pricesbug

[pricesbug]

You really like your pottery class.

It’s at the local community center, where the pool and gym is. It helps your brain, makes it quiet, shuts off all the white noise. It’s your version of mediation, you guess.

Everything about it is pretty great, and it’s pretty close to your house.

The only not so great thing about it is the guy with the mohawk.

The class is in a studio with big glass windows in the front, facing the hall. And this guy, you swear to fucking god, this guy stands in front of window, right in front of where your wheel is, and stares at your hands. He doesn’t even try to hide it, he just watches, mouth twitching, eyes heavy and lidded. One time, he even squeezed himself overtop his gym shorts.

What the fuck is wrong with this guy?

The first few times you thought, okay maybe he’s just interested in the class, but now-

now it’s painfully obvious what he’s interested.

You’re not a pushover though, not a wilting flower, a fainting lady. You’re not so affectionately referred to as an ice queen at work, or that bitch in accounting.

You’re not going to let yourself be preyed upon by some fucking creep.

“Hey!” You’ve spotted him outside the locker room, hair wet from a shower, grey sweats. He smirks as he turns, cocking his head like he knew this was coming, long laid plans, a sapling grown tall and produced fruit. You jam a finger into his chest. “Take your creepy-“

He darts like a viper, wrapping strong, nimble fingers around your wrist and twisting you around to face the lockers. The momentum is so fast, too hard, and you slam into them, combination lock pressing into your cheek. “I love yer hands.” His chest bleeds warmth against your back, and then the hard length of his cock is nestling between your ass cheeks.

“Get off me.” You hiss and thrash, a fish out of water, gasping for air on a dangling line, but he’s too strong, too big, and tightens his hold on your wrists.

“Be nice f’us, I know ye can do it.” Us? A shadow looms, and another appears like a ghost at your side, thick, scarred fingers reaching out to stroke your cheek.

“All set.” He says, looking past you to the man who’s rutting up against you.

“Alright pretty, this way now.” Before you even have a chance to protest, he’s got a hand clapped over your mouth as he drags you backward to the locker room.

You scream. You struggle. It does nothing. The locker room is empty, and as they force you through it, across the tile, you start to tremble.

“She’s scared.” The other man grunts, pulling another door open, a wave of heat spilling from it. “Aren’t you sweetheart?” You kick, hoisting yourself upward and twist around just enough to realize where you’re going.

The sauna.

They lock the door behind them, and the bigger man dumps a half bucket of water on the coals, momentarily filling the room with more steam, and inevitably making it more hot. When he strips down to boxers, you nearly faint with fright.

You always thought you’d fight in these scenarios, that you’d scratch your way out, but now, with the odds stacked against you so high, all you can do is cry. “Wh-what are you doing?”

“We’re takin’ care of ye. I saw the way ye stuck your fingers in that clay, stroking the shapes long and round, all wet an’ messy. Ye knew I was watchin’ too.”

“You were putting on a show for Johnny weren’t you sweetheart?”

“No, no I-“ your shirt is ripped away from the collar, and while your sputtering, they manage to tug your leggings down, pulling off your shoes so you’re standing in front of them in your underwear and bra. The mohawk one, the creep named Johnny, whistles.

“Did good, didn’t I Si?” The big man nods.

“Did really good,” he reaches, and you try to get away, only to be met with a wall of muscle at your back. Your arms are crooked behind you and you shriek.

The big man, Si, gets on his knees in front of you and crooks his fingers into your plain, purple polka dotted panties and pulls to the side. “Look at this pussy,” he murmurs, stroking your seam with the backs of his knuckles, “so pretty.”

“I wantae see.” You gag, and try again, to get away. It’s so hot, too hot, temperature closing in on you around all sides, making your head spin, your skin slick.

“When it’s your turn.”

“Fuckin- stop-“ you kick, but he grips your knee with enough force it hurts, badly. You’re sweating now, every crack, every crevice. Soaked with it.

“Be good.” He admonishes like you’re a child, and then spreads your folds, humming with approval. “Gonna be a tight fit.”

You cry. You beg. You scream.

Nothing matters.

The big guy takes a seat on the bench and drags his dick free from his boxers. Your stomach turns. It’s huge, thicker than your wrist, your ankle possibly, and throbbing, veins pulsing from root to tip.

“No.”

“Aye, pretty.” The heat hits you again, full force, and your eyes slip closed. It's seeping into your bones, trying to tug your eyelids down.

You go limp, dead weight as he drags you toward the giant man and holds you over his lap.

