John Price X Reader.

my body sleeps on your boredom

SUGAR DADDY!PRICE X READER

18+ | sugar daddy/baby relationship. age gap. (implied) mafia au. dom!Price. (slight) dubcon breeding. breeding kink one so insane you can hear Mormons applauding in the distance. contraceptive control. implied financial control. rough sex. infidelity*. dad!John Price. cheating (not between reader and John). Old Money Rich.

What you have with Price is entirely transactional.

His job—the nuances of which he keeps out of the bedroom, the bed—eats up the bulk of his time, and you—pretty little tchotchke that warms his sheets, keeping him cradled between soft thighs, head nestled on the enticing swell of your chest (weary heads and all, you suppose); a homecoming he can sink his stress into—lap up the scraps.

It's an arrangement that works for both of you, really.

Your rent is paid. Closet bursting with clothing. Always tripping over more shoes than you know what to do with. Food in the fridge. Financial worries are swallowed down quickly when they arise (along with a whiskey-tinged glob of spit when he grips your throat and tells you to open wide). He takes care of you. And you—

You take care of him, too.

a simple creature, really: he just wants dinner on the table when he comes over (home), a pretty thing to stare at while he eats, humming around a mouthful as you prattle on about your day (non-negotiable—his appetite is archaic, oppressive: the man grunts around a piece of meat his woman cooked for him as her bare feet slide teasingly up and down his leg, and she fills the stifling silence with inane chatter), and at the end of the obligatory meal, he gets to vent his frustrations out on the wet, warm embrace of your cunt as it squeezes his bare cock (also non-negotiable).

It's an effortless synchronicity.

When you need money, you send a picture of yourself in lingerie he bought above a coy pretty please, daddy to soften the grump up, and after a few exchanges of him lamenting the unnecessary purchase (a part of you, wishful, idealistic, clings to the idea that maybe he just wants an excuse to talk to you, to let you lap at more of his time than think he can afford to give), he relents. The money is sent to your account. You walk out of the department store with an ache in your belly that no amount of expensive wine or truffle could ever hope of filling and bags dangling on the crook of your finger, and he gets to thicken in his trousers over the idea of spending his money on a pretty little thing he can bury his cock inside of whenever the mood strikes. A patriarchal sort of preening. Masculine ego stroke. The role of a dutiful provider all wrapped up nice under the hum of ownership, sex.

(Then he really gets his money's worth when he bends you over the settee. Bought and paid for.)

And you're fine with it. It works. It makes sense because this is the only way that the two of you, together, do.

He's older than you are (salt peppers his hairline; wisps of smoke slither out of the tips of wry, umbre curls. No laugh lines, but his eyes crinkle when he smiles). He has a career. A good one. The second bottle of Violet Sapphire he bought on a whim for you after you whined about running out of the first (a gift—sales lady said you'd like it, sweetheart) isn't cheap. Neither are the handbags. The Tuscan leather shoes. The teardrop pearls. A good man, too. Upstanding citizen, and all that—

(the thin line of pale, creamy skin against ripened peach: a married man. a crayon shoved in the pocket of his trousers: a father.

blood under his nails. ghosts in his eyes. the smell of gunfire and madness clinging to his skin: a monster, too.)

—and you barely finished community college. Scraped by with a degree you're almost entirely certain he paid for, too. But you get to float around a meaningless job doing empty, vapid things to fill your days when he isn't around. 

(An ornament doesn't serve a purpose if it isn't being gawked at.)

An imbalance, you suppose. Or a ballad: the timeless tale of a stupid, greedy girl sinking her teeth into a grown man's wallet like a dog with a bone. In his hand, the leash. A tug. Be good.

And you are.

You let him slide inside of you as many times as he wants, and pretend the burnished seaglass staring down at you isn't filled with longing. Kneel on your satin cushion at his feet as he stretches out on his throne, and guides your pretty, empty head to his cock. Good girl.

Always.

Even when you shouldn't be. Even when he's gone for long periods of time. don't wait up, peppering the air as he goes. Nothing but an empty bed. Rumpled sheets. The scent of sex and tobacco. Leather and motor oil. Smoke. Sage and stale sweat on your pillowcase. An ache between your thighs. The tattoo of his teeth seared into your skin. An envelope full of cash (just in case). The card he left behind (anythin' you want).

Little tchotchke put back on the shelf. Tucked away so the reason for that pale strip of skin and the broken crayon in his pocket won't ever see you. A dirty secret. Another skeleton in an overstuffed closet.

Predictable, really.

You know your place in his world even if he doesn't say it.

(until he does—)

Just not in so many words—a paradox considering how much he loves to boss you around, growling commands under his breath (on your knees, open up, suck my cock, pretty girl, want me bad, mm, missed my cock inside your cunt, didn't you? show me how much)—in fact, they don't even come from him.

It comes from the pharmacist when you duck inside to pick up your prescription for birth control, and instead of handing it over, he just shakes his head.

"You don't have any refills for this month."

He's gone for two months.

MayoClinic warns that this is the estimated window needed for the hormones to dissolve from your system. The risk of a pregnancy after this, it reads, is likely.

You ponder that in a penthouse suite, sitting pretty amongst shredded wrapping paper. A Dior Turtleneck Sweater wrapped around your throat instead of his hands. An apology—according to the embroidered card, the tight, messy pen strokes mention something about an unexpected business trip.

The return address on the box is in Liverpool.

It's listed for sale on Zillow. The asking price is just over a million dollars. A family home on a vast plot, it reads. Six bedrooms—five in the main home and an additional inside a detached coach house. A gated driveway. A secluded courtyard with a suntrap. Something called a self-contained annex seems to be the main focal point of the sale. It has five reception rooms and a sprawling garden.

Perfect for a family, it adds.

You thumb the alpaca wool on your knit sweater, and wonder if this is the leash being cut—

Or pulled tighter.

He doesn't bring it up.

And so, neither do you.

It sits like an oafish, gaudy elephant in the background as he walks into the apartment, fingers digging into his tie. Ignored. Dismissed. He grunts when the knot loosens. Shoulders falling lax. Calmed without the clench of something around his neck.

You place his plate on the table when he wanders closer, offering one of those simpering 50s era housewife smiles when his big, bearish hand swallows up your waist. The scent of char and gunsmoke clings to his collar when he leans in, pressing a kiss to your temple. Acrid. Metallic. Beneath it, you catch stale sweat. Animalic. Unwashed man, leather.

And nothing else.

