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yeyinde · 2 years ago

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“#his beard just??? looks wet???” okay but Price having to talk to the team after eating you out and not getting a chance to make himself presentable 🫣🫣

you put this idea in my head (after i put it in your head) so now you have to deal with this!

➝warnings: cunnilingus, edge play (kinda), smut, P-in-V sex, creampie, D/s undertones; Price is a menace and the biggest dom; gendered anatomy, female Reader, female gendered anatomy

➝notes: this is so beyond messy, so sorry!! not even fun messy just. why would you do this, girl? messy.

➝word count: 2,4k

"Ah, cap—!"

Your knees quake when he presses the flat arch of his nose against your throbbing clit, tongue tracing figure-eights over the taut skin of your cunt, stretched around three thick fingers.

He grazes his knuckles over a spot inside of you, dragging the rough skin over your gummy, fluttering walls, until you gasp for him, choking out something that sounds like this name.

Price huffs, and the curl of his breath wisping over your soaked pussy makes your eyes roll, chin tilting back on the table he spread you out on. The one that, three hours prior, was used to plan a hostage rescue with the team.

(The very same team getting their things ready in the debriefing room for wheels-up in forty minutes.)

The wry bristles of his coarse burnt umber beard scrape deliciously over the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, and the feeling of it chafing your flesh raw makes you tremble, quiver. It's that equinox of pleasure, and the beginning edges of that delicious burn of irritation when he rubs you raw. Tender.

His other hand rests flat against your thigh, keeping it flush against the table. His thumb strokes your skin when you're good for him, a small modicum of comfort amid a storm of utter brutality. Of nearly twenty minutes of pure, delicious torture. The other he hikes over his broad shoulder, your heel knocking uselessly into the thick muscles of his back as he works you to the very top of a vertiginous mountain.

(Over and over and over again—)

"Sir—," you whimper, the word a featherlight cry from your chest. It makes him hum.

"Steady now, Sergeant."

Steady, he says, as if he hadn't been eating your pussy for twenty of the forty minutes, drawing it out until you were an overwrought, overstimulated mess on the table. All thoughts are caught in the sticky opiate mess of your head, rendered out into ashes, into wispy cries of his name (John, John, John—), or his title (captain, sir—), and please (please, please pleasepleaseplease—). It's muddled in bliss; in the bitter, maddening tang of dissatisfaction.

Price brings you to the edge of that delirious precipice, and then pulls back before you reach the top, leaning back on his haunches as you whimpered, begged, pleaded for him to let you cum, to just let you—

You'd look between your trembling thighs, then, as if you could somehow will the man to give into your demands, your needs, just by flashing the same expression that started this whole thing. Coy, saccharine sweet; lips arched in a smile that tasted sybaritic.

(Knuckles brushed against his when you curled your fingers over the straps of his vest, and used his steady, solid unmoveable weight to hoist yourself up, lips brushing the wry, rough hair covering his chin, murmuring: "you talk a lot, sir. I should find a way to shut you up—"

He'd given in, then, shifting on his feet as you peppered kisses to his ulotrichy jaw. "And what do you have in mind, Sergeant, mm? Want me to bury my face in your pretty cunt? Gonna shut me up with your pussy?"

You thought you won when broad hands slipped away from the grip on his straps, and curled under your thighs. He gave you no time to prepare yourself before he lifted you on the table, eyes Sapphire beds of desire as he loomed over you.

It was a victory, then.)

But now, no matter how twee you act, or desperately you beg him for release, he won't give in. Won't.

He just smiles at you. Grins. Chin wet, ruined, hairs sticking to his lips, matted to his cheeks, and he'd say (taunt):

"C'mon, Sergeant. You can't be about to cum already." Timbre drenched in sex and liquid with smoke. His eyes flash—florentine promises: a hymn to Hēdonē—and he waits, waits, until the high dissipates in your veins. "Don't be greedy, now."

You want to laugh, to scoff, but the weight of his hands pulling your thighs apart, the ghost of his breath against your cunt, the rasp of his tongue sliding over your slit, stems the words in your throat.

All you can do is thread your fingers through his messy locks, and get swept away by his pace once more.

There is no respite in this. Despite the pleasure his humid breath on your cunt brings, or the molten roll of his tongue running from your messy, weeping hole to your throbbing clit and back again, it's torture. Madness.