The pain of the bulbous head trying to fight its way into your body jerks you back to full awareness, and you struggle against your captor, wriggling around. The fight sends the man’s cock deeper inside you, stretching you wider, and his hips thrust inch by inch as he grunts. “Don’t even need ya to be wet, see? Sweat works jus’ fine in a pinch.” Salt coats your face, and you sob as he makes his way towards your cervix. “Wait til you feel ‘er Johnny. Like a fuckin’ glove.” Spots are starting to ebb across your vision, and your body adjusts against your will, pussy spasming with each push. You’re clenching, tightening, even though it should be impossible, and your legs shake. The man with his dick inside you groans. “Dirty fuckin’ girl, eh?”

Johnny peers over your shoulder, still holding you firm as the pace increases.

“Takin’ it so well.” He reaches down, taps your clit, laughing as you jolt. “I knew ye’d like it.” Your head lolls back on his shoulder. It’s too hot, way too hot to keep your eyes open, and you melt as rubs your swollen nub in little circles, mouth at your ear. “Gonna make ye come, pretty. Ye’re gonna come all over this fat cock, and then he’ll fill ye up nice and good before it’s my turn.” You mumble some nonsense, something like a protest, but your limbs are a thousand pounds, and you can’t lift your head.

You don’t want to, but you do. You clamp down so hard and come violently, and then both laugh. It zaps whatever life, whatever consciousness you have left, and the Scot hums. “Go to sleep now.”

You do.

When you wake, you’re on a different lap, being bounced up and down on a different cock.

A hand covers your mouth, cutting off your oxygen, and the world is black again.

[pricesbug]

I love men in uniforms (and without them)

[pricesbug]

I truly am a sucker for any ghoap fic where reader is the forced third they’re always so good

[pricesbug]

first base is murdering you. second base is ressurecting you from the grave. third base is murdering you a second time

[pricesbug]

God he’s such an asshole, I need him

cut me down, level me | ghoap x reader | 3.2k cw: alcohol, jealous reader, nasty+mean ghost, harassment, nonconsensual touching/manhandling, masturbation a/n: title from i wish i was you by creux lies.

it’s johnny’s birthday.

you grouse the entire time you get ready. mood utterly unsalvageable even with the right playlist. the emergency bottle of prosecco in your refrigerator can’t rescue you either—it’s turned sour and vinegary, probably like the evening ahead.

johnny texts, his message asking for your eta littered with typos. he’s sent it not in your private chat, but the one with his worse half. 

he promised, repeatedly, that simon, the principal pain in your ass that—“he’ll be on his best behavior. hand on heart, i swear.”

you’ve heard that one before.

it doesn’t matter what you do. by the time the rideshare pulls up outside their flat, you half-consider staying in the car and heading straight back home. cozying up in bed with your laptop feels infinitely better than the prospect of enduring lousy company.

because for all johnny’s reassurances, you know simon. he’s the thorn in your side. the wedge between you and your best friend.

you were practically raised together after your family moved in next door. you spent as many holidays at the mactavish house as your own. even after johnny enlisted, nothing changed—you were still the first person he’d call with news, and he was still the one you trusted to share things you wouldn’t tell anyone else. 

and then, two christmases ago, simon arrived. six-foot-something stupid, he muscled his way in, taking up more space than he had any right to, crowding into johnny’s life like he’d always been there. 

“simon? it’s good to finally meet you. johnny talks about you all the time.” you’d said, hand extended, trying to make a good impression. neck craned to the man filling the doorframe. simon smirked, something flat and condescending in his voice as he replied, hand already hinging possessively around johnny’s nape.

“i thought only i could call you ‘johnny’. not ‘ow you make a man feel special, is it.”

you remember how he shouldered around you without another word, greeting the rest of the mactavishes with bourbon and presents like some drab mancunian santa claus.

johnny found you seething later that evening and delivered the first of a thousand apologies. said he was embarrassed by simon’s cold shoulder, and you forgave him—not because you believed him, but because you felt sorry that his boyfriend was a territorial buffoon.

a mistake.

you know couples spend most of their time together. you’re not stupid or naive enough to think they’d be any different, but somehow it’s worse. you can count on one hand the number of times you’ve spent with johnny one-on-one since they got together. simon’s always there, lurking. there’s no sharing with him.

you’ve tried to bring it up with johnny quietly, mostly over text, since phone calls and video chats are never private, but it’s like he can’t see his velcro boyfriend at his side. he doesn’t question it, not really. he’ll admit simon’s a bit rough around the edges, that his jokes cross the line or that his comments make your skin crawl, but he brushes them off. there’s always an excuse, some reason to overlook it. you just hope it’s only a matter of time before johnny sees simon for what he really is and breaks it off.

a no-good interloper, pissing on everything–

when you knock, it’s simon who answers the door. music spills out around him, voices rising and falling in the glow of light behind his broad shoulders. he looks at you, slow and deliberate, his eyes dragging from your shoes to your face, as if you’re a stranger. then he tilts his head in a silent well?

you’ve learned that it is you who must move around him, in all contexts. you are the invader. he doesn’t flinch when you cram under his thick arm braced against the door. he mutters a snide comment about the cut of your shirt—can see straight down that—breath fanning over your head. your face burns instantly, blistering hot. as you pass, the bottle of wine in your hand “accidentally” finds his ribs, and for a second, you feel a flicker of satisfaction.