There's old, greasy sweat on his nose. His hair is slicker than usual. Darker. Blood under his nails. Smoke between his teeth when he hums, offering a low, rasping missed you, sweetheart that scratches along your skin.

He didn't shower before he came to see you.

You hide the notion of it behind your teeth, letting it grace your smile with something that feels less plastic, rigid. More real. Artless. Clumsy. Like the dress he sent ahead of himself and the matching pair of designer heels that still sit inside their box. You'd never wear shoes in the house, but John Price isn't a man who does things in halves.

(a purse sits on the settee: a complete set.)

His eyes are dark—pelagic: the ocean at night; all dark, no stars, moonless—and when he looks at you (in the clothes he bought, in the penthouse he owns, cooking the dinner he wanted), something ripples across the surface. A frisson. Underwater quake. Deep and dark, and darkly possessive. Hungry. 

You like the look on him right now. Maybe even more than anything else he'd ever bought for you, done to you, because Price is, above all else, fundamentally human.

He has rules. Expectations. It's rare he's ever driven by instinct beyond anger—that thrilling thing you'd only ever glimpsed when he peeled back the curtain, tearing the skin he wore with you kneeling at his feet and growled into the phone at whoever stroke his ire. He's controlled chaos. Gruff and uncompromisable.

But the look on his face right now splits that staunch control down the middle until it falls, shattering into pieces at his feet.

He growls m’hungry, sweetheart, and you barely have a second to push the risotto aside before he lifts you onto the table, barely sparing a minute to swipe his hand across the surface, sending dishware and untouched food tumbling to the ground with that same little growl he gave to the man on the phone who disturbed him from the comfort of keeping his cock warmed on your tongue all day long. 

You're laid over the jacket he'd thrown down—rich with gunsmoke, tobacco, and something sharp and metallic—legs squeezed together, ankles tossed over his right shoulder.

It's messy. Artless. All animal despite the cocoon of finery bracketed around you.

Plates shake from the jarring force of his thrusts. Cups tip, spilling your glass of Roumier across the table. Something shatters when it hits the ground. But he doesn't stop. Doesn't even notice the chaos happening around him—as if the world ceases to exist beyond the sight of you taking his cock like a good girl. Spread out for his leisure. His pleasure.

He certainly looks like a hellish king as he stands above you. Towering. Terrifying. One hand wrapped around your throat, keeping you still as he slides his gaze from the tilt of your thighs to the tears puddling in the corner of your eyes as he stretches you open with the thick of him. The other looped under your knees, holding firm. Fingers digging into your flesh. Tight. Rutting like a beast.

There's sweat on his brow. His chest heaves. The hand around your throat slides down your collarbones in a damp spill of heat that makes your toes curl above his shoulder. Rough. Sticky with sweat. With you from when he pried your cunt open on three thick, scarred fingers, grunting at the sloppy mess he found between your thighs. Always so fuckin' wet for him.

It wasn't enough, but you think he likes that. Indulges in something archaic, sinister, when he catches the wince on your face as his too-big cock notches against your too-tight hole. Forcing himself inside with a grunt that sometimes sounds like a laugh when you whimper. When you cry and claw at the sheets and beg for mercy—just a minute to adjust, a second to get used to the burning stretch. The poignant ache when he slides down to the root—so deep, you sometimes think you can taste him in your throat.

He gives no quarter then, and he doesn't now.

Price likes fucking you rough. Edging on painful, bordering on too much. It's the juxtaposition, you think, from the way he treats you like a spoiled little princess who has daddy wrapped around her finger to the dressed up little whore he lays out on a table, bends over a settee, and brands your throat with the clench of his paw as he pounds into you like a beast. A little mean, a little cruel—just enough to balance out the rasp in his voice when he hands you his credit card and says buy whatever you want, sweetheart.

(and miss you, sweetheart—when he's tired and alone and already four glasses of whiskey deep; voice ground down to ash from the cigars he burned through. As soft as a man like him could ever get. Can't stop thinkin' about you, sweetheart. Need to see you, sweetheart. Need your pussy. Your cunt. Your mouth. That tight little ass. Want to fuck your throat until you can't speak for days, sweetheart.

(Want to push m'self so deep inside of you that you forget yourself, love. Forget who you are without my cock inside of you. Can't—can't live without me—)

Ash and soot. The next morning, another ten grand sits in your account. A knife slides cleanly, neatly, into your guts when the accompanying text says for listenin' to the nonsense of a drunk old man. don't take it to heart.)

Balance, maybe.

the thin strip of skin on his finger. the broken crayon in his pocket.

Maybe tonight was supposed to be the end. A clean break.

It makes you wonder if she found out about the tchotchke he keeps in his closet. The pretty little thing he begs to stay when he's drunk and alone, and then rips into pieces the next morning when money is promptly deposited into your account. A cruel-edged don't forget yourself, sweetheart.

But he's snarling as he peaks, grunting above you as sweat drips down his brow, heaving. Panting. Lips twisted up into a snarl. Eyes furious. Mad. His hand is a brand over your mound, possessive as he holds you in his palm, feels the way his cock splits you apart. Owned.

Bought and paid for.

Another grunt, and his thumb dips down to rub at your clit, barking at you to come—come on my cock, sweetheart, need to feel it—until you howl, clenching up so tight around him that it rips a molten, liquid purr from his chest. A throaty moan that breaks you into pieces. Tears the veneer of flesh and bone from your consciousness until your body liquifies, spilling out over the table, mingling with the Chambolle Musigny Amoureuses soaking into your back. Wrapped tight around him, as he batters into you without any finesse. Clumsy ruts. Sloppy. Animal. And then—

His cock swells. Throbs.

Over the roar in your ears, you hear him groan low in his throat, deep and brutal; the rumbling of a well-fed bear burying its dinner in the dirt. It sounds like mine now. Like ain't you, mm, sweetheart? gonna keep you nice and full. got all those rooms to fill, don't we—

wishful thinking.

But he comes inside of you. Bare. Raw. Your hands untangle from around his wrist, palm still wrapped around your throat, and drop down to your belly.

Price sees it and groans—

"that's it, sweetheart—"

(ain't gonna be empty for long.)

He's always had this little fantasy of knocking you up.

Used to growl in your ear about how badly he wanted to see you swell with his babies. Little broodmare he'd keep chained to his bed like a queen. Giving him five sons and five daughters because he could never seem to make up his mind on what he wanted—only that it was a lot.

(An improbable thing, really—he might yank on the leash, but you easily talked him down to four; two boys and two girls.)

