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yeyinde · 1 year

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FINESHRINE | John Price x F!Reader

It surprised you when he’d taken your off-handed comment about wanting to fuck him senseless for a change as something sincere, obtainable, and simply looked at you, plain-faced, if a little bashful around the edges, and said, “alrigh’, love. Lemme see what you got.” Or—John Price finally gets pegged.

WARNINGS: 18+, SMUT—pegging, rimming, anal fingering; bottom John Price; soft dom!John; topping from the bottom WORD COUNT: 5,3k.

His skin tastes of brackish water—briny, salty; mossy—when you slip your tongue over the tight ring of muscles clenching like a vice around two fingers. The stranglehold of his flesh feels like it might cut off the circulation to your veins, digits bluing under the strain, the clutch.

It’s almost the same tension as wrapping several rubber bands around your appendages until the tips turn garishly purple, nails bright vermillion. It's tight.

You pull back, fingers easing out of him until only your first knuckle remains locked in his iron hold, pushing and throbbing around the intrusion. Your tongue slides over the raw rim, easing the ache, the sting, you know must be there.

The same soothing motion he’d used on you many, many times.

He must recognise the pattern. It makes him huff.

“Don’t stop, love,” he husks, voice the consistency of wet papier-mâché in your clenched palm. “C’mon—”

“Price—”

Your murmur is swallowed when he notches his hip, taking more of your fingers into himself, tightening around you like a vice when your palm is flush against his perineum.

“Fuck—,” his groan is airy. Light. “Ain’t gonna shatter me, kitten. Jus’ – jus’ keep fuckin’ me, yeah?”

It snatches the breath from your lungs in a way that leaves you dizzy.

Even then, even with his acceptance, his willingness, you hadn’t believed him. Hadn’t even given it another thought.

Not until he looked at you, brows raised when you spread your legs for him, baring your cunt to his smouldering gaze, and said:

“When is it my turn, love?”

And okay. Okay.

Price wanted you to fuck him. To split him apart with your plastic cock until he came, clenching like a vice around the mocking imitation of you, and—

Sure. Yeah.

Why not?

So, you do.

It takes three weeks to work up the nerve, and another two to find the toy you like, to research everything, to plan, prepare.

You sit him down and have discussions, much to his unfathomable bemusement.

It's when his hand curls over the nape of your neck, thumb pressing against the soft curve of bone behind your ear, and drags you close to him, noses pressed flush together, do you see the sincerity in ashlar blue. His rasp, then, of you weren't this hesitant, this careful, when I said I wanted to stick my cock in your arse. You were raring to go that night. So, why are you acting like I'm some blushing little virgin, hm? You think I can't take it? brings everything back into focus.

Right. This isn't about you.

Well. It is. But it's about—

"Us," cambium soft, the word slips from the seam of his teeth, festering like a sickness in the thick atmosphere between you. "This is an experience for us."

It’s only when you have a lovely cock strapped around your pelvis—dual pleasure, the package read (a must, Price insisted: he wanted you to cum when you were inside of him, the words leaving his mouth—you’re gonna cum when you fuck me, yeah? Cum while you’re inside of me, kitten—nearly sending you to an early grave, and a desire so deep, you soaked the gusset of your panties with your slick)—a bottle of lube, and a mountain of pegging knowledge nestled in the fibrils of your head do you even begin to feel ready. Eager.

You want this. It surprises you just how much you do.

Price is a bulwark. A curtain wall. He’s untouchable, unmoveable.

And you—

You get to see him break. Get to fracture him down into little pieces in the palm of your hand, the blunt press of your—cock—

—and then make him whole again. Patch him back together.

“Fuck—!”

The expletive is snapped out between clenched teeth when you add a third, final, finger. Your tongue follows along, slipping between the spread of them, chasing more of his taste.

“Bloody fuckin’ hell—,” he snarls the curse out, chest heaving when your fingers graze his puffy prostate, swollen and full from the nearly hour-long abuse by the tips butting into it over and over again. “Christ, pretty thing. Where the fuck did you learn this?”