“oops!” 

you flee beeline for johnny.

he’s already tipsy, the lush, but he’s at least happy to see you. 

“there she is.” his face is flushed from drink, and he pulls you into a bear hug, pressing a few sloppy kisses against your cheek. “i was just tellin’ simon it’s no’ my birthday without ye.”

you lean into him, briefly nuzzling his chest, breathing in his grounding scent. asshole boyfriend or not, how could you consider abandoning your boy?

“shameless flirt.”

“dinnae i ken it.”

he pouts when you peel away and excuse yourself, promising to find him after making the rounds.

you count maybe two dozen people spread through the house, a mix of old classmates, distant acquaintances, and soldiers. more arrive in waves, and you’re glad for the buffer. enough bodies between you and simon to keep him at a comfortable distance.

time moves in fits and starts. you drink enough to feel a buzz and resolve, half-heartedly, to enjoy yourself and mingle. there’s no shortage of good-looking men in johnny’s circle, and you might as well flirt a little. it seems like the kind of thing you should be doing, though your heart isn’t really in it.

you meet another john, polite but pointed about the ring on his finger. then kyle, who seems interested until he asks your name and then suddenly isn’t. after a couple more dead ends, you give up entirely, feeling more lousy than when you arrived. but it’s johnny’s birthday, and it’s bad form to leave before midnight. so, instead, you decide to keep to yourself and wait it out.

problem is, you start bumping into simon.

wherever you go—the den, the kitchen, the front steps for air—simon appears. he doesn’t make a show of following you, but you feel it all the same. his gaze finds you like a searchlight, dissecting you piece by piece. just waiting to say shit. his expression doesn’t shift when you glance his way, no shame in being caught staring. it’s impossible to tell what he’s thinking, but whatever it is, it doesn’t feel particularly benign. his presence settles like a weight on your back. 

he doesn’t let you find any refuge with johnny, either. of course not. birthday boy is blissfully unaware, wrapped up in his own celebration, probably thinking simon’s sudden surge of public affection and attention are gifts. from across the room, simon’s gaze is heavy on you, his arm draped possessively around johnny’s waist, hand settling unashamedly on his ass for a grope. you catch his eye once, and without missing a beat, he leans in, planting a kiss behind johnny’s ear, making him squirm mid-conversation. 

it pisses you off. curdles your bad mood into a rotten one.

with an hour left until midnight, you try to avoid simon as much as possible. it probably seems petty to slip away the moment he walks into a room or to retreat into silence when he lingers too close, but you don’t care. he’s stifling and unbearable—like he’s decided to babysit you to make sure you’re on your best behavior. and there’s no telling johnny. you won’t ruin the night for him by stirring up trouble.

at one point, you take too long at the makeshift bar in the kitchen, and he corners you mid-pour.

simon clicks his tongue, shifting his weight just enough to box you in with his chest and shoulders. “what’s that now, your fourth? fifth?” his voice is low, a rough-edged drawl, head dipping and chasing your ear when you try to duck away. “keep this up, sweet’eart, and you’ll be sleepin’ it off between us.” the grin that stretches his mouth feels too sharp, his eyes glinting as he leans in, the heat of him unnervingly close, his bulk a deliberate intrusion into your space.

the image his words conjure arrives unbidden, sending a disorienting jolt down your spine. you see yourself there, curled against johnny’s chest, while another, hulking body melding to your back, presence suffocating and unwanted. the thought lingers for a heartbeat before it vanishes in a rush of disgust, leaving you like a dog with its hackles raised, bristling with the instinct to flee.

you shove past, wine sloshing perilously close to the rim as you go, his rasping chuckle drifting after you.

another hour passes in a blur, but you salute yourself—only a quarter-hour to freedom. problem is, all that wine’s caught up, and the door to the downstairs toilet has been locked for a stretch. you cast a casual glance around, your eyes tracking the shape of your persistent shadow, and find him finally occupied with the other john, his back turned to you for the first time all evening. it’s a quick, maybe ill-advised decision to slip upstairs, but you really have no choice. you have to pee before you leave, and besides, it’s a teensy fuck you to the man who’s followed you all night.

the music from downstairs hums through the floor, covering your movements just enough that you don’t bother to tiptoe.