He comes back (home) some days with fire in his eyes and sets on you like a man possessed, starved. Smothering you into the mattress with the thick of his body, grunting into your ear about knocking you up. Getting you fat and needy with his babies until you forget what it felt like not to be nursing, to be pregnant.

A terrifying concept. Something that made you rush a little faster to pick up your contraceptives, comparing the pill in your palm to pictures online just to make sure they were the same. And maybe at some point, it just became a game.

He'd press you into sheets and fuck you all day long, making you keep count. Each time he came inside of you was another baby to this empty house. A crazy thing, really. Midlife crisis, perhaps.

But you indulged.

Let him press his hairy, thick chest against yours as he folded your knees up to your ears and pounded inside of your aching, messy cunt, gasping out a tally into his sweat-slicked jaw. Laughed as he kept your legs bent and your hips tilted up, eyes riveted to the split of your sore, aching cunt. Growling an awful amalgamation of primal, masculine satisfaction at the sight of him spilling out of you and in anger at the fuckin' waste.

("gonna plug you up next time," he seethed, two fingers buried inside your bruised hole to stem the flood. "Wastin' it all, sweetheart.")

But that was before.

When he'd shower before he came to see you. Sometimes waiting days after he landed before he was back in your bed, grunting around the idea of another trip you wanted him to take you on, pretending to think about it despite the tickets to Egypt already booked. When he'd play house with you. I Love Lucy on the television, dinner in the oven. His hand curled over your nape as you bobbed your head up and down his cock. A dutiful wife taking care of her overworked husband.

Making babies in the dead of night. When he'd grunt say it, sweetheart into your ear, and you'd beg him to give you another one. Tears in your eyes, lachrymal, as you tried to convince your husband that the baby you put to bed in the empty room needs a sibling.

His hand on the leash, but your voice in his ear—paper soft—pleading don't make our child grow up as an only child, John.

(two weeks in Portofino booked. First class. Luxury resort. A Wolf & Badger swimsuit laying on your bed, one with a gold zipper on the front that he wears out by the sixth day and has to run to town to buy you a new one.)

But that was before. When it was just a rich, dangerous man's fantasy. When you had birth control to keep the unrepentant baby fever he had just a dream. Never a possibility. Never a reality.

MayoClinic says the possibility of conception is high.

The period tracker you glimpse on his phone one evening warns that you have two days before it comes.

When you swallow around the idea of it, half dizzy, half sick (six bedrooms), he rests his hand over your nape, tugging on the leash. His eyes are dark again. Midnight blue, almost black. Hadal.

He keeps them fixed on you. A ravenous black hole. Calmly closing the app as if nothing was wrong, as if he didn’t have your cycle locked into his phone. Rough, calloused thumb brushing over the soft patch of skin beneath your ear. Steady and soothing. Like calming a skittish mare. 

Unflinching. Unbothered. Entirely unconcerned when he kicks his foot over the line of what's expected, what you want, and fucks you again that night, bare. Raw. Groaning when he comes. Huffing into your ear about how he'll take such good care of you—both of you.

And when he tucks a pillow under your hips, you drag your hand down to your wet, swollen cunt in a clumsy, enticing attempt to keep him inside of you until he fills the empty space with the thick split of his scarred knuckles.

A performance, you think, when he groans like you gutted him. Bought and paid for. 

That's all this is.

But he doesn’t book a trip for this performance.

And he's gone when you wake (business, he says, in a messily scrawled note left on the end table), but there's a gift bag on the dining room table, sitting next to the stain you left when he pulled out of you. Dried come. Slick. Tinged slightly pink because he was rough with you last night. Hurried. 

The black box inside is an apology for hurting you even though you know he likes it when his come is a little pink as it leaks out of you. When you wince when you sit, and have to press a icepack against your sore, swollen cunt.

(it doesn't surprise you to find a pack already left out for you. coffee in a pot. breakfast warm on the stove.)

But the next thing he left is the real gift.

Divorce papers—already signed by him, the gold band he never let you see on top—sits on a stamped envelope, awaiting another signature. It just has to be mailed out. When you sift through them, the cause for the divorce is irreconcilable differences.

Balm to the shame is the little fact that he hasn't lived with his wife for the last year. The date of separation coincides neatly with that drunken phone call when he told you he wanted to bury himself so deep inside of you that you couldn't breathe without him saying you could. 

Domineering. Grossly possessive. 

He has you already, but that's not enough. 

It'll never be enough.

("wanna—mm, wanna give you everything, sweetheart. and I want everything, too. every part of you. wanna change your fuckin' name to mine—")

You tap your nail against the page labeled custody agreement, not even a little surprised that this docket has everything outlined, itemised. The table of contents says you'll find the prenup on page fifty-six and the proposed split of assets on page sixty-seven. It's thorough and every bit as intimidating and uncompromising as the man is wont to be. 

He's serious.

And John wants his kid. Non-negotiable.

That, too, doesn't really surprise you. Even when you were playing house, he'd always been a rather doting father—

("I don't want them to just have a sibling," he'd growl, firm and immutable, adding (intractable as always): "I want them to have a fuckin' team.”)

The address he gives for his primary residence, however, does give you pause. Liverpool. Chestnut Avenue, Moor Park. Six bedrooms. A guesthouse. 

The envelope is filled out, too. All it needs is to be tucked inside and mailed out. 

Already separated, his lawyer says, neat and tidy, like everything else in the pages. This was the most inevitable course of action, and my client, John Price, is ready to move on with his new life. 

Ready to move on. You scrape your tongue against your teeth, hand settling over your belly as you think about that. It's just—

He's always been a rather obstinate man. Stubborn. Once he gets his head around an idea, very little can change his mind. You'd seen it countless times before, but never this cold. Callous. 

Dismissive. 

Not to you, anyway. Not that you can remember. It's always been silk sheets, gifts from stores that would deny you entrance based on your credit score alone. A new wardrobe. A new place to stay. And that's—

That's kind of odd, you think. Maybe. 

He cut your lease the day after you dragged him home from the bar, back when he was just a bad choice after a terrible night out. Had the locks changed. A new lease in your hands—in his name—and a key under the mat beside a housewarming gift. An expensive espresso machine that would be a little too bourgeois in Starbucks. A penthouse that overlooks the ocean. Members only. 

There's a valet. A gym. A swimming pool. He joked one night that you'd feel right at home with the sauna it housed. Jus’ like a lodge, mm. 