You pull back, a strand of spit and lube following you from his soaked, spread hole. You wait for him to look at you, to glance between his massive thighs, and see—

Broken sapphire falls to your face, flushed cheeks darkening when he catches sight of your wet mouth, your hand buried between his legs, beneath his throbbing, leaking cock, and the groan he lets out makes your pussy ache.

His head falls back, eyes snapping shut. The muscles in his thick neck bunch, veins throbbing.

Price clenches around you fluttering in tandem with each jerk of his turgid cock.

The sight of him sends something blustering through your core, rippling down your spine. It stabs through the thick tissue around your heart until you're gasping from the ache of it all. The want.

It’s intoxicating. This power, this dominion over him.

The way you can pleasure him with gentle notches of just your fingertips, the flat seam of your tongue laving over his flexing, fluttering flesh—a place only you have ever claimed, taken. Touched, licked. Fingered. Fucked.

Something gnarls behind your ribs—an ugly, noxious, greedy thing—and the spores it releases seep into your bloodstream, into your marrow.

He's yours. All yours.

Just like you're his.

Implicit.

And John has already assured you of this—many, many times—but it's somehow infinitely different, more intimate, and possessive, than anything else you'd ever experienced.

It's bare, raw trust.

He wants this. Asked for it. Asked you for it. He wants to share this moment of vulnerability, the base reversal of traditional roles, with you. Only you.

Affection blooms in your chest, and the spillover makes you tremble. Makes you want. Yearn.

You want to make him feel heavenly. To feel the same potent Nirvana you do when he fucks the tight clutch of your cunt, pounding bliss into your synapses.

An experience shared by both of you.

He's been inside of you. And now—

"C'mon, love," he pants, drawing your attention.

In your periphery, you catch the sight of his hands fisting the sheets so tightly, his knuckle blanching under the strain.

When you lift your gaze from the mess you've made between his firm thighs, you find nothing but blistering desperation in the cut of blue.

He holds your stare for a moment—liquid sapphire pools brimming with desire, with want; with something so achingly tender, so vulnerable, you feel it bludgeon into your chest like a battering ram to your pericardium—and then, softly, softer than you'd ever heard him speak, he says your name. Just your name.

You echo it with his own, the utterance drenched in your devotion, an orison spilled over into the honey-thick air that pulses between you.

It drums through your veins, the steady plume of a hummingbird's wings, and everything that isn't this—you and him: bathed in a diaphanous fragility, an epoch in the making, and weaved together with the brassbound threads of devotion, trust—dissipates into ash.

He stares at you, drinking in the heat in your irises, the deep pools of want in your eclipsing pupils. There is a smoulder under your skin, the steady burn of a low-grade fever. The current of anticipation thrums in your veins.

Your eyes drop, gazing at the hardened length of him laying fat and heavy against his quivering stomach. Prespend leaks from the tip, puddles on his naval. Each minuscule movement of your fingers makes him twitch, and more of his milky release stains his flushed skin.

He burns inside. A molten heat that envelops you. The squeeze of him stops the tremors in your joints, the quake born from your own nerves, uncertainty.

You don't want to hurt him—ever. The thought churns in your guts, sour and acrid, and wells up like you'd drunk bleach concentrate from the nozzle. Noxious, polluting. The thought alone has your mouth knotting to the side.

"What're you thinkin' about?"

Your chin snaps up. Price gazes at you, cheeks flushed, forehead wrinkled, creased with his syphoned concern.

"I—," you swallow, tasting him on your tongue. "I don't want to hurt you."

John doesn't say anything. Not for a moment. A beat. He stares at you, plain. Open. His brow twitches, a flex. A throb.

When he exhales, you feel it against your joints.

"You're not gonna hurt me."

You swallow again, eyes dropping to his thighs. Quivering. Bunched tight. Muscles coiled.

"Love. Look at me."

It's a command.

Your eyes flicker to him. Dutiful soldier even when you're three fingers deep inside of your captain.

"Sir—," you bite your tongue over the word, the accidental slip. But the way he clenches around you, cock twitching, spitting a thick puddle of prespend over his belly, you don't think he minds.