their bedroom is unfamiliar, but johnny’s presence clings to the space in bits and pieces. a framed photo of johnny in his first uniform, his mother leaning against his arm. an old rugby medal, propped against a stack of books, a few of which you gifted him. on the wall beside the bed, a collage of photos: summers at the mactavish cottage, christmas dinners with both your families, johnny mid-laugh with his arm slung casually around your shoulders in more than one.

you spot an old toy soldier from the same set johnny used to make elaborate battles with when you were kids. it sits next to a half-empty bottle of expensive bourbon you don’t recognize, probably something simon probably picked out. the mixture of old and new, of johnny and simon, is dizzying. jealousy wells up in your chest. you were there for all those moments. you knew him when he played soldier in the garden, when he rolled his eyes through family holidays and snuck you out at dessert. you were the constant, long before simon’s shadow overtook everything.

you slink into the bathroom, eyes stinging and chest tightening. it’s the wine.

washing your hands, your eyes land on a half-empty bottle of cologne you don’t recognize. while the rideshare app spins uselessly, you take a whiff and hum. it’s johnny’s. you rub a fingertip over the atomizer, too paranoid to take even a quarter-spray. the residual will have to do. instead, you press a fingertip to the atomizer, then smear a trace behind your ear just as the app pings. finally.

you pull the door open, eyes trained on the app’s countdown and mind tangling with how to say goodbye to johnny. you don’t notice the figure outside until you step straight into it, a solid wall of muscle. you stagger, caught off guard, but before you can register what’s happening, he presses forward, steering you back inside the bathroom. your phone drops to the counter with a clatter. a hand smelling of smoke and salt clamps over your mouth.

“stop fussin’,” simon mutters, clipped with irritation. his fingers dig into your cheeks, forcing your jaw tight as he leans back just far enough to shut the door. you batter his chest with your fists, which he swiftly captures when he swivels back. “i said stop. need to chat.” 

your phone buzzes against the counter, the soft vibration loud against the marble. simon glances down, his expression darkening as he spots the car on the screen. with a tap of his thumb, he cancels the ride, lips curling into something that isn’t quite a smile. “sneakin’ out already? night’s young.”

your words are lost under his palm, protests garbled into nothing. heat flushes your face, humiliation prickling your skin as you try to twist free. glaring, you tell him how creepy he’s being, how weird he is, voice rising even though it’s barely audible. for a moment, his expression doesn’t shift, then something flickers behind his eyes, like a shark finding chum in the water. he leans in, his hips pinning yours, and his nose drags over where you’d rubbed the scent.

“you little thief,” he murmurs, voice thick with disdain. his hand eases just enough to let you speak.

“i thought it was johnny’s.” you finally say, throat tight, pulse fluttering at its base.

“it’s ours,” he sneers. “we share. everything.”

you scoff, the sound bitter in the small space between you. “you? don’t make me laugh.”

“what’s that supposed to mean?”

for a second, you stare in disbelief, chest heaving in shallow breaths. he still has you held against the counter, and you realize you smell it on him, too. 

you can’t have just this one thing.

word vomit comes out in a rush, spliced with the fury and frustration that’s been building all night, no, for months, mixed with the tang of cheap pinot. “you fucking stole johnny from me. he was my best friend, my johnny, before you. i’ve called him that my whole life. and then you—you show up, sap up all of his attention, and now he never has time for me. it’s never just me and him, you’re always fucking there.” the confession hangs in the air. it is more honest than you meant, but there is no going back.

simon tilts his head, looking down at you like he’s trying to figure something out, his hand firm under your jaw. his fingers press in, not quite hard, just enough to keep you there, and then he leans in close, his forehead nearly touching yours. you try to look away, eyes darting to the side, but he won’t let you.

“’s that what you need? johnny’s attention?” his thumb drags over the curve of your cheek, pressing until it hooks inside your mouth. “my attention?”

“no-awh! no’ yoursth!” 

your tongue brushes the pad of his thumb, a shudder rolling through you before you remember your teeth. he remembers too, yanking his thumb away just as your bite snaps shut, catching your tongue instead. you yelp, the sting immediate and hot.

he coos, low and mocking, his hand sealing over your mouth again. his weight presses you against the counter, pinning you effortlessly in place. your hands, useless against the unyielding plane of his chest, clutch at his forearm instead, desperate to free your face. then his knee jabs forward, knocking a muffled cry from your throat. the impact drives you onto your toes, the cupboard beneath you taking the blow and holding his knee steady, leaving you no choice but to remain perched, precarious and trembling, to avoid putting your weight on him.

