his boots, and exhales smoke into the dim air. it feels like a kind of penance, staying here long after everyone else has gone, keeping watch over something he’s still not sure he belongs to.

the first time you meet, it’s in the courtyard after sunday mass.

you’re new to the church. new to the neighborhood. moved in just a month ago, so he’s heard. he hadn't taken much notice at first— he rarely does. parishioners come and go, faces blending into one another over time.

but then he sees you. all wide eyes and bright smiles, the late-morning sun catching the warmth in your hair, laugh spilling out like a song. you shake hands with mrs. calloway, nod attentively as she chatters on about her garden, and there’s something about the way you tilt your head, the way your lips part in quiet amusement, that makes something ugly and raw twist in his gut.

john shouldn’t be looking. he knows he shouldn’t be looking.

and yet.

you catch sight of him, and your smile brightens, something open and eager in your face as you step forward. “father price.”

your voice is softer than he expects. sweeter. a fact not good for his health.

he nods. “you’ve settled in well, i see.”

“i have. everyone’s been so kind.” your hands clasp in front of you, fingers tangling. “i wanted to introduce myself properly. i should have done it sooner, but-” you shake your head, sheepish. “i guess i was nervous.”

nervous? of who— him?

he watches the way you glance down, the way your teeth catch the plump of your lower lip, the slight shift of your weight from foot to foot, and something slow and molten pools in his stomach.

and then, unbidden—

i want to fuck her mouth.

the thought slams into him. his fingers curl, blunt nails pressing into his palm. john's throat tightens, heat crawling up the back of his neck, shame dragging its claws down his spine.

he schools his expression, keeps his voice level. “there’s nothing to be nervous about.” a beat. his gaze lingers on your lips a second too long. “i hope you find what you’re looking for here.”

your eyes meets his then. for a moment, he swears you see it. the crack in his composure, the way his restraint stretches thin around you like fraying rope.

but then you just smile again— so fucking gentle— and bid him a polite goodbye before slipping back into the crowd.

he exhales, tries to control his breathing, before turning on his heel and heading inside.

it doesn’t get better after that.

oh no. in fact, it only gets worse.

because you linger. you stay. you join the congregation, sit near the front every sunday, your hands folded neatly in your lap, your lips parted slightly in quiet reverence as you listen to the sermon. you bite your lip when you concentrate, tuck your hair behind your ear absentmindedly, shift in your seat just enough to make his mind wander places it has absolutely no right to go.

and it haunts him.

creeps into his thoughts when he thinks he's already run far away from it. slips into his head when he least expects it. a slow, insidious thing, winding around his ribs, sinking its teeth into the softest parts of him.

john finds himself getting lost in his imaginations more and more as the weeks pass by. it starts with something simple. something small.

you, in his kitchen.

the space is yours as much as it is his now— he hardly steps foot in it unless you usher him in, your hands on his arms, guiding him to sit, to rest. the scent of warm bread and roasted meat fills the house, seeping into the wooden beams, the stone walls. the windows are cracked open just enough to let the breeze in, carrying with it the scent of the fields, the distant bells of the church.

you hum as you work, a quiet little tune under your breath, flour dusting your fingers, smudging along the curve of your cheek. you’re barefoot, the hem of your dress skimming your ankles, your apron tied neatly at the back. domestic. wifely. His.

"you’re spoiling me, love."

you laugh, glancing over your shoulder at him where he sits at the table, his elbows braced against the wood, his chin resting on his hand. john hasn’t even touched the sermon notes laid out before him, hasn’t even opened the book he’d planned to read. no, his attention has been on you— watching you move, watching the light catch on your hair, watching the way you fit so perfectly in his home.

"you work too hard," you murmur, turning back to the stove. "someone has to take care of you."

the words sink into him, low and warm, wrapping around something deep in his chest.

you do take care of him.

you set a plate before him, still warm from your hands, and press a kiss to the top of his head, your lips soft against his hair.

you fold his robes neatly after they’ve dried in the sun, pressing your hands over the fabric like a prayer. you pluck a stray thread from his collar before mass, your fingers deft and careful, your brow furrowing in quiet concentration.

you brush his hair back from his forehead when he sits too long at his desk, rubbing slow circles at his temple, your fingers easing away the weight of his work.

and in the evenings, after the dishes have been washed and the fire burns low, you climb into his lap with a soft sigh, tucking yourself against his chest.