"Fuck, love," his voice is a pulsing wound. "You're not going to hurt me, alright?"

You nod. It's pulled out of you. A magnetic acquiescence in the face of your superior, your lover. A man you're undoing with little flicks of your fingers, knuckles. Tongue.

"Lemme hear you, kitten," he rasps, words sticking together when you slide your middle finger over the soft bump inside of him. "Always, yeah? Wanna hear you say it."

"Yes," you breathe. "I won't hurt you."

"Good—," he shifts, clearing his throat. His Adam's apple buoys when he swallows, muscles flexing in his throat. A bead of sweat runs down his hairline and you have the sudden urge to chase it with your tongue. "Now—come on. Been at it long enough. Gonna make me cum if you don't stop it with those little fingers—that fucking tongue."

Your head lifts higher. Price catches your gaze again, eyes lidded and heavy. Cheeks dusted pink with desire.

"Hurry up, and fuck me."

It takes everything inside of you not to whimper. Fuck me. Fuck me. The words ring in your ears, reverberating around your head in a ceaseless crescendo.

Your fingers tremble when you give one last thrust, spreading them wide apart, and feeling the resistance around the rim. The stretch. You know the burn. The sting.

"Ah, Christ—"

And the pressure. The fullness. The feeling of being pried slowly, agonisingly apart. The tension coils. Builds. You can only imagine he's feeling it too when you scissor your fingers once more, leaning down to tease your tongue between the wedges of your digits.

It's a good stretch when it's like this. When the muscles loosen, going lax. Soft. Malleable.

You take a steadying breath, easing your thundering nerves, and letting everything else fade away until Price, his pleasure, sits on a carved strait.

You pull away, fingers slipping gingerly from him. A shudder wracks his chest, and you reach out with one hand, curling your fingers over the thick length of him. His cock throbs in your hold, skin wet, sticky from his spend.

"Are you—"

"Yes."

It's bitten out through his teeth. A snapped affirmation. Quick, decisive.

It draws a nod from you, lashes fluttering when you swallow.

"Okay. Tell me if it's too much."

The skin of his palm is searing, sandpaper rough, when it folds over your own still loosely gripping his cock. The contrast between his raw palm and the velveteen softness of his cock is familiar. Comforting. His thick thumb circles your webspace.

"You know I will," he says, thick. Sincerity bleeds into the vowels. Reassurance rings in the rounded consonants. "I remember the safe word and all."

"I know. But it can be a bit much, and—"

His hand tightens, eyes flash. "If I didn't want this, do you think I'd be here?"

Another swallow. It sticks at the bottom of your throat. "Okay."

"Come on, love," he urges, an ashy demand that plucks against the fibrils of your heart. "Been waitin' for it."

His words pulse in your head, in your cunt. You moan a little at the aching want in his voice, the rough desire.

Price gives one last squeeze of his hand before letting you slip away, thumb sliding over the weeping head, gathering his prespend on your flesh. It makes him suck in a sharp breath, eyes fluttering in pleasure.

He takes over, holding his cock firm at the base when you lean back on your haunches.

Your nerves spark when you reach for the bottle of lube. It's tacky. Sticky. You'd already used half just fucking him open. Steady, you think, struggling to find some sense of control amid the rapid thunder of your pulse. Your guts churn, featherlight, but it's the gossamer of want that simmers beneath it all that piques across your spine.

You're going to fuck him.

Spumes of desire lick up from the flames that billow inside you, and in the red-hot ache of your molten core makes you feel fervid. Feverish. It melts your nerves into liquid metal that hardens, ironclad, brassbound, into a near-perfect equilibrium of galvanised need.

You're going to fuck him.

You pour a generous amount into the palm of your hand, letting it puddle in the cup you make before carefully lowering it to place between your legs where the fake cock juts out from your pelvis.

The toy is a little cold when you touch it with your slick fingers. You grab it loosely in your fist, pumping your hand up and down, rubbing the excess over the mushroomed head, and then back to the base.

The heat of your skin bleeds into the polymer. The added friction makes it feel warmer than it had before. It still feels of plastic—fake, rubbery—and as it sits between your curled fingers, you know it isn't real, that it isn't pulsing flesh and tissue; but it feels—different.