He circles your clit with just the soft tip, running figure-eights over the bundle of nerves until your thighs tense, clamping against the sides of his head, and locking him tight to your pussy.

A huff. Then, "tryna' suffocate me, love?"

It's muffled, and wet. Sticky from your drenched pussy leaking your slick down his wrist, his forearm, and saturating his beard until it turns the same dark shade as his cigars. Near black with how soaked you are. The bristles stick to his lips, and cheeks.

The sight when he raises his chin, damp hair sliding over your raw cunt, makes you lose it completely.

"C'mon, love," he groans into your cunt, nuzzling his beard over your sopping slit. The burn of it feels good—so, so good—and you break at the feeling of it. The indelible amalgam of pleasure that edges so sweetly into pain, into that raw quiver of a livewire.

It feels too much like sticking your finger in a socket. Licking the back of a battery. The shock, the jolt ricochets through your core until you leak dopamine, oxytocin, and endorphins from every overwrought synapse.

"Price—ah, fuck—"

"Come on, sweetheart," your knees quake from the sound of his voice alone: heady with smoke, sex; a crackle, charred wood, that spills from his soaked lips, heavy with your slick. "You wanna cum? Beg for it."

Your hips arch, canting your greedy cunt into his eager, teasing mouth.

"Please, please—"

"Not good enough, love."

It's a grumble; pitched low and liquid, and you nearly cum from the timbre of his voice—molasses thick, and covered in ash—but he pulls his mouth away from your clit, and slides it down to push at the rim of your entrance. His fingers spread inside of you, scraping over your walls until your back arches, head gummy and soporific from the way he fucks your pussy.

"Price, please—," another rasping hum—disapproval—and he slows his thrusts until high begins to ebb. "Fuck, no, please—please, John, I need to cum—"

"Better."

"Fuck, sir, please! Let me cum on your tongue—I need it so bad—"

"Then cum for me, love."

It doesn't sound human when the command is scraped out of his throat. A mangled, thick demand; a smouldering ember.

You cum with his tongue laving over your clit, three thick fingers fucking insistently against a spot inside of you that has nirvana liquifying behind your eyelids.

Bliss floods through you like a deluge; a cascade of euphoria that snaps inside of you like a broken rubber band, an unspooling coil.

You melt into the metal below; bone dissolving into raw mercury. Blissed out. Drunk on the opiate high of his tongue and fingers, and the burning husk of his voice—molten commands dipped in ashes.

"God, that was—"

He stands in one fluid motion, and slots his hips in the loose, languid bracket of your legs. His cock falls on your mons, tip leaking prespend over your belly button.

There is no warning, no words. His hands slide under your thighs, gripping you tight enough to bruise, and then he's wrenching your pelvis up, cock rubbing, bobbing insistently against your slit.

"John—"

One hand leaves your aching flesh to grip his throbbing cock in his hands, sliding it down the mess of your cunt until it catches on your weeping hole.

"Oh, god—"

He catches your gaze as he rubs himself over you.

"M'not gonna fuck you, love—;" his cock slides to your clit, tapping his frenulum against your aching flesh when you whine, pout. You want him inside of you, pushed to the limit—

"Gonna be good for me, aren't you?"

You're nodding before the words are out—eager, docile; you want him, always. Your cunt clenches on nothing, desperate to be filled, stretched to the absolute limit by his girth.

But he won't. Not yet.

His cock is covered in your slick, and when he runs his palm down the length of it, you hear the sticky, wet sound of it as he fucks his own hand, bringing himself to the edge despite your eager, willing cunt right there. Right there—

You angle your hips up, and feel the engorged head of his cock catch on your rim. So, so close, so—

He pulls away, tutting at you. "Greedy little cunt, isn't it?"

You whine. "Please, need your cock—"

He leans down, pressing his chest against yours, and catches your mouth. It's not a kiss—it's a wet, sloppy mess of tongue, and teeth, but it makes you ache, makes you mewl at the taste of yourself on his breath, and the dripping state of his beard as it leaves behind a soaked trail over your chin and cheeks.

He's a mess. An absolute mess of your pussy, and—

His hips jerk, and he breaks the kiss to press his mouth to neck, teeth scraping over your flesh as he finally, finally, sinks inside of you, stretching you, pushing your walls to the mettle as you struggle to make room for him.

The head of his cock presses taut to the plug of your womb, knocking into it until you whimper from the too much too full feeling of taking him to the root.