"long day?" you ask, your fingers smoothing over the front of his shirt.

"mm." john presses a kiss to your hair, lets his hands settle at your waist, palms warm through the thin fabric of your nightdress. "better now."

and it is better, with you here, with your warmth seeping into his, your breath brushing his throat.

he wants all of it. the soft, easy domesticity. the routine of waking to you curled beside him, of pressing sleepy kisses to your bare shoulder before dragging himself out of bed. of watching you move through his home with the comfort of a woman who belongs there.

and, god help him—

john wants to fuck you too.

until you leaked him, until his seed dripped down your thighs, making a mess of soft, perfect skin. wants to bend you over his desk, press your face into the worn wood, break you open on his cock until you sobbed for him, begged him to fill you. he’d grip your hips hard enough to leave bruises.

he wants to whisper filth into your ear, his breath hot— gonna fill you up, love. gonna fuck you so full of me you’ll be dripping for days. you want that, don’t you? want me to breed you like the needy little thing you are?

he wants to press his fingers into your mouth, make you suck them clean before shoving them between your legs, fucking them into the soft clutch of your pussy until you cried for him.

and when he finally sinks his swollen cock inside you— he’d make you feel it.

john wants to fuck you raw, grind his hips against yours, keep you pinned beneath his weight, stuffed full of his cock. he’d press a hand to your belly, feel himself inside you, make you watch as you take a cock too big for you.

and when he’d spill inside you he wouldn't stop. oh no— he’d fuck it deeper, press his fingers to your swollen clit, make you come with him, make your body take every last drop of his seed.

because he wouldn't just fill you. he’d breed you. over and over, until you couldn't keep yourself up, too boneless to thrust back into him, too full to take any more.

but he was a man of god.

and men of god did not shove their sweet, willing parishioners over their desks, did not drag their teeth down soft skin, did not slap needy little cunts until they were wet and dripping.

they did not fuck desperate little things in church pews, in quiet confessionals, did not fist their hands in soft hair and shove pretty mouths onto their cocks, did not whisper filth between gasped-out prayers.

they did not spend their nights with their heads buried between trembling thighs, devouring the taste of sin, holding squirming bodies still as they licked deep, sucked hard, forced sweet, innocent things to come against their tongues.

they did not rut into them like beasts, gripping soft wrists, pinning them down, owning them with every brutal thrust. they did not press their hands to swollen bellies, fill their women over and over until their bodies were wrecked, too full of come to take another drop.

men of god did not fuck.

but god forgive him, he would.

all those thoughts come to this moment, this night—

john finds himself alone under the dim glow of candlelight, sitting on the pews, head tilted to the cross.

his breathing is uneven, ragged in the dim hush of the empty church. each inhale scrapes against his ribs, sharp and burning, like penance for the filth curdling in his mind. his hands tremble as they move beneath his robes, fingers fumbling at the buckle of his belt. the metal clinks, far too loud in the sacred silence, but he doesn’t stop.

can’t.

his breathing is uneven, ragged in the dim hush of the empty church. each inhale feels like it scrapes against his ribs, sharp and burning, as though the very air is punishing him for the thoughts festering in his mind. his hands tremble as they move beneath his robes, fingers fumbling at the buckle of his belt. the metal clinks softly in the quiet, a sound far too loud in the sanctity of this space.

the leather gives way, and his cassock feels suffocating now, the fabric too heavy against skin flushed with heat. his fingers slip lower, dragging the waistband of his pants down his hips with shaky, desperate movements until he’s free— finally free— from the painful confines of his underwear.

his cock springs forward, already hard in his hand, flushed dark at the tip, the skin tight and aching. a bead of precum glistens there, catching in the flicker of candlelight like something obscene in the house of god. he wraps his hand around the base, his grip firm but not enough to ease the pressure coiled in his gut. the heat of his palm sends a shudder rolling down his spine, breath hitching as his thumb swipes over the sensitive head, smearing the slick wetness down the length.