A novice experience. A first for both of you.

Your eyes flicker to John, to his heavy, thick cock grasped in his hand. The tightness of his knuckles wrapped around his turgid flesh makes you suck in a deep breath, nearly choking on it when it tickles your trachea.

He looks good with his legs parted, thigh notched up and spread. Cock bobbing in the V of them, leaking over his closed fist.

"John…"

"Ready, love?"

There is something in his voice that gives you pause. It's deep. Gritty. Pulverised desire whispered in his rasping lilt.

You glance up at him, searching his gaze, his expression. John's brows are drawn tightly together, knotted in the centre. The divot between is not from unease, or distress. Anger. Irritation. Hesitance.

The thick cock in his hands twitches again, prespend pooling at the tip.

Oh.

You swallow, and taste humus in the back of your throat.

"I am," you breathe, belly bubbling, roiling, with want.

Pleasure sparks down your spine when you move, shuffling toward to settle between his spread thighs.

It brings heat to your cheeks, your chest, when you feel the movement of the toy inside of you. It does very little to pass as anything like Price with the smaller tapered end nestled within you, curved tip rubbing behind your pubic bone. But it's the idea of fucking him that makes your blood feel red-hot in your veins than the snug plastic grazing against your walls.

The other end juts forward, knocking against Price's knee. It leaves a smear of lube behind.

"Take a deep breath," you murmur, hand gripping the plastic base as the other settles behind his stretched thigh, holding him open. Lifting him higher. The thought has your pulse racing. Sputtering.

"Speaking from experience, eh?" he rasps, liqueur-rich. When you lift your gaze, you see humour cut in cerulean ashlar. "Or sage wisdom?"

"Both," you volley back. "My cock isn't nearly as big as yours, but taking deep, even breaths will help you relax."

"Your cock?" His eyes gleam in the jaundiced light spilling over from the lantern beside the bed. "Gonna fuck me with your cock, then?"

Your eyes flutter. A paroxysm blistering through you. Your tongue grazes the whetstone of your lower lips, shredding it into a blunt point.

"Yeah, I am." Your voice is pitched low, sultry. The decibels dropped, dripping with the glaze of bold, impish confidence. "Are you ready for me, John?"

His chest expands, lips curling up behind the wry hairs of his beard.

It's aided by the ease in which he sprawls out for you, letting you bend his legs, hitching them below your arms, and pulling you hungrily into the apex of his spread thighs, that fortifies your mettle.

"Always, love."

The facsimile of your cock nudges against his slick hole. It spreads around the head, rim widening, flexing, around plastic until it's swallowed by his reddened flesh. Disappeared into the clutch of him. The first inch. He huffs at the stretch, the feeling of you slipping inside.

You push, burrowing in deeper until his ass is flush against you. Cock swallowed whole.

You pull back, and his rim suctions against you, pulling taut around your cock. You trace the seam with your eyes, breath caught in your throat. Your hips cant, a soft roll, all the way until you're buried deep.

"I'm—"

"—fuck."

The throaty groan makes your head snap up, eyes fixed on Price, and the sight that greets you is nearly your undoing.

Cheeks flushed a deep vermillion, jaw clenched taut—he looks good. Looks like it feels good. His head is tossed back on the pillow, broad thighs spread apart to fit you between them as you sloppily pound into his ass.

And it's you. You making him feel this way, breaking him apart at the seams.

The slap of your thighs hitting his ass is the perfect parody of when he has you bent over, taking him deep, and you feel it in your head with each clap, each noise that spills from between the two of you. A microcosm, a place, where only you and he exist in tandem.

"Does it feel good?" You pant, hips rutting into him, sitting low to hit the grove of his prostate with each thrust.

It forces a rough bark of laughter from his lips, chest expanding with it. "Fuckin' cheeky little thing—"

His words are cut off when you grind into him, hips pressed flush against him.