“this ‘as been my problem with you since day one. you’re a dishonest and jealous woman. can’t be ‘appy for johnny. can’t be polite to me–”

you hiss and spit at that, outrage starting and stalling. he’s done nothing—as if he’s—unbelievable—but you’re wasting your breath, not merely because his stupid, meaty paw’s lodged over your mouth, but because it’s simon. two years in, and you know better. arguing with him is like shouting into the void. useless, exhausting. your calves burn from holding yourself up, thighs trembling under the strain, but he doesn’t let up, doesn’t ease an inch.

“always whining, always makin’ our boy feel like shit with your desperate, depressing texts–” his knee slides and nudges between your legs, finding the seam of your jeans. “–always runnin’ away from us, not letting it happen, be easy...”

your face finally turns, but he only leans in further, his forehead skimming yours, settling heavily against your temple. chapped lips graze your cheek, words spilling straight into your skin, warm air puffing through his nostrils like a beast. “trying to sneak out, makin’ me keep an eye on you all night…” you squeeze your eyes shut, heat crawling up your neck and over your scalp. this is bad. very bad. it’s johnny’s birthday, and his boyfriend has you cornered in the bathroom. your thoughts snarl in panic and guilt. you hardly register simon’s voice anymore, his lecture breaking into shards your brain can’t piece together.

until he says something that pierces the fog. growls it into your ear, close enough his tongue needlessly flicks the shell.

“i’m not ‘aving it anymore. you understand? you ain’t leavin’ tonight.”

simon unhurriedly tilts your head back, then presses you down onto his knee. you swallow hard, a noise catching somewhere deep and undignified. if he notices, he doesn’t let on.

“i’m gonna let go, and you’re gonna keep quiet. you’re gonna be a good girl, come back downstairs, and not go makin’ a scene. or do i need to spell out what ‘appens if ya don’t, or are ya as sharp as ‘e’s always makin’ out?”

you don’t need him to say it. the threat is there, in between your legs, and if you looked down, you’d see it between his, too. it doesn’t matter what you want. 

it doesn’t matter what simon wants, either, you think. if it did, you’d probably still be in the bathroom with him. 

he’s been abundantly clear. the only thing that matters is what johnny wants.

from where he sat you on the end of the bed, hands fidgeting in your lap, you glimpse movement through the cracked door. grunting. he told you to spit in his palm before he sent you out, and now you know why. his hand sounds slick and furious over his length. your stomach clenches, eyes watering from staring unblinkingly at the rug beneath your feet. you wonder if it’s not punishment but a prelude. or worse, his idea of a favor. a demonstration. as long as you’re good and quiet. as long as you stay.

when he comes, he’s nearly silent. a word or two gnashed between teeth in a whisper. a couple more pumps. then, the flush of the toilet and his zipper.

he doesn’t wash his hands. the animal.

simon lifts an eyebrow, and you scurry toward the door, though the snap of his tongue slows you. he stays a breath behind you as the warmth and noise of the party swallow you both whole, no one any wiser. instinctively, you angle left, toward the door, but his finger hooks through the back loop of your jeans, steering you elsewhere.

johnny’s in a merry state, glassy-eyed and slack-jawed, caught somewhere between shock and delight at seeing both of you settle beside him. you’re wedged in the middle on the couch, their solid thighs pressing yours. across the coffee table, the men you met earlier nod in your direction, and you return a stiff smile, pretending nothing’s amiss. johnny’s hand lands on your knee with a familiar squeeze, his grin boyish and lopsided. behind you, a heavier arm stretches across the back of the couch, simon’s fingers brushing your shoulder lightly. the scent of the cologne mingles with simon’s musk, wrinkling your nose.

johnny leans in, his voice an exaggerated whisper slurred at the edges. his eyes, wide and glassy, flit between the two of you with an almost childlike excitement.

“nice to see ye gettin’ along. just for me?”

simon chuckles. “told ya i’d be good, didn’t i?” his fingers curl beneath your collar, resting there. an ultimatum. “it’s a joint gift. ain’t that right?”

your eyebrows lift in a wider, strained smile.

“yep. happy birthday, johnny.”

[pricesbug]

“get off me, you sick fuck” 🤝 “say that again baby, i’m almost there”

[pricesbug]

exhusband!price thoughts </3

Something something you coming home from work. Your house feeling bigger and emptier than ever since you and your husband decided to take some time apart. His imposing beliefs and stifling rules had become too much for you. You felt like you couldn't breathe in your own home. You felt incredibly proud that you had finally stood up for yourself and John let you think you had gotten your way. He was kind and considerate like that. He didn't understand how you couldn't see that? He just wanted what was best for you. So he didn't understand why you screamed when he finally leaned out of the shadows of your living room, fine he had his pistol in his hand but it was more for show than anything dove. Calm down now, he just wants to talk. Talk about your future, together. You didn't think you got rid of him for good did you, dove? Don't be ridiculous.