his cock is long, veins pulsing along the shaft, the kind of thick that demands attention. his foreskin still covers the swollen head, slick with the evidence of his own arousal, precum smearing against the soft skin of his lower stomach. he hisses through his teeth as he wraps his hand around the base, fingers barely closing around the girth, feeling the steady throb of blood pulsing beneath his grip.

his balls hang full and tight, pulled close with need, the skin sensitive to the faintest brush of fabric. every movement is torment, the soft rub of his cassock against his bare thighs sending a shudder through him, making his hips jerk forward, seeking relief.

he strokes himself slowly, dragging his foreskin back to expose the flushed, leaking head, then rolling it forward again, savoring the sensitivity. his thumb swipes through the slick wetness pooling at the tip, smearing it down the length, adding just enough glide to make his fist slip easier over his cock.

his grip tightens, dragging the pleasure out like a prayer he’s too ashamed to speak aloud. the church is silent around him, the air thick with the scent of burning wax and old stone, but all he can think about is you.

on your knees before him.

john sees it so clearly, feels it like it’s already happened. the way you’d sink down, your eyes looking up at him through thick lashes, expectant. your soft lips parted just enough for your tongue to wet them before stretching around his cock. the thought makes his stomach clench, his fingers twitching as he strokes himself tighter, his foreskin gliding over the swollen head before he pulls it back again.

you wouldn’t be able to take all of him at once. he knows that much. He’s too thick, too long— your jaw would ache just trying, your tongue pressing firm against the heavy weight of him, struggling to make space. the first inch would be easy, maybe even the second. but when he pushes deeper, when his tip nudges the back of your throat and you gag, just a little, he knows he’d lose whatever control he has left.

he swears he can see it— your fingers curling against his thighs, the little choked noise you’d make when he holds you there, when his cock throbs against your tongue. your throat would flutter, swallowing around him, trying to adjust to the stretch. and oh, god, the way your lips would look wrapped around him, swollen with abuse and slick with spit and precum. john nearly loses himself at the image alone.

his hips jerk forward into his own grip, chasing the fantasy, breath coming through the vaulted ceilings of the church. he’d guide you through it, hand buried in your hair, tilting your head just the way he likes. gentle, at first. Letting you set the pace. But then when you get too comfortable, when you start to tease, pulling back just to trail soft kisses along his length— he’d snap.

he’d pull you down, bury himself deep in the hot sleeve of your mouth until your throat clenched around him and you whimpered against his balls. his other hand would cup your jaw, feeling the bulge of himself pressing against your cheek, watching as tears bead at the corners of your eyes, shuddering from the effort of taking him.

he wonders if you’d try to pull away, fingers gripping his thighs in a silent plea. would you struggle? would you whine? would you let him break you like this?

john groans, his grip tightening almost painfully. he pumps himself faster now, the obscene slap of skin against skin filling the empty church. his balls are drawn tight, aching with the need to spill, and in his mind, he’s not coming into his own palm.

he’s coming down your throat.

you’d swallow, wouldn’t you? just for him. he can see it— his cum thick on your tongue, your lips parting to show him before you close your mouth and swallow it down. maybe a little would escape, dripping down your chin, and he’d swipe his thumb through it, pressing it back to your lips.

“messy thing,” he’d murmur. “but you took it so well.”

the thought sends him over the edge.

his hips stutter, cock jerking in his grip as his orgasm crashes over him, hot and sudden. cum spills over his knuckles, , dripping onto the cold stone beneath him. his breath comes in harsh, broken gasps, his thighs trembling as he rides out the aftershocks, his vision hazy with the force of his release.

and when it’s over— when he finally stills, his body spent, his mind heavy with guilt— he drags his gaze upward.

The cross looms above him, watching.

if this is damnation, he’ll sin again.