You're not sure how he knew. It's one of those things that he just does. Like your name. The real one you grew up hearing before you moved to the city and changed it to fit in. How many siblings you have. Your parents. Their birthdays. A gift always sent out in your name, arriving just on time. 

All of your old things were donated. You didn't need them anymore—not when he ordered a whole new wardrobe from Loro Piana for you. Handed you his card and told you to fill the house up with whatever would make you happy. 

(Fitting, you suppose, since you barely have to think about anything except how to make him happy.)

He turned in your resignation less than three hours after you fell asleep on your lumpy mattress, worn out after a night of drinking. A night of him. More animal than man. Too tired to kick him out before you passed out under the weight of him still burying you into the mattress, hips flexing as he fucked you again for the third time. 

(the fourth, fifth while you were still sleeping. waking up to the sixth: him inside of you, a slow grind as he rocks in and out; he's bigger than you. too big. with your thighs wrapped snug around his hips, the top of your head barely clips the ledge of his shoulder. he wrapped an arm around your upper back, the other reaching out, gripping the pillows above you. panting into the thick bed of curls covering his chest as he threads his hand over your crown and presses you tighter against him. groaning into your ear. ducking his head down to rasp out how badly he wants to feel your messy little pussy squeeze him tight—

before he leaves, he hooks two thick fingers inside, and fucks his come into you. makes you come on his cum-soaked fingers before he wanders off with a small smile, the scent of tobacco and sex pungent in the air.)

And the ring—

You thought he never wore it because of some misguided sense of propriety. Decorum. The Madonna—a thin strip of pale skin, waterlilies and cashmere, a crayon in his pocket; tabloids dressing her up as a modern day Diana; a divot between his brow that grows and grows and—

and the Whore—

A penthouse. Dior sunglasses. Cucinelli heels. Colombo jackets. Loro Piana outfits that cost more than your parents make in a year. His credit cards left on your bedside table. Trips in a snap of a finger. Luxury a phone call away. 

(his voice pitched low. a smoldering rasp. stay, sweetheart, don't go. don't leave—)

—the divot melting into a brooding, heated stare. Desire drenched across his brow; want so thick, so palpable, you can feel his need throbbing between your legs. Dissolving into ash after, when he loops an arm under your body, cradling you close to his sweat-slicked chest as he leans against the headboard, smoking a cigar. Basking in the scent of sex. Satiety. Your finger curling around a thick whorl of damp, coarse hair. Content. 

It’s selfishness. Teeth digging into the man, refusing to let go. But beyond that, you know you’re good for him. 

Better for him, you think, and jog the papers on the table, right above that ugly little stain, to neaten up the pile. 

It takes five minutes to slip them inside the sleeve, peel the adhesive off of the sticky tab, and walk them down to the mailbox just outside of the lobby. Five minutes to initiate a divorce. 

If you had any qualms about falling into bed with a married man—not that he really gave you much room to think about it since he never showed up with his ring, just the mark of her around his neck like a noose; a constant guessing game—it’s put to rest when the metal flap snaps shut. 

Shame feels like an elephant. Something in the background. Ignorable. 

And besides—

(you place your hand over your belly and hum)

—you have other things to think about, to worry over, than a crumbling marriage.

He must have gotten the notice that you mailed the documents because a text comes later that night. Simple. Succinct. 

Good girl. 

The elephant slinks away into the moonless night as you pull open the catalogue of engagement rings he left on his bedside table, and circle a few that catch your eye. 

All of them sapphire. The same blue as the broken crayon in his pocket.

(The period tracker on his phone chimes a few weeks later.

You don't even bother peeking over his shoulder to know you're late.

You have more things to worry about, after all. Like moving to Liverpool next week when his divorce is finalised, and planning a wedding for the spring.)

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.

TW: age gap (John is in his late 40s and reader is in her early 20s), cheating, unprotected sex, slight breeding, reader cheating on her boyfriend with his dad

Imagine that you are dating a CEO!John son. He is an awful boyfriend who doesn’t take care of you, but he sometimes buys you gifts, and he pays every time you go out. He has his dad's money, and you are comfortable in that relationship. You don’t love him, but you're bored so you date him anyway.

When he invites you to his parent’s place for a party his mother is organizing you agree. You never met his parents, but you googled his father when you started dating. You saw the pictures of John in his expensive black suits looking like a god of sex. He is so attractive with his piercing blue eyes and silver in his hair and the body. He is built like a bear, with broad shoulders and muscles with a little layer of fat.

When you arrive John's wife greets you, and you start to see that your boyfriend is the exact version of his mom. She is the typical neurotic mother who is obsessed with her baby boy, who has everything in life but still shoplifts underwear and cheats on her husband with some Pilates instructor (because he reminds her of her son). It is very clear that your boyfriend's parents don’t love each other, and they stay together just because they don’t have time for a divorce.

Your boyfriend leaves you at the bar. He orders you a drink and tells you to stay here and wait for him. He must go speak with his boys, and he doesn’t want you to ruin their vibe. You know they need some bro time. You stay at the bar texting your friends, promising that you will break up with him the moment he comes back because you just got the biggest ick from his bro time.

That’s how John finds you, Alone, sipping on your sweet drink and paying no attention to the party. He sits next to you, and when he asks you if you are one of his wife's friends from the yoga group you tell him no. He is relieved because you look like a sweet girl. Then you tell him that you date his son, and he thinks that his luck just run out. What he doesn’t know is that it is your 3rd drink of the night, you’ve been waiting for your boyfriend for more than 40 minutes and you are so over him. So you start to complain, you say that he doesn’t spend time with you, he only wants to have sex and when you finally agree, he can't get his dick hard because he is drunk or high. You also think that he is cheating on you and you couldn’t care less about him.

When John asks you why you are still with him you simply tell him that you enjoy his money. John orders you a glass of water and makes you drink it, then another and another. He has plans with you and he needs you sober. He moves his chair, so he sits closer to you, and he starts to tell you that if you want man's money you should find someone who will treat you well. Not only on the financial side but on the emotional as well. He slowly starts to touch your hand, and he leans so close you can smell his cologne. You are intoxicated by his smell, the closeness, and the alcohol you drank. When you realize that your boyfriend's father is in fact flirting with you start to flirt with him too.

You ask him if he knows how to take care of women. He plays your game, and he tells you that if you want to know you have to find out by yourself. You sit at the bar for another half an hour, you’re not allowed to have any more drinks only water, but when you beg John for a sip of his whiskey he gives in. He finds in very sensual how you drink from his glass, your lipstick leaving a mark on the glass and he wonders how your lipstick would look on his dick.

