femalefemur
18+ minors do not interact!
thinking about sloppy making out but with price. he has your jaw gripped in one hand and the other gripping your arse while his tongue is down your throat. he's licking into your mouth like a starved man, there's saliva slicking your lips and soaking into his beard.
Price loves the fact that your new medication makes you so sleepy, because now you're too drowsy to complain when he reaches for your hand during movie night. Muttering "Hm, just need to relax a bit, honey. Don't fight me, yeah?" While he wraps a hand around your own and makes you jerk him off. You used to complain about him making a mess, but now you just smile and drift off, knowing you'll wake up later in a warm bed with nothing but photos as proof of everything price did while you slept :)
price x f!reader. 7k words
cw: imagined noncon. very icky age gap notions. somewhat public fingering. heavy smut. 18+ mdni
[masterlist]
he comes around for dinner.
The air of his bedroom was buttery. Rich with sex and daisies.
For days now, you’ve been seeing the same broad-shouldered man lounging around the resort.Or: the knocked up on vacation au
Part 2
masterlist
-
For all your zoning out, you still know how to make the most of your vacation.
Grains of white sand scratch the skin between your toes on the walk back from the beach, sun-fatigued and pruny-fingered. Synapses firing slower than usual. You nearly doze off on the shuttle ride back to the hotel until someone jostles you awake, the embarrassing snort you let out entirely unintentional.
It’s not your fault. Several hours in the sun and sea will do that to a person.
price getting hurt on a mission and you have to help bandage him up as he tries not to lose consciousness. he gets so loopy from the blood loss he starts to expose his inner thoughts, calling you pretty and how often he thinks about you. “mmm y’smell s’good, love,” he mumbles aimlessly, slurring his words slightly. his fingers running through your hair as you work on his bullet wound, his voice barely a whisper “fuckin’ torturing me.” and you’re not sure if he means because you're hurting him physically or something else entirely.
idk Great British Baking Show AU
thats it really. Johnny wont stop trying to steal tastes of your meringue and subtly scoots by too close so his crotch rubs against your ass. Kyle goes back and forth with you on the best way to make a lemon tart and comments how cute you look with flour smudged on your cheek. John somehow always wins the technical challenges and offers to give you lessons with that cheeky warm smile and too many pet names. and of course Simon acts like he couldn’t care less about this whole thing, but makes the best tiramisu you’ve ever tasted and pretends like he’s not helping you when he makes his gruff little remarks about your recipes (he also gives the best hug when you finally get star baker).
demons defeated for another day with spicy goodness 🔥🔥
bed time <3
john price and his divorced vibes ring true in my heart and notes app once again. cw. slight suicide ideation.
“it’s me or there.”
that’s when it ended. four words, four years, give or take. snuffed out in the aftermath of a hospital visit that wouldn’t have been concerning if john were younger. if he didn’t have you.
he’s seen the cyst of it. the bloated, inflamed beginnings of a divide. the graves that anxiety digs under your eyes. the tears when he returns home- not from joy but from relief.
(maybe that’s always what it’s been- just assumed they were the same. it took looking at your signature on separation papers to make him realize just how wrong he was).
but tonight, you aren’t crying. not now- not in front of him. he can tell you practiced, by the ridged way you sit under the lamplight he had helped you fix last month, hands crossed over the dining room table (oak from the backyard). eyes that build a wall between your body and the woman he married.
“don’t make me choose.” is what he said, which didn’t sound like a real answer to him.
but there was only one reply that would’ve made you stay.
im not even from the south, but just the idea of Ghost (or god help me PRICE) in those fucking wrangler jeans and a tight t-shirt, a cowboy hat???
Just imagine the fabric of his shirt sticking to his chest with sweat as he wipes his rough hands with a rag after a long work day… calling you “darlin’” and “sweetheart” like you aren’t about to rip his clothes off and ride him like the stallion he is..
I need mental help.