[lyeofhell]

╰┈ .𖥔 ݁ ˖ MDNI/18+ ONLY, f!curvy!reader x nikprice

oh to be the plump little treat devoured by nik and price. sandwiched between two bulky, beefy, bears of men. kept warm by their burly chests, both their bodies pressed into your sides. their whiskers tickle your cheeks and ears, murmuring accented praise through kisses and long drags of cigars. all while thick, corded arms wrap around you from all angles, eager hands searching, squeezing -- savoring how deliciously ripe your plush thighs are...and then your tummy, your tits, your ass...

it's so hard to focus :( smoke utterly hazes the room, that spicy, oaky smell so heady it slows your breath. and when he deems you relaxed enough, price gently grabs you by the chin and kisses you deep, tonguing you into subservience and exhaling into your mouth while nik sucks at the side of your throat. ugh their musk, their whiskeyed breaths that they pant and grunt against your skin as they use you at the same time...oh you're sure to reek of them by the end of this.

[chamomiletealeaf]

Thinking ab Price fucking you after seeing you so upset from a really bad day to help cheer you up. You’re on your back as he’s fucking you so good that your eyes are unfocused, you’re panting, and have a big dumb smile plastered across your face, which was his final goal, other than making you cum so hard you forget your name.

“Yeah that’s right lovey dovey.” He coos. “Smile for me baby. Lemme see how happy this cock makes you hm?”

He’d smile himself, proud with the way he has you dumb on his dick, happy that his pretty girl is happy again.

“Aww see baby?” He coos at you again. “All you needed was a nice thick cock.”

[peachetteprice]

John Price, who - on your eighth date together; yes, eighth - dons himself in lavender oil in an attempt to smell like something a woman would feel at peace to be around, for fear that, when he tells you of what he does, who he is, you might wish to run for the hills, but it's okay if you do; it's okay if you don't want to want him after that fact, and it's okay if you leave him now and don't look back - he won't hold it against you.

John, who - for the first time in a long time - permentantly turns red in the face from embarrassment as you crinkle your nose, laugh a little, lean across the table, and ask;

"Is - is that lavender I can smell, John?"

And whose worry dims as you take more notice in the fact that he smells like your grandmother's back garden than the fact that he's just told you that he kills people for his monthly wages.

And, when you probe about whether it's his shampoo or a bottle of perfume from the women's aisle in Sainsbury's - it's a beard oil, in case you wanted to kiss him that night, but you don't learn that until years down the line - he has the slightest inkling, but doesn't want to undo all of his effort and believe in it so much that he gets himself too indulged by the mere thought of you;

That you might just be the one.

| Masterlist |

[ragingbookdragon]

Ghost: Aw, you still listen to boy bands? Cute.

Y/N: Shut up, boy. You look like you listen to Boulevard of Broken Dreams just so you can imagine angsty scenarios.

Soap: *Snort*

Y/N: You shut up too. You look like your favorite song is Stacy’s Mom because it makes you think of when you shagged your teacher at the end of your sixth year and then bragged about it.

Gaz: *Trying not to laugh*

Y/N: I better not hear you either. I know for a fact you’re in the 1% of listeners of Weird Al on Spotify.

Price: *Tired old man sigh*

Y/N: Don’t even. Your favorite songs are The Wreck of The Edmund Fitzgerald and Sink the Bismarck and all that tells me is that your hyper-fixation is shipwrecks.

[eccentricallygothic]

| Just A Little Bit Colder |

You are having a Sunday BBQ with your Bf's family but his Dad!Captain Price and you…

Warning(s): Infidelity with Bf's Dad, rough unprotected p-in-v, doggy style, feeling of guilt, spanking, manhandling, age gap, hair pulling, he is lowkey bossy, m!dom, f!sub, sir kink, mild dacryphilia bc the D is so good, Price's BDE, pinching, brat taming, Daddy kink, light overstimulation, creampie. MDNI.

Part of the Older verse, apparently.

Your eyes are glazed and widened as you watch your boyfriend who, while tending to the grill on the patio, laughs along to something his mother says from where you can see him through the window of the wine cellar. If it weren't for how dazed your mind is, you would have felt the tense knot that you can only identify as guilt form in the base of your chest. 

But as the older man behind you grunts and curses under his breath before landing a smack on your blushing ass from behind, your eyes cannot help but roll to the top of your head, making you nearly drop one of the wine bottles that you are hugging tightly to your chest.