[pricesbug]

cannibalism being a metaphor for love>>>

[pricesbug]

Obsessed

john price with his ‘jane doe’ reader.

you wake up in a bed thats not your own, in a house you know you can’t afford. at the end of that bed is a man, a disheveled stranger.

fear clouds confusion, as you wonder where you are, who you are.

he’s quick to reassure you, saying he found you by the river, an inch from death. he would’ve taken you to a hospital, but the closest one is nearly an hour out, and that was a risk he couldn’t take.

strangely enough, his words have a calming effect on you. despite having met him a mere minute ago, you can’t help but feel a sense of familiarity. a face that has no name, the john to your jane.

he offers you to stay with him while you recover, and while you’re tempted to say ‘no’, there’s no denying you can’t take care of yourself. hell, you don’t even know yourself.

so you say yes, and he promises to take care of you.

for as long as you need.

he leaves out the part about how he has been taking care of you, coming up on three months now. he didn’t know that slamming your head down on the ground would reset that memory of yours.

if he knew sooner, he wouldn’t have had to chase you through the woods.

still, it’s worth it, the concussion providing him with another chance. to make you truly his.

and if he so much as has an inkling that you’re starting to remember.

well, he knows what to do.

[pricesbug]

he just needs them to get together or something

based on <3

[pricesbug]

HUH??? Me?? Obsessed?? Yes.

[pricesbug]

had the thought 'i'd bet dollars to doughnuts that ghost is a real nasty drunk', and then things spiralled out of control and i wound up with this thing in my drafts for weeks so now i've slapdashed the ending and setting it loose to wreak havoc on all of you free

cw: noncon/rape, alcohol, unnegotiated breeding kink, breaking and entering, forced breeding, light choking, manipulation/gaslighting, kidnapping/imprisonment, handcuffs, use of the nickname 'daddy' (twice), don't use power tools when you're drunk please, extremely mid fic, blatantly unedited with an abrupt finish

simon's first night back from deployment is always the worst. consistently, every single time. normally, having him as a room mate is fantastic. he's gone more often than not, but when he is home he doesn't invite anyone over, does his dishes, doesn't make messes, and pays his share of the bills a month in advance. he readily agreed to pay a little more than half of rent simply because he made more money, allowing you to live in a part of town that's a lot closer to your work, and normally entirely out of your budget. he pays for half of all the groceries, not seeming to mind that he's deployed so much that he's only eating maybe a quarter of what he pays for. hell, if not for that first night back, you'd even go so far as to call him a perfect room mate.

one of your biggest problems is you never have any warning when he's back. if you knew, you'd stay at a hotel or maybe with friends, waiting out the 'just home from deployment' period, letting him work his shit out in private, far, far away from you. it's a jumpscare every time, a horror movie you're doomed to live through over and over and over again, simply because you can't afford to live anywhere else.

the silver lining the the cloud grows thinner and thinner with time, and by now it's simply an iridescent sheen. no amount of financial reliability or tidiness makes up for what he does to you when he's had a few drinks.

tonight, you're in your bedroom scrolling through a news article about an austrian man dying from being bitten on the dick by a venomous snake when you hear the front door open and slam shut in the way it always does when your room mate gets back. the sound of it makes you freeze, heart stopped in your chest and breath held in your lungs while you listen to his heavy bootsteps wander through the apartment. he's drunk, as per usual. you can tell by the unsteady pace of him meandering through the apartment, looking for you. his favorite post-deployment tradition is hitting the pub with his team, getting sloshed, and then hunting you down.

you quietly slide off the bed and lock your bedroom door, engaging all the new deadbolt you installed during this last deployment. maybe this time he'll give up. maybe he'll get bored and wander off to bed to sleep this off, or-

the doorknob jiggles uselessly right in front of your belly, and you hear the strain of the deadbolts as simon tries to walk in. on instinct you step back, away from the door, crawling into your bed and holding your pillow tightly to your chest for comfort as the door shakes in the frame.

"wot's oll this?" simon's voice rumbles, muffled from behind the door. it rattles twice in the frame, the new deadbolt holding fast. thank fuck you'd had the presence of mind to change out the door, going from a cheap hollow-cored piece of shit to a solid slab of wood hung by sturdy, thick hinges. still, the breath in your lungs is frozen in place- you don't dare make any sort of sound. maybe he'll get bored and go to sleep if you're quiet. maybe he'll think you aren't home. either way, best not to lock in the attention of the drunk, aggressive bear by making a sound.

he bangs with his fist a few times, making you fear for the structural integrity of the door with every blow. you hold both hands over your mouth to keep yourself from shrieking in fear. it's terrifying how much force is behind the strikes against solid wood. thank fuck hitting you isn't the thing he loves most.