When you see your boyfriend talking and flirting with some other woman you have enough. You get up from your chair and you stand between John’s spread tights. He puts his hand on your lower back and starts to gently touch you. When you get close to him, he thinks that you are trying to kiss him but you only whisper asking if you’ve been good girl and if he will finally take care of you.

He walks you to some bedroom on the upper floor when the guests are not allowed, and the moment he closes the door behind you, he pines you to the wall. He kisses you like a hungry man, he’s tongue is immediately in your mouth, and he lifts you, so your legs are around his waist. He gropes your ass, squeezing and slapping and you’re getting so wet. You start to grind on him, feeling his bulge through his pants. You can feel how hard he is getting and how big he is. After he is done kissing you, he moves to your neck. He leaves there so many hickeys and little bruises from biting, and you know that he is marking what is his.

John gently places you on the bed and he starts to work on undressing you. When you are only in bra and panties, he takes a second, like he is enjoying the view, imagining what will happen next. You beg his to not tease you, to already do something, and when he finally takes your underwear off he spreads you legs and looks at your pussy. He asks you if his son ever eaten you out, and when you tell him no, you hear him say that he will make it up to you.

You hear him say how nice and wet you are for him, and he starts to gently bite your inner thighs. He slowly works his way to your centre and when he licks your clit you know you wont last long. John sucks and licks and when he adds his finger, slowly pushing in you, you start to feel your orgasm approaching. He fingers you with one hand, adding another finger, stretching you and with the other one he starts to massage your tits and when he pinches your nipple you come.

After that he slowly unbuttons his shirt, he unzips his pants, and he takes his boxers off. He grabs your ankles, and he pulls you to the side of the bed. John touches your nipples between his fingers, pinching them hard, and when you gasp you hear him laugh and say “So fucking sensitive for me.” His hands then slips under your legs and he spreads you wider for him.

He wants to fuck you raw, he doesn’t care if you are on birth control or not, he needs to feel your wet pussy around his cock. He starts to slide his tip between your fold teasing you. Then slowly he pushes in. You feel the stretch and you are very glad that he took his time preparing you for this. You feel so full of him as he pushes his way deeper and deeper. Once he is settled all the way in, he starts to pull out. His trusts are slow but rough,

John puts almost all his way on you as he starts to kiss you again. His hands are holding your legs as he fucks you. He puts your nipple in his mouth gently sucking and biting while his cock is pounding at your cervix. You fell him so deep, and you know that he is ruining you for any other man. The sex with his son couldn’t compared to this.

It doesn’t take long for you to be approaching your orgasm again. His hands are on your hips holding you still while he fastens the tempo, and you can feel, that he is close too. “That’s it come for me, be a good girl” you hear him say as he starts to rub your clit again. That’s when you come again, spasming on his cock milking him dry.

He cum inside of you, you can feel him throbbing as he spills his load inside. He doesn’t pull out, he just shifts your position so now he is laying on the bed and you are on his chest his dick still inside of you. When you try to get off him, he grips you harder and you can’t move. “I may not be 25 anymore but I still can give you another round” you hear him say. You can feel him getting harder in you again and you know, that you will be here for quite some time. “Now be a good girl and show me how can you ride my cock”

You just hope that your boyfriend won’t come looking for you.

Part two Masterlist

John Price who isn’t just older—he’s worn in. A little gross. A little rotten. Manipulative. The kind of man who sees a pretty bird like you—young and sweet, all soft lips and shy eyes—in some dingy pub sipping something pink, and he doesn’t think I want her. No. He thinks mine.

John Price who decides quick. From the first glance, it’s already settled. He’s already imagining you on your knees in his kitchen, wearing nothing but one of his shirts. Already thinking about how tight your cunt will feel wrapped around him. How pretty you’ll look pregnant, tits swollen, begging for him to fuck you slower.

You don’t know it yet, but he’s mapped it all out—where you’ll sleep in his house, how long he’ll let you play independent before he starts cutting off your options. You won’t need your job. Won’t need friends. Won’t need anything but him.

He’s already picked the ring. Already picked the crib. Already thinking about whether he’ll fill you up before or after dinner, or how many kids he wants.

Twisted in the head, that’s true—but it doesn’t matter. He knows what you need before you even open your mouth. Knows how to touch you, how to own you, without ever asking for permission. You’re not equals. Never were.

He’s choosing you. He’s keeping you.

And oh, sweetheart—whether you feel it yet or not, he’ll make damn sure you learn to be grateful.

Grateful to wear his ring. Grateful to carry his name.

Grateful every time he fills you up, breeds you with his cum until you’re full—so full it leaks out of your swollen, poor cunt—reminding you exactly who you belong to.

Because in his house, in his bed, wrapped around his cock—you’re not just his girl. You’re his wife.

And he’ll fuck the doubt right out of you if he has to.

tell me im wrong.

═════════════════════════

size kink w/price 🚬 (🌽 link)

john price is big, like have you seen the man? he's tall, beefy, and covered in powerful muscles built from years in the military, strong arms and thick thighs. huge overall. and small you, little thing, doesn't even matter if you are tall or short, skinny or chubby, because anything compared to him is small, you don't stand a chance against him and his strength.

he doesn't realise at first, but there's certain things that make him feel strong and powerfull compared to you and like he needs to protect you: standing behind you in the kitchen to grab something you were trying to get from the top shelf, how big his hand is compared to yours or how small you look in his shirts.

and oh those shirts are the worst ones, they completely dwarf you and just show his sheer size. let's say that was the full awakening for his size kink and the last straw for him, after that he just manhandled you, threw you over his shoulder and carried you to the bedroom.

once he had you in bed he just lifted that shirt to expose the lace panties you were wearing underneath, pulled those to the side, while laying one of his strong arms next to your head, supporting himself and fully engulfing your small frame under his, and dipped his fingers into your already wet middle.

and since he you were already wet and ready to take him, he just pushed himself into you, feeling your tight walls trying to fit his cock while also seeing it in your lower stomach once he was balls deep.

god does he love to rearrange your fucking insides.

…dbf!john that has to take care of her while her dads on a business trip?

you were enthusiastic at the idea of finally being able to spend some quiet time home all alone with no yelling from your dad, no loud voices, just peace. but evidently he had different plans for you.