"'M'not gonna last long," he promises in a hush, liquid whisper, voice quivering from pleasure.

You cant your hips into him until the grind of his cock inside of you sends you reeling through the opium haze of bliss that spoils inside of you once more.

"Cum for me, John," you choke out with a gasp when he meets your messy thrusts with his own, sloppily pounding into you.

His muscles quiver under your fingers, nails digging into his biceps as he pounds you like he's starved for it, desperate. And he is, of course. This whole thing has been just as much of a tease to him as it had been for you, and you know, know, he's close by the tells you pick up on. The divot between his brow, the clench of his job, the broken grunts that slip between gritted teeth, sibilant and aching, and the glossiness in his nautical blue gaze.

The grind of his cock inside of you is more than you can handle, but you take it, anyway. Your legs lock around his thick waist, hands cling to his arms, as he fucks you in brutal, deep thrusts; hips pistoning into you as he chases the embers of his own release.

You taste yourself when you press your lips to damp cheek, and whimper into his skin:

"Cum inside me, baby—"

You feel him tense, body coiling taut, and then he groans. Low and liquid, and you feel heat bloom inside of you as he cums, fills you up.

He grunts with each jerk of his cock as he spends himself within you, low and brittle; guttural growls of masticated words that make little sense when they squeeze through the clench of his jaw.

You take it all, holding him close as his lashes flutter, eyes roll, and his muscles lock over you. He looks good when he cums, when his face falls, lax and loose, mouth dropping open, as he spits the last of it inside of you where it pools, a molten puddle, against the seal of your womb.

Price's bones liquifying. He sags against you with a huff of your name, and something you can decipher through the roar in your ears, the rush of pleasure and the gossamer of sex that clings to your skin.

"That was—"

He's cut off.

His phone buzzes. The ring is familiar.

Times up.

You snort a little when he groans, and slowly, reluctantly, pulls away from you. His irritation bleeds into the torpor of his expression, cutting through the aftershocks of bliss.

It's uncanny, really, how he's able to reassemble himself into the shape of a leader with ease despite the scent of sex that clings to him, clogging the room in a thick, dense cloud.

He pulls out of you, murmuring a quiet sorry, love when you flinch at the drag of him against your bruised walls, and then tucks himself back inside his trousers.

Three minutes is all it takes and he's Captain John Price, a leader, superior; dependable man.

If you didn't feel the ache in your cunt from where he split you open with his thick cock, or the steady trickle of his molten spend leaking from your raw, chafed hole, thighs sticky from your own slick, and irritated by the rough scrape of his beard against delicate flesh, you might have thought nothing was amiss.

Nothing, except—

His face is flushed a bright red, eyes rippling with the aftermath of his ebbing pleasure. It's easy to hide, however—he might have been exercising prior to takeoff. Napping, perhaps.

But the way his beard glitters in the jaundiced light, wet and slick, is—

You open your mouth to tell him, but his hand falls, palm smacking against your inner thigh, cutting your words short with a sharp gasp at the sting in your flesh.

His lips curl up in a smirk when you flinch.

"Gotta go, love. Get yourself cleaned up, and I'll tell the others you're doing the last-minute check."

He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, but it does nothing to hide the dampness of his beard, the glossy sheen that coats his matted hair.

Price turns with a sharp nod.

(You blink at his back, and wonder if the gnarled thing inside of your gut, a twisting sense of possession and accomplishment at the sight of him, soaked from your cunt, should alarm you.

But you can't deny seeing him wrecked from you alone buzzes through your marrow in a way that makes your toes curl. Primal satisfaction, you think, and wonder when he'll notice how soaked you'd left him.

Moments later, through the thin walls, you hear Soap murmur:

"Did you wash your face before, cap? I think you forgot to dry your beard."

#HM #dunno how i feel about this one #captain john price #john price #cod mw2 smut #cod captain price #captain price x reader #captain john price x reader #john price x reader #captain john price x you #john price x you #captain price x you #captain price #i'm going through a crisis with my writing right now

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yuri-is-online · 1 year ago

Text

Bitch the Pot (Trey Clover x Reader)

Trey's birthday is coming up and you really want to buy him a present.

But what if he doesn't want it? What if he just thinks of your efforts as annoying, or even worse what if he sees right through you and makes things awkward. What if he stashes things away and makes fun of them later, years later when he barely remembers your name.