"let me in, love. need my best girl tonight. not a proper 'omecomin' if you're not wrigglin' on my cock, is it?" he calls through the door, and you can just hear the mean smirk on his face. you don't reply, you just stare wide-eyed at the shadow of his feet from the crack under the door.

a few minutes pass, the silence on both sides of the door thick and oppressive. you want to leave, want to sleep, want to do anything but sit here frozen in fear, but you can't. your heart is beating too fast for you to think straight, and all you can do is sit perfectly still until you finally hear heavy footsteps amble away from the door and head down the hallway. your breath comes out in a shaking rush that you muffle with your pillow, and you feel cautiously optimistic. for the first time since moving in, you've been able to keep your drunken room mate off of you, and it feels like an unexpected victory.

relief and elation washed over you like a warm bath, cleansing and relaxing, allowing you to lie down and settle in for a good night sleep. you won, holy shit. you resolve that next time you should get a camera, record him trying to get in, the lewd things he says to you. maybe then you could show him when he's sober and get him to take it more seriously.

in the past, you've tried talking to him about it, but a mix of nerves, an aversion to confrontation, and a fear of being thrown out kept you from being as direct and forceful as you'd needed to be. you'd understated what he'd done, dancing around the world 'rape', and simon had just brushed off your concerns about his 'touchiness' and 'crossing of boundaries' as being a byproduct of having been in the field for so long, of treating you like a fellow soldier, and that while he was sorry if he 'swatted your arse or said somethin' about your tits', he couldn't promise it wouldn't happen the next time he went out for drinks with the lads. he'd explained that's just how soldiers are, and chided you mildly for not being considerate of the adjustment period soldiers go through when they come home...

but now that you've found a way to stay safe, created a sanctuary where even someone as big and strong as simon can't get in-

your thoughts grind to a screeching halt when you hear it- the loud buzz of an electric saw right outside your door. oh shit. oh shit oh shit oh shit. if he manages to get in, there's nowhere for you to run. you're on the third floor and it's just a straight drop down. the high squeal of the drill drops to a lower pitch as it chews through metal, and you start to wonder if this is just part of the price you pay to live here.

you watch in horror as what looks to be the end of an electric saw chews through the wood, looping around the deadbolts with ease, cutting them free from the door. sawdust falls to the floor, leaving a light powder on the carpet.

the door is pushed again, but still no dice. the doorknob still has a lock engaged, still keeping him out, though the shrill whine of a drill starting up lets you know that won't be for long. there's no hiding from him, apparently. he's more determined than you'd thought- you'd foolishly assumed he would give up after hitting a more solid obstacle other than the word 'no' and your futile attempts to fight him off. you always pull your punches, trying to walk the fine line between 'trying to get him off of you' and 'trying to not piss him off to escalate his violence against you'.

a grim resignation and despair comes over you when the drill stops, and your vision goes watery with unshed tears when you see simon poke the metal plate from the other side of the door. it's hard to hold back a flinch as the handle clatters loudly on the floor. a dark eye looks at you through the hole, corner creased in what you already know is a bleary smile.

"oh, good, you're up. get your knickers off." he slurs through the opening.

the door swings open, slamming against the wall with considerable force as simon's broad body fills the doorframe. he wastes no time whatsoever, pulling at his clothes as he marches to your bed. he doesn't bother kicking off his jeans, just opening them enough to fish his hard cock out of his boxers as he beelines towards you.

for a big man, he moves faster than he looks like he should be able to. the duvet is thrown off of you before you even have time to think, and the immovable mass of his big, heavy body presses you to the mattress when he crawls on top of you. it's difficult to breathe under him, like your lungs don't have the space to expand enough under his bulk. that in itself is already enough to send you into a panic, but pairing it with the way he clumsily shoves his knees between yours to make a space between your legs only amplifies it.

simon's breath is hot against your face, making your eyes sting with the sharp burn of alcohol. it's jarring how different a man simon is when he drinks. when he gets black out like this, he's a monster, an antagonistic demon that makes your life hell. every protest seems to spur him on further, make him more vicious, more joyous at being the one responsible for your ruin.

the next day is always a trip. he doesn't ever seem to remember what he's done, just nurses his hangover with a full english and apologizes for not doing the dishes right away because it's 'too bloody loud with my 'ead throbbin like this right now, i'll get to 'em tomorrow'. you'd tried to tell him once, you'd done a bad job of it, and would up apologizing to him in the end- so you let it drop. let it go. wrote it off as a jekyll and hyde situation, and began searching up how to diy a deadbolt installation and where to take judo lessons.