"Oh, shit—"

Your hands fall from his shins, pressing flat to the mattress under his arms. He's too tall for you to bend over him the way he does when he's fucking you, or when you're on top, balanced on his lap, and you settle for coming to his chin when you lean over him.

His eyes are wildfires, smouldering embers. The lick of flames is a magnetic dance in endless pools of sapphire, brimstone. You seek him out, eager, rapacious. Greed gnarls inside of you; a basal bud, a dormant seedling, now fed, nurtured. It springs up, roots taking refuge in the fibrils of your beings, locking tight to your cells, molecules, and leaching sustenance from your appetency as you take him.

Take, take, take.

A moth drawn, haplessly, to the light that sways, hypnotic, in front of it, you have no choice but to go. Instinct, primal and starved, lead you to him.

His hand threads into your hair, cupping the back of your skull. Price pulls you close until his warm, wet mouth meets yours in the middle.

It's messy, breathless. You can't stop gasping at each noise he makes when your cock hits deep, the blunt, polymer head grinding against him. He groans into the kiss each time, breath heavy and thick. The hair on his chest grazes your nipples. The rough scrape of his beard chafes your skin until it's raw, irritated. Stinging like a sunburn.

Through it all, Price holds you steady. Letting you take. Explore. Rut into him however you like, knowing—trusting—that whatever it is you do, however you decide to shift your hips, it'll be good.

It's new. Different.

You venture through this unfamiliar arena on fawn-like feet, stumbling around under the lush peat beneath you. Scrambling for purchase, for some sense of stability. Clarity. Control.

A foothold, solid ground, is found when you strike his prostate with the eager tip of your plastic cock, and he huffs, startled, into the wet seam of your mouth, cool breath ghosting over your scorching tongue.

You're good at patterns. At geometry. Linearity. Lines and parallels.

You remember the place, the angle; head running through the minutiae of the movement, the sway of your hips, the placement of your knees, until it tangles inside the sulci of your hippocampus.

A steady rhythm grows amid the clumsy cants of your hips, shaping, forming, into a dance you can fall into easily.

His mouth slides over your chin, your jaw, a trail of spittle following it, cooling on your skin with each little stutter of his breath washing over you.

John isn't usually vocal in the bedroom. His noises are reserved. Pulled from the threads of his chest, wrenched through the barbed lining of his throat. They're deep, low. Rasping curls of grunts. Ashy growls. All soaked in petrol. The rumbling of an old car engine. Brassy. Baritone.

But as you quicken your pace, you punch little gasps from his lungs that he can't stifle under the harsh grind of his teeth.

It's—

Incredibly appealing. Addicting.

He tastes of nicotine when you bring your mouth back to his, devouring the hickory tang on his tongue. It slides down your esophagus where it puddles in your guts; a heady elixir that seeps through your tissue, into your bloodstream. Ichor thick.

"God," you gasp into the messy wetness of his lips. "It feels good—"

The toy rubs the walls of your cunt with each blunt press of your hips notching into his ass, and the pressure of it makes everything feel real. Potent.

Your slick fingers grip his massive thighs in your hands, leaving indents where your nails dig into his flesh, finding purchase. You fuck him in deep, full thrusts that make heat coil inside of you. Steady. A building tempo.

Each roll makes him grunt, groan. Short huffs leave his broad chest, punched out through gritted teeth when you sink to the base, cock kissing his prostate.

His belly quivers. One hand falls to your forearm, the other gripping your hip. He pulls you in deeper, fingers locked tight around your hip bone, and you let him lead, let him guide you how he likes.

"Fuck," he breathes, fingers leaving the stain of him on your skin as he rolls your hip, cock bludgeoned into his prostate, grinding over it. "Like that—oh, fuck—jus' like that—"

"Yeah?" You tease, teeth nipping the coarse hair trailing down his neck. The angle makes the head of his cock rub, slick and wet, against your sternum, his knuckles pressed into the valley between your ribs. "Feels good, John? Like it when I fuck you deep, huh?"

"Ahhh, you little bugger—you, uhh, fuck—you fuckin' menace—"

You pull back, settling between his thighs.

"Gonna like this even better, I reckon."