“oh,” you stopped mid walk right in the middle of the stairs, a sudden rush of warmth spreading over your chest and cheeks at the sight of john in your living room, manspreading on the couch “what are you doing here sir?”

john raised both brows in amusement, you were his favorite sight, so sweet and delicate, young and forbidden, “yer dad asked me to take care of y’a while he’s away, doll”

“but i don’t need it, i can be left alone,” you replied hesitantly, walking down the last stairs. your eagerness from earlier was now replaced with your signature shyness and bashfulness, just like every time you were around him — butterflies filled your stomach and you couldn’t even master coherent sentences or thoughts, you excelled in college but turned out a blubbering and stammering mess with this man.

“know you do, angel,” he said, his gruffness somehow softening when talking to you, “just doing my mate’s a favor”

maybe your dad didn’t know it, but he was doing you a favor by letting his best friend stay over. ”alright, sir,” you shrugged softly, and john’s pants almost stiffened—so obedient, so docile all the time. you were such a good girl.

“it’ll fell as if I’m not even home most of the time,” you blushed, feeling out of space in your own house, a squirming bunny underneath his attentive gaze, too warm and sharp to handle

“b’have as if i wasn’t even here, princess, just here to keep an eye on you if somethin’ happens.”

and oh, it felt so torturous, the forced proximity with the man of your dreams, the one out of your league, the only one you wanted. a real man, john was, so old and strong, buff and stern, giving you a sense of protection and control you longed for. you yearned for a sense of security and dominance that only john could give you. if you were the romance, he was the discipline.

dadsbf!john price was such a provider, a caregiver, he took care of everything in the house, made sure to turn on the stove for you when you wanted to make something, he didn’t let you touch any knives, made you breakfast in the morning, brought your fresh ice cream or strawberries when you were reading or studying in your room. but the tension between the two of you was tangible, it frizzled the air anytime you accidentally brushed your hands together or walked next each other — your father’s best friend, too much older than you, in his late 40s, and a sweet, little girl who was barely 21.

he tried so hard to be responsible, the be a military man, a seasoned captain who knew how to resist temptation. but you weren’t a temptation, because temptations could be bad — no, you were sugar, honey. sweet and tender at the touch, to taste, to feed off to. sweet for the soul and healthy for the body, as the bible would say.

but it was even harder for him, to restrain himself, knowing how much you wanted him, you looked at him with the most innocent eyes, batting your lashes at him like a lost puppy, a bunny that wanted to be picked up and cuddled, and thrown over his shoulder and taken care of by a rough, old man.

you always walked around the house in those tiny, mini skirts that hugged your ass, thigh highs that made him want to bite down on his fist, and that innocent bunny demeanor that made him loose his cool — bending over the kitchen counter when you made yourself some strawberry milk, giving him a perfect view of you bottom, or getting on your tip toes to reach for the highest shelves, softly calling him with a “sir? need your help please”

dadsbf!john price who had you sitting on his lap at night, on the couch, reading your lovely book, while he was watching tv, one of his usual movies about missions, shootings and undercover agents. you were all curled up against him, squirming and shifting position every once in a while — john was a patient man, but your cute butt kept pressing against his crotch when you moved, and he had to clench his jaw restrain himself from groaning.

“you uncomfortable, love?”

you only shook your head, lowering the book, revealing your flushed, red blushing face. “sorry sir, ‘s just a fuzzy feeling, it tickles” poor girl you didn’t know what was going on :( how to make this feeling in your belly stop.

“mmh? feel fuzzy, doll?”

and oh, he knew how to make you feel better. he gently grabbed both your hips with his large hands, positioning you between his spread legs, back pressed against his chest — you inhaled, your breath caught in your throat as you felt his rough, calloused hands parting your legs, spreading them for him.

dadsbf!john price who talked you through it, teaching you about everything you didn’t know about yourself, you’d never tried. his thick fingers pressed lazy circles around your clothed clit, his thick beard pressed against your cheek as he spoke with a deep, rough voice.

“this right here…if i touch you here, it’ll feel very good doll. can touch slowly, lightly to let the sensation linger, play with it,”

your breath was ragged, you were nervous, felt exposed, only your oversized cute shirt covering you, those unfamiliar sensations making your head dizzy. you looked down, whimpering when his middle finger and index traced circles over your clit, against your panties, but he quickly reassured you when you mewled, cooing at you and using his free hand to lift your chin.

“shh, shh, eyes up, doll, i’ve got you, princess, look at me,”

you did. he wanted to introduce you to the feeling first, slowly teaching you how to get used to these things. he pressed a kiss on the corner of you mouth, and you whined against him.

“..and if daddy rubs harder, fast, you’ll feel warm inside, on your belly, like this, on your petal,”

“oh- oh gosh—“ you squirmed, biting your bottom lip, a sudden wave of pleasure shot through your legs when, and you involuntarily attempted to close them, but he quickly moved his hand to part them, spreading them wider.

“I know love, I know, feels good little one, easy, easy now, wan’ daddy to stop?”

“nu-uh, please” you could only shake your head, too shy and caught up in the sensation, your cheeks were as red and warm as bright flames and ripe strawberries, blushing fiercely — it felt so good, yet you were so embarrassed you couldn’t even look at him.

“that’s it, bunny, spread them for daddy, good girl, could spend all week like this until your pa’ comes back,” his rich, gruff chuckle vibrated against your back, and you felt your tummy coil at his words — with a twist of his wrist, his hand disappeared underneath your cotton panties, and you flinched on his lap, squirming when his bare fingers started caressing your clit.

dadsbf!john price who taught you how to kiss, pushing his tongue against yours, licking off your lipgloss, chuckling when you needed to breath, before devouring your mouth again, starving, hungry — your arms around his neck like your life depended on it.

dadsbf!john price who would tuck you to bed and hand you your favorite plushie before going to sleep in your father’s empty room,

“can sleep with you if you dont wanna be alone, sir”

“oh doll, as much as i’d love you to, don’t think either of us will get any sleep if you get in bed with me, and that can’t happen, love,”

dadsbf!john price who made sure to not smoke around you, especially inside the house. he’d get to the back patio or front porch to indulge in one of his strong scented, thick cigars. a soft angel like you can’t fill her lungs with such venom.

dadsbf!john price who grinned smugly whenever your dad called him to know how you were doing. he pressed his phone against his ear, hiding his cocky grin underneath his thick beard and mustache.

“doing fine, pal. reads her books, takes her dog out, studies, goes to church. usual things.”

he didn’t tell him how you were kneeling in front of him on the couch, your knees pressed against a plush pillow to not hurt your legs, doe eyes looking at him expectingly, waiting to him to end the call to teach you how to make him feel good with your mouth — his free hand rubs against your warm cheek, playing with your long hair.

and when he ended the call, he bucked his hips, manspreading, giving you a look that could be both tender and intense, sharp and commanding.

“what did he say, sir?”

“nothing much, princess. misses you,”

you smiled at that. you had daddy issues, didn’t matter how much your dad truly loved you, and he did, he was just incapable of showing it. he didn’t know how to. always moody, serious, yelling at any given moment. you needed a real old man that could love you and treat you like the most delicate and precious girl. you wanted john to do it.

john loved seeing you smile, he couldn’t tell you that he’d made it up, added that last part about the call, just to see you smile, even though your dad hadn’t actually said that.

john was alone, practically married to his job, literally, with much more experience with women you could ever imagine — until God pitied him and decided to send him a little expiatory angel, you.

“aight’, doll, wan’ daddy to show you how to take him with your mouth like a good girl?”

you nodded, hesitantly. your shyness and timidity always had the best of you. but he wanted to take his time with you, protect your sweet purity.

“use your words, love. speak up for daddy, come on”

you blushed and fidgeted with your hands, batting your lashes at him “yes sir,”

“good girl, angel. buttons.” single, short words, speaking with military authority.

you opened his pants with shaky hands, nervously. but he firmly cupped your chin, tilting your jaw up.

“no need to be scared, love, look at you…nervous, are you sweet?” he cooed condescendingly at you, making your bite your lip and nod, puppy eyes big and round.

“just open your mouth and be still. daddy’s gonna help you, if it gets too much for ya, tap my knee. copy that, bunny?”

“yes daddy, mkay” you gave him a little nod, almost shivering at the way his thumb brushed against your bottom lip.

“show daddy your tongue, that’s it. here it is, fuck, gonna be rough with ya, angel, could eat you up, love. good doll, now, zipper down.”

John Price who definitely has a praise kink.

And i don’t mean praising you. Well, he does love to praise you, of course. But what really gets him going is when you praise him.

When your plushy thighs squeeze his head as he feasts on your pussy, your moans and whines only spurring him on. He can’t get over the sounds you make. But oh does he love it when you use your pretty words.

Telling him how good he’s doing. How much you love his skilled tongue swirling your clit. What a perfect man he is for you. It makes him nearly cum in his pants.

He loves missionary because it keeps your pretty mouth (and so your words) close to his ear so he wouldn’t miss a thing. The praises being sent straight to his eardrums (and his cock, of course).

He’d go round after round to hear you tell him how good he felt. How big he was. How he was the only man to ever make you cum like that. And how you would never love a man the way you loved him! :)

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

i legit had to rewrite this 4 times cause tumblr was acting up. i’m thinking of writing a longer fic (maybe multiple chapters) about price but idk if anyone would read it okay bye<33

Knight!John Price x Princess!reader

inspo - honestly shameless , i wanted this

werewolf smut werewolf smut

contains chasing to fuck , monster fucking , cnc (if you squint) & knotting

The moonlight slashes through the dense treeline like a blade, silver and cold and watching.

Sir John Price, noble knight captain and sworn protector of your kingdom’s bloodline, stumbles against a tree, his breathing ragged, uneven. His armored gauntlet splits against bark as claws push through, twisting bone and sinew. His growl isn’t human anymore.

You shouldn't be watching.

But gods, you are.

“My lady,” he rasps, voice strangled and wet with the growl curling in his throat. “Run.”

You don’t. Can’t. Your eyes are locked on the way his jaw cracks open, lengthening, sharpening, his teeth catching the moonlight. His armor creaks and groans under the pressure of his expanding body, the beast beneath the steel.

He snarls, turning away from you, fangs bared to the forest, to anything that might distract him from the scent of you.

“I said run,” he growls again, lower this time, desperate, trembling. “I won’t be able to stop. If you stay—if I catch your scent again—I’ll take you.”

There’s a flash in his eyes. Hunger.

Your heart slams in your chest. You take a step back.

His ears twitch.

“I need you to run,” he groans, clawed hand gripping his chest, as though he could anchor the man inside a body that’s no longer his. “Please, princess. You need to run.”

You whisper his name.

His eyes snap to you. Glowing. Predatory. Wicked.

Another heartbeat, and you’re sprinting through the trees.

Behind you, metal crashes to the ground, followed by a guttural howl that shatters the stillness. The kind of sound that promises teeth on your throat and hands gripping your hips.

You don’t dare look back.

Because if he catches you—

—no knight in the world could save you from what he’s about to become.

And he will catch you.

Of course he will.

You're fast—gods, you're fast—but you're not him. Not with your skirts bunched in your fists, breath burning your throat, heart thundering like war drums in your chest.

The woods blur, and still you run.

But you feel it when he gets close.

The heat of him. The thudding weight of paws behind you, impossibly silent for how large he must be now. The low growl that slips into the wind and curls around your spine like a hand.

And then—

You're gone from the ground.

A cry tears from your throat as you're swept off your feet, tackled into the moss with shocking gentleness for something that had sounded like a monster moments ago. You're caged beneath him—bigger now, broader, his skin half-shifted, half-wolf, glowing eyes staring down at you as his claws press into the earth on either side of your head.

He pants above you, chest heaving, sweat and fur and musk curling thick in the air. Drool drips from his snarl onto your cheek.

"You should've run faster," he growls, voice rougher now, lined with hunger, with need.

"Y-you caught me..." you whisper, breathless, trembling beneath the weight of him.

He leans down, nuzzles his nose to your throat, a low, rumbling growl vibrating through your skin.

"You wanted me to."

And gods help you—

—you did.

There's no pretending anymore—not for him.

Not with the way he snarls low against your throat, like he's trying to taste your pulse before he even sinks his teeth in. Not with the way his claws dig into the dirt, holding himself back by a thread, trembling from the effort. He's not even fully shifted—can't be, not with how badly he wants to feel you with his hands, not paws. Not with how badly he wants your skin on his, not fur.

He’s not gentle. Not after all that. Not after the chase.

He ruts against you, desperate, grinding hard through the layers between you, shuddering when you squirm—when you press your hands against his chest, not to push him away, but to pull him closer.

"Tell me no," he growls, but his hips say something else entirely—rolling down slow, then slamming forward hard enough to make you gasp.

You whimper something—maybe “stop,” maybe “don’t,”—but your legs are already spreading, traitorous, trembling, welcoming.

Your nails bite into his arms. You turn your face like you don't want this—but your body arches into him, not away.

"Don't lie to me," he snarls, voice shaking with the strain of holding back. His fangs are bared, but his mouth is at your ear, and you whimper when his breath hits your skin. "You're mine, princess. Say it."

You don't. Not with words. But your hips tilt, just enough, just right.

He growls like something unholy.

You love this. Even when you act like you don’t. Even when you cry and whine and call him a monster.

Because you're the one who's still clinging to him.

You're the one who's dripping before he even claims you.

He’s got you flat beneath him, skirts shoved up around your waist, your thighs trembling against his sides. His hands are huge, rough from years of sword and steel, and now they’re claiming every inch of you like you’re a battlefield he owns. One stays planted on your hip, the other cradling your jaw, thumb dragging over your lip like he's daring you to bite.

"You're gonna scream for me, sweet thing," he mutters, voice rough and ragged, half-man, half-creature. "Not because you're scared—because you're mine."

He starts slow, grinding against your slick heat through your ruined underthings, just to feel the tremble, the way your breath catches. Then he pulls away—and spits in his hand, like a brute, slicking himself up before dragging the head of his cock along your folds.

Not pushing in. Not yet. Just teasing.

“You’re gonna remember this, princess. Every. Fuckin'. Inch.”

And when he does finally sink into you?

He’s ruthless. Long, hard thrusts that force breathy gasps out of your throat. No soft kisses. No gentle words. Just the slap of skin, the growl in his chest, and the slick wet sounds of him fucking you like he was meant to.

He uses one hand to pin both your wrists above your head, the other sliding down between your thighs—finding your clit with practiced fingers.

And when he hits just the right spot, when you squirm and cry out and your walls clench tight around him, he leans down, growling into your mouth:

“There she is. There’s my good girl. Scream for your captain.”

And god, you do. You scream his name like it’s the only thing you know.

Which, by the time he’s done with you, it just might be.

"What would the king think? Seeing his little princess be such a whore?"

He’s not asking—he’s taking, like his body’s driven by instinct and the only thing it wants is you.

His hands are everywhere—gripping your hips tight enough to bruise, dragging you down onto his cock with a growl that rumbles through his chest. You’ll feel him for days, the deep ache between your legs, the ghost of his fingerprints on your skin. When you cry out, he smirks, and his hand slides up your throat, thumb pressed gently beneath your jaw, just enough pressure to remind you who’s in control.

“Look at you,” he rasps, hips snapping into yours so hard that you swore the earth would split beneath you. “Takin’ it so well. So desperate for your captain’s cock, aren’t you?”

You nod, gasping, but it’s not enough for him.

“Say it. Say you want me to ruin you.”

And when you do—when you whimper out that you want him to break you—he fucks you for real. One hand on your throat, the other gripping your thigh and pressing your knees back, folding you open for him.

“You’re mine,” he snarls into your ear. “Say it again. Say it while I breed you full.”

And you do, because how can you not? When he’s buried so deep, when every thrust punches the air from your lungs, when your entire body is his—yeah, it’s rough, claiming, filthy. And you love it. Even if you act like you don’t. Even if you cry a little. Even if you’re already begging him not to stop.

He doesn’t just want to make you scream, sweetheart. He wants to make you remember.

When it happens—when the last shred of control slips and the shift fully takes him—it’s violent. Bones crack, skin tears, fur bursts across his body like wildfire. His snarl becomes a growl, low and guttural, vibrating through your chest as you lay beneath him. His eyes glow gold now, no trace of the man you once knew… but gods, he’s still inside there. Still watching you. Still wanting you.

And he doesn’t stop.

He’s bigger now. Stronger. His claws scrape the ground on either side of your head, holding himself over you, caging you in like prey. His muzzle brushes your throat, and you feel the heat of his breath, the tension in his jaw as he fights not to bite—not yet. Not until he’s claimed you properly.

His thrusts are deeper, more forceful, hips snapping into you with inhuman power. You cry out, nails digging into whatever part of him you can reach, but he just growls in approval. The slick, obscene sounds of him inside you echo louder now, more primal, more filthy. Every motion screams mine.

“You should’ve run faster,” he huffs, voice distorted and monstrous but still his. “Would’ve probably gotten away.”

But he doesn’t regret that you didn’t. Not one bit.

Because now? He can knot you. Fill you. Mark you inside and out until there’s no question who you belong to.

And when you sob his name—when your body breaks open for him again and again—he howls, the sound shaking the trees, the sky, you.

You're his. Forever now. And he’s going to make damn sure everyone knows it.

At first, you think he’s done. His pace slows, almost tender for a fleeting second as he pants above you, still trembling with the aftershock of the shift. But then—then—you feel it. That slow, thick swell at the base of him starting to press insistently against you.

He growls when your body tries to resist it, claws digging into the earth beside your head as he forces himself deeper. You cry out, overwhelmed, stretched too wide, and he groans—deep, guttural—as the knot pops inside. Locked. Stuffed. Filled.

“Shhh,” he rumbles, voice animal-thick, muzzle nudging at your cheek, “s’alright. You’ll take it. Gonna keep it all in, yeah?”

The stretch, the burn, the way your walls flutter helplessly around him—it’s too much, too perfect. He can feel everything, and so can you. That throbbing knot pulsing against your insides, his release locked deep where it’s meant to stay.

No escaping now. Not for hours.

You whimper his name, and his voice rumbles with satisfaction: “Good girl. That’s it. Take my knot, princess. Take every bloody drop.”

And you do. You have to.

tagging my favorite sicko - @goatgoesmbe

something borrowed, something blue masterlist

john price, head of the price mafia family, needs a wife. luckily, simon riley has an unmarried sister and a need for resources. only problem? prices and rileys don't exactly mix well...

AO3 LINK

the proposal

the meeting

wedding week

the wedding

the honeymoon

a week of friendship

a bookstore in the making

mended bonds

an almost fresh start

past dreams and current nightmares

snitches and rats

found you

baby steps

a new chapter

this is an enemies to lovers, arranged marriage mafia au! john price x f!reader. reader is simon's half sister. all of our four boys will be featured (eventually). the "enemies" part is mutual disdain, not life or death enemies. lots of cheeky banter here. it is medium burn, since the lines of "hate" and passion can be easily crossed. the rileys are a smaller manchester gang and the prices are in charge of london's biggest mafia. i am american so some places/slang/logistics might be not be right!! don't hate me! i am googling manchester/london slang but if you have some recs, feel free to comment. more to come <3

tag: fic: sbsb mafia price

taglist is closed, pls turn on notifs <3