What if he's secretly looking forward to your presence and hasn't even considered he'd be lucky enough to get a gift. What if... what if...

notes: they/them used for Yuu, we're going to hurt comfort town choo choo mother fuckers, I am using the Hitchhiking Ghost names for the Ramshackle Ghosts because I am unoriginal, the more I think about Trey the more I realize Idia is right, Trey's a skethcy mfer and yeah that's hot. If you like this check out my masterlist for more fic.

You didn't want to indulge Trey's teeth thing.

Sure it will make him happy, smooth over all your little insecurities pricking at your heart as you poke through the second hand store for what you had thought would be a really cute idea on your way here but now weren't so sure about. Besides you are pretty sure that everyone else is going to buy him a bundle of floss and call it a day, well other than Rook who has been waxing poetic about how he had "the most fitting cap for the Rose Chevalier" so all the more reason to put a little less of a personal interest into your gifting and more of a thoughtful touch.

As thoughtful as you could afford anyway. You aren't even sure Trey likes these sorts of things, though that worry is sort of drowned by how surprised you are to find nice looking china in Crane Port's equivalent of a Good Will. There is a nice selection of tea cups, mismatched saucer plates, and the odd pot sat all by its lonesome all with neatly written prices on stickers you don't look forward to scrubbing off.

Afternoon Tea Special~ Pick one Pot, 4 cups w/ saucers, creamer, and sugar bowl: all for just 25 T!

Cute, and not a bad idea you supposed even if it did feel a bit overkill. Your original intention had just been to pick up a sugar bowl and maybe one cup, something for him to put candies in that had a lid so no flies could get at his violets. But it really would be a shame to pass up such a nice deal and hey, if Trey didn't like it he could just ditch it with the Heartslabyul kitchenware once he graduated and never speak to you again.

"Oh this is such a cute little selection!" The lady at the counter's eyes practically sparkle as she carefully wraps up your choices in tissue paper.

"It's a birthday gift." You can't help but mumble and the sparkle flutters out to her entire body, ah that's right, this lady always did look a bit bored when you came in. It seems like you have fed her and her knitting circle for the rest of the week.

"Well then this won't to at all." She huffs and stops wrapping up your order and bends under her counter, the tell tale ruffles of paper and boxes sounding oddly comforting as she produces what you think is a hat box and proudly begins to organize the mismatched set and fetches out even more tissue paper. "Must be for someone important with how long you've been eyeing up a sugar bowl." She wiggles her eye brows. You try to keep your focus on said bowl, you didn't realize she'd been watching you but then again you have been coming down here every spare weekend to stare at it. This shop was nice, it had a bunch of cheap clothes and nick knacks that were used sure, but a life saver for someone from a completely different world. If the lady is thankfully not offended by your silence. She simply tacks your receipt to the box and sends you off with a wink.

"Thank you for your purchase! Please come back soon!" And tell me all bout it! You swear she says it but you don't hear it, too much blood is thrumming in your ears

The hat box is not out of place among the gifts on the party table, so trey doesn't have an excuse to stare at it even if his eyes keep coming back to it. It's lavender, plain save for the cream bow he hopes Yuu tied around it, and had been decently heavy when he picked it up before Cater scolded him about playing favorites.

"Be a good Senior and eat the cookies we made for you until Riddle brings out the cake." He flicks his nose with a knowing look. "Normal people save the best for last right? I'm sure Yuu-yuu will be fine with waiting, since they can barely look at you today~" And of course like a fool he whips his head to look, startling them and proving Cater's point as they immediately scurry back to Ace and Deuce.

"Screw you." He's only half joking but Cater's fully laughing and probably already took a picture. "I'm just worried they felt like they needed to bring a gift I would have been happy just to-"

"No you wouldn't have." For someone who likes lying to himself Cater really doesn't seemed thrilled with his choice to gaslight himself. "You would have spent the rest of the night thinking 'ooooh it'd be really nice if I got something from Yuu, I wonder if they hate meeee, I should make sure they think I don't care about helping them some more so they leave me alone and I don't have to think about how nice it would be to-'"

"Cater!" Trey has never been so grateful to hear Riddle yell about anything in his life. "Could you please help me with the cake? I was going to ask Yuu but they had to go back to Ramshackle."

"Yuu's back at Ramshackle?" Trey reaches to adjust his glasses, trying to ground himself.