(it turns out that going to the hardware store is a lot cheaper and a significantly smaller time commitment than self defense classes.)

this is just routine for the two of you now- he comes home, gets drunk with his friends, hunts you down in your little apartment, pins you down and fucks you while you cry. there's nowhere cheaper to live in the city, and finding housing even without your strict budget is tough. until things turn around for you financially, there's just no way you can afford to go. so you grit your teeth, try your best to protect yourself, and bear it when you inevitably fail to fend off this giant, muscled military man.

"simon, no, don't-" you beg before a large hand on your throat cuts you off. he's not completely cutting off your air, but it is much harder to breathe with the web of his hand shoved against your trachea.

"don't be bloody difficult." simon snarls as you shake under his hold. "much fun as i 'ave when you play fight with me, i'm not in the mood tonight, olright? not tonight. now what did i say about these knickers?"

there's no time to react or protest before he's fishing a knife out of the pocket of his open jeans and cutting your panties and t-shirt off of your body. the flash of the blade makes you go still as a statue, holding your breath just to make yourself even more immobile. it's bad enough he's drunk and cutting up your clothes, you don't want him to slice you open, too.

simon makes surprisingly quick work of your clothes, leaving your splayed out naked with tatters of shredded cotton spread across the mattress. he whistles low, a sound of appreciation that makes your skin crawl. tears of frustration, fear, and despair quietly roll from the corners of your eyes, and the sight of them makes simon moan.

"fuck, you're so pretty when you cry. oll those tears f'me? just got ya leakin' oll over, don't i?" he asks, fisting out his hard cock and sliding it over your folds and clit in a way that has you gasping and squeaking. "yeah, thassit, already soakin' wet. pretty fucktoy, missed 'avin' ya wriggle on my cock. think you missed it too, yeah?"

there's no point in shaking your head or saying no, not that he gives you the chance. he doesn't care what you say, he's going to do whatever he wants to you, regardless of your input. before you can brace yourself, simon's pushing himself inside, fat cock bullying it's way into your pussy, stretching it uncomfortably as he rocks himself deeper and deeper. the sound that's pushed out from your body is less a moan than a whimper, something small, pathetic, helpless.

simon fucking loves it.

"nearly forgot about oll the pretty little sounds you make. shit, been dreamin' of this cunt f'weeks now. even better than i remembered, love. s'fuckin' tight." he slurs, the alcohol on his breath stinging your nose as you smell it. christ, you'd think it'd wear down of wear off faster. you'd swear he could breathe out a fireball if you only had a match.

there's no easing into it, no gentle acclimation before simon's snapping his hips with ferocity, big hands planted on your shoulders to keep you pinned down. tears continue to flow as he punches out breathy ah! ah! ah!s from your body, fucking you as roughly as he pleases.

this is the worst part, when you feel your traitorous body gives in to him. it would be so much easier for you to deal with emotionally if he didn't consistently nail that spot deep inside of you that makes you see stars, grinding himself against your clit on every stroke. you resent the way your breath hitches and your fingers grip the bedsheets, how your eyes start to roll back while your pussy clamps down on him like a vice so you can feel every solid, veiny inch of him. it's unintended encouragement, spurring him on as he uses you like a human fleshlight.

even as roughly as he's fucking you, as scared and high-strung as you are tonight, it all seems to melt down like shards of glass in a white-hot crucible, ready to be reformed in whatever image simon wants.

you can feel yourself get closer and closer, your muscles twitching in anticipation under the soft layer of fat that simon's fingers are dug so deeply into. he can feel it, of course he can, and you hate the mean smirk that spreads wide over his pock-marked jaw.

"there you go. gettin' close. you missed me too, eh?" he chuckles breathlessly above you, licking at the pad of his thumb before using it to pluck at your nipple. the sound of your resulting squeak just makes his smile a little sharper, his thrusts a little rougher, and his grip on your soft shoulders a little tighter.

"fuck, we should do this more often. can't get enough of 'ow you jiggle 'round under me. should put you on your knees next time, make you fuck yourself on my cock. love the way that big arse bounces offa me." simon murmurs, breathing his filth directly into your ear. he gives you one last grind against your clit before you're off like a rocket.

when you cum, hits like lightning. everything whites out for a minute as every muscle in your body seems to be activated. the sound of your own animalistic scream is barely audible over the loud thudding of your own pulse in your ears. simon's cock feels even bigger as you squeeze down on it, the surprise of it knocking him off-rhythmn for a moment as you clamp around him.

"shit, pussy's gonna make me fuckin' nut." he grunts, adjusting his hands to grab at your soft hips as he picks up the pace. "m'gonna knock you up. you'll never be rid o'me then. no matter what else 'appens, people will