You punctuate the promise with a sharp snap of your hips, pausing only when you're seated deep, letting the blunt head cudgel against him.

Another thrust makes you whimper when the flat harness presses taut to your throbbing clit.

"You feel good, John—," your head tips back, hands spasming around his sticky skin as you rut into him. Your eyes are heavy, lidded with soporific bliss that bleeds into your synapses. "You feel so good, so so—"

You're babbling. Words leak out between your slack jaw, but you can't swallow them down with the static in your head, the bliss in the joints of your fingers, and palms, as you feel his broad thighs tensing under you.

Seated deep, hips gyrating against him, your hand falls to his throbbing cock, leaking rivulets of prespend over his taut abdomen. You stroke him in time with your shallow thrusts, eyes fixed on the way his brow folds, eyelids wrinkling when he squeezes them shut.

His lip curls up, teeth are bared, cusses spat between the grind of his molars.

"Shit—shit—"

It's snarled out of his heaving chest.

A blunt jab to your sternum knocks the air from your heaving lungs when his gyre blue eyes snap open, piercing into the white haze that clots behind your retinas.

The veering of his jaw, teeth gnashing together as he struggles to hold his composure, has liquid pleasure clogging the filament lacing down your spine, weaving through the gaps in your bones, leaking into the spongy marrow below.

Your head buzzes with an opiate gossamer of bliss spooling inside of you with each motion you make. Each noise you drag out of him.

Price groans—a low, needy sound rucked from his chest, punched out through the cant of your hips into him, cockhead burrowing into his prostate—and then he's cumming. Spasming around the toy as you ride him through it, fucking into him in deep, languid bucks of your hips.

"That's it, baby," you gasp, voice thin, airy, arching over the words as his cum lashes over his broad, sweat-slicked chest. His eyes snap shut again, fingers curled around your forearms as you thrust your cock into the spasming clutch of him. "Cum for me, cum for me, John—"

His voice is effervescent, aerated when he groans your name out in a pitched drawl. "Fuckin' Christ—that's it, that's it—feels so fucking good, fuck, fuck—"

"Fuck," your running tally of curses stacks up. This one is breathless; a sandpaper husk. The next one that leaves his lips is deep. Oceanic. "Fuck, love."

Price's hands are firebrands when they roam over your flesh, tugging you down to his sweat-slicked chest, and tucking you into the fold of his embrace.

He opens his mouth, lips rucking up in the same shape of another cuss, but you beat him to it, stealing the word from his tongue with your own. He rumbles into the kiss; the low growl deep enough to rattle the bones in your chest.

It's wet. Messy. The clumsy, sloppy melding of your lips, tongue lolling out, filling the chasm of his heat where he tastes of smooth cigars and bitter scotch.

Spittle dribbles down your chin as your tongue lashes over his teeth. It draws a mirthful puff of hair through his nose; a chuff.

"Makin' a mess of me tonight, ain't you?"

You make a show of rolling your tongue under his bottom lip, smile curling up at the corners with the tickle of his hair grazing your flesh.

Peppering kisses into the corner of his mouth, you murmur: "you just look good messy."

"Yeah?" He husks, lids dropping, lashes cresting over glacial blue. "So do you."

It drags a twee from the depths of your chest, prickling along the flutter of your heart. "We look good all messy, then."

"Fuckin' right we do."

He shifts, and the motion makes him groan a little under his breath. You catch the draw of his brow, a little valley of discomfort, and reach for him, hand settling on his chest.

"Sore?"

One lid lifts half-mass as he mulls it over. "Tender," he settles on, shifting once again. "Nothin' too bad."

"You'll get used to it."

He lists toward you, lips curling into a waggish grin. "That right?"

John lifts his arm, chin jerking in a soft beckon toward. You follow the wordless command, sidling into the open bracket of his side, careful not to jostle him too much. He's strong. Resilient. Having his ass split open on your cock (left hanging on the end-table in some parody of a war trophy, glistening with the sheen of lube in the flushed light of the lamp) isn't enough to barrel him down, but there is something about this tender moment that makes you want to care for him. To coddle him. To hold him tight to your chest, and never let go.

You won't ever tell him that, of course. Never. He's too proud, too practical, for your bare sentimentality in this tender moment, but you give it to him, anyway. Small motions. Giving little by little before he can't catch on to what you're doing.

You brush your fingers over his chest, soothing the quiver in his stomach, and perch your chin on his arm. There is no distress in the cut of his brow, the dip in his lids. Drenched in torpor, satiated, and still dusted pink with glow of his pleasure, his heated release, he looks good. Satisfied.

It makes you sink your teeth into your chapped bottom lip to stem the broad grin from stretching over your face.

"Takes some practice, but I think we broke you in quite nicely."

A sharp snort jostles you. "Yeah, you did."

John's hand rests on your hip, thumb rubbing circles into your skin. "How're you feeling?"

"Sore," you pout. "Tired. It's hard work. Next time you should be on top."

"Right," he huffs. "I'd snap you half, love."

"I can take it," you hum, fingers carting through the matted hair on his damp, slick chest. "Plus, think of the view I'd have."

His chest rumbles when he laughs. "Yeah, and think of the backache I'd have."

"I'll give you a backrub," you murmur, tilting your head down to press a soft kiss into his breastplate.

"Hm."

Price eases into the mattress, eyes lidded. Heavy. In the absence of your playful volley, a question weighs in the back of your head, needling through you. Something soft. Fragile. Achingly uncertain.

It feels silly to be so clumsy, so hesitant, when moments ago you were buried inside of him. And yet—

You lick your lips, tasting him on your tongue. Stalling. Hedging.

A thick mass wells in your throat. You feel your pulse throb in the thick of it.

"Did you… did you like it?"

Price sucks in a sharp breath at the ginger utterance, eyes rolling up to the stark white ceiling as he considers the weight behind your question.

You worry your bottom lip between your teeth, waiting.

When he turns back to you, chin dipping down, something cracks. The muskeg splinters, splits.

There is something almost liquid, open, about the way he looks. As if a wall had fallen. The deep moor around him eroded, washed into the chasm that surrounds him. The sediment settles at the bottom of the trench, making the untraversable waters shallower than they were before.

His voice is featherlight when he speaks, eyes are limned in the lantern, framed in gold. When he drags his fingers over your skin, the tips are leaden. Heavy.

"Yeah, love. I did."

You settle into his side, tension bleeding from your marrow.

He sometimes says that his hard edges are buffered by the softness inside of you; giving and tender. But you're not a smooth surface. You're porous and gritty. You scour the abrasiveness off of him, and he, in turn, makes you rougher.

That sentiment has never been more apparent now when he cups your jaw in his worn, rough palm, the cracked, cry pads of his fingers scraping over the plush give of your cheek.

Your emotions coalesce into a deluge, cascading through your being with a visceral intensity. When you try to reach out and grasp one, it slips through your fingers.

You settle, instead, for sleepily lying your head on his chest, crown buffeted by the plinth of his palm, and run figure-eights into the damp, coarse curls matters to his chest.

"Good," you murmur, and try to ignore the thunderclap in your chest. The too tight feeling clutching at you in the aftermath of an epoch, the shattering of a wall.

His chest wobbles under your hand. When you lift your graze, you find his eyes filling with the same uncatchable emotion that curls in the brackets of your ribs, gnarling its ironclad roots over the soft tissue of your chest.

Featherlight. Evanescent. Nothing but he and you, and the feeling of his skin, the taste of him on your tongue, exist in the cosm that lingers, honey-thick, between you.

It catches in your throat. Sticking in the empty spaces of your being when his lids flutter, lashes fanning over his roseate cheeks.

The weight of his stare is a brand on your flesh. You want to run from it, and bask in its glow. Hold it tight to your chest with your trembling hands, and never let it go.

It's the breaking of everything that settles low inside of you. Too much, too soon.

It's easy to cover up the whirlpool of your emotions with false bravado. With a jest.

And so, you do.

"'Cause, I'm ready for round two whenever you are."

"Cheeky little—"

(You tuck it away for later, content to just feel the steady rise of his chest beneath your palm when he laughs.)