Bottles that the two of you are supposed to be fetching…

“W- We— hnng!” You nearly double over when Captain Price steers you around and towards the wine racks again by rough handfuls of your hips, his hot and hard cock pistoning in and out of your noisy cunt whilst his tip abuses your sensitive spot with each thrust. “Someone w- will hear—!” You nearly go head first into the bottles that neatly line the rows due to how the cruel man forces you to walk on your wobbling knees whilst he blows into you from behind. “We'll get caugh— auggh— awt!” 

Captain Price has to reach out to grip your hair to stop you from falling down, his nose flared from how hard and fast his fucking of your youthful little pussy is. “Then I suppose we should be quiet and not make noise, eh, babygirl?” His accent gets so thick during these moments that you barely understand him sometimes. And it only makes you clench harder. “Come on, now” you shake your head no as a snot bubble bursts from the mess he has made of you. He always does. “Grab that one from the fourth row, fifth bottle from the left.” Amidst your turbulent fuck, you had somehow managed to place the bottles that you were previously holding in the padded basket that the man had brought.

You weakly shake your head as you bite back a sob and sway towards the rack before holding it for support when he lets go of your hair. “I can't! I can't, sir,” he likes you to call him that sometimes. “I am sorry!” The smell of sex permeates the air and the only sound you can hear over the thumps of your heart is that of his skin clapping against yours. 

“But you can” you feel his rough hand smack your ass again. “And you will” the next hit sends you spasming and shuddering as you begin to cum hard. “Get to it” but he pulls you backwards into his chest by a handful of one of your boobs so he can dip his hands between your clammy petals to rub at your cunt. 

“No! No! Oh, God! YES!” It feels good but to such an intense extent that you cannot decide whether you want it or not. Your body tries to curl in on itself so he hooks one arm under your armpits to lift you off the ground to prevent your violent flailing from interfering with his own orgasm that now shadows over his edge due to how hot and tight yours feels around his cock. “Gggg! Hhggg!” Your body collapses on his as you literally dangle from his cock, the jabs bouncing you upwards with each thrust like you're no heavier than a cock sleeve. “Ohmigoshhhh!” Your hiss runs into eventual silence but doesn't die out because of his treatment of your pussy and you tremble pathetically. 

“Are we ’aving fun yet?” His voice is so firm that it makes you clench around him from the sensitivity. “Was that silly little antic of ours worth it, then?” The pinch he administers to one of your pussy lips is mean and you quickly shudder out the well due apology. 

“S- Sorry, sir… So sorry, sir…” His fingers feel raw against your cunt and you're on the brink of the post cum half orgasm this always brings you to. 

“Should I expect a repeat of that, or?” His mustache tickles the skin of your soft cheek as he grips your jaw with his cum covered hand now, pressing your faces together so you can hear his menacing whispers in their full intensity. 

“N- No, sir… No, sorry…” Your broken words tip him over the edge and he begins to paint your overstimulated walls with his cum, still stubbornly moving his fingers over your sensitive folds. “Oh!” The barrage of your tears finally breaks loose and you begin to cum again, feeling his hot cum deep up your cervix. 

Making you cum has never been a problem for your boyfriend's father Captain John Price.

“Tha’s fuckin' right” he urgently lowers you both until he's on his knees, your flushed cheek touches the cool ground and Captain Price holds the lower part of your body up and spreads it out so he can properly fuck out his orgasm until your puffy cunt is stuffed full of his creamy cum and your walls are raw from the friction. “So don't fuckin' try your Daddy again.”

Okay, so.

You had, during a particularly cheeky moment, teased him about being old and challenged him that he did not have the courage or stamina to take you and finish in time without getting caught when you were helping with the moving of the BBQ contents to the patio. Before your boyfriend's dad could have had the chance to answer safely, you were already walking out the kitchen backdoor with his son, a devilish sway to your hips and a teasing smirk on your face. 

The man had just watched you then, silent and unreadable as his own wife had approached him. 

And then he had requested you to help him with fetching the wine after he had rejoined the party with his own share of the ‘carry out’ items.

As your cheek rubs against the floor and your drool forms a little puddle next to your mouth, you reckon it is safe to say that you are not going to be challenging your boyfriend's dad anytime soon.

Or…

Are you?

MASTERLIST