"Yes, they said they were feeling sick and-" That's all Trey registers, though he hears the rest "went back to lie down, Grim insisted on staying to make sure the food didn't get them sick." It's his party, he can't just leave that would be an extreme violation of the rules but Cater's earlier accusation comes back to him. Make them think I won't care about them. It's not intentional, he thinks it's obvious he always will but then again-

"Fifteen minutes." Cater whispers under his breath.

"Thirty."

"You're delusional." Still Cater doesn't sound mad. "Eighteen."

"Twenty." He's already snatched up the hat box and making his way towards the doors.

~~~~

"Awww Yuu." Phineas would pat your head if he could. "I'm sure it's not that bad, you're just overthinking things."

"Yeah I think anyone would be happy to get a gift from you!" Gus tries, all three ghosts perking up slightly when you smile just a bit at his encouragement. "And if not then well..."

"I know I'm just being dramatic but I couldn't stand waiting anymore." You don't mention how Ace and Deuce had been teasing you, not wanting to relive the absolute embarrassment of having been caught staring at their Vice-Warden one too many times for dots to remain unconnected. "I asked Grim to bring back some cake but I don't know if he'll remember."

"Oooh let's take bets on it!" Ezra cheers and a familiar, unexpected laugh interrupts sending the ghosts scattering and leaving you at the mercy of a familiar face.

"I think it's safe to say that would be a pretty obvious bet." Trey sets the hat box on your coffee table, folding his strong arms and firmly sticking a lump in your throat. "You should have bet on me."

"Returning your gift is not bringing me something." You huff and Trey has the decency to look a bit awkward.

"I'm not here to return it, there's rules to gifts you know." Oh no. "For example, on our birthdays, the Queen of Hearts says we get to ask for anything we want." He finally moves, unfortunately for you he's decided to use his height to his advantage and lean over the table to crowd you back into the couch. "And I spent a long time thinking about what I should ask for from you."

"Um- I well-" You're looking everywhere but him now, as if you were before. "I did get you a gift though?" He laughs.

"And you ran away before I could thank you." Trey begins to unwrap the ribbons, slowly as if he's waiting for you to look at him but not wanting to deny his curiosity any longer. "But that doesn't change the rules. Sorry, I didn't make them."

The sugar bowl is the first piece he finds, the shop lady has to have set it on top on purpose. His eyebrows raise, not in disappointment you think, curiosity hopefully as he slowly opens the rest of them.

"Sorry." You immediately say to fill the space out of habit, and Trey stops his examination to look up at you.

"What for?" He picks up the sugar bowl, just as amused as you with the clover flowers patterned across it in a nice twist on his name and half the accessories he owns. "Don't tell me you want this stuff back, its mine now."

"No! I'm glad you like," you cringe at the question in your tone and cower at the smirk on Trey's face "I mean I hope you like it."

"A hand picked tea set from the Ramshackle Prefect? It's perfect. Especially for a birthday gift for me." He carefully wraps up the cups and their saucers, silence once again falling over the room as you wonder why he hasn't called you out on your lie, the self doubt suggesting he hadn't noticed. "I meant what I said earlier you know."

"What, about making demands of me?" You say.

"Hey chill I only sort of meant it like that." He doesn't even bother trying to hide his amusement. "I mean betting on me. I know it might sound strange to hear me say, but I do have things I think are worth extra effort. And if I have to put in a lot of it to get you to understand that I am glad you are in my life, then I'll just have to do that." So he did know you weren't sick, and was just dancing around the subject to be polite as usual.

"Happy birthday Trey." Because what else are you supposed to say, and he tries his best to not let his disappointment show as he takes his opened gift back to the rose garden. "I'm- I hope you have a nice time at your party."

He pauses at the threshold of your dorm, the wicked smile returning. "I think I know what I want to ask you to do."

"Oh no." You did not mean to say that out loud.

"Mhm. But you are going to have to come back to Heartslabyul to hear it, but after the party, we can use our cups." Our cups he says, as if you had picked out any cups that were supposed to represent you.

He noticed, of course Trey noticed that there was no trace of Yuu in this very you gift. But he could fix that, if you would just give him a chance. And maybe get the calm celebration he actually wants when you do.

#twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #trey clover x reader #hm #tempted to make goodwill lady an oc because i think yuu deserves an ally in crane port #no idea who she'd be based off of though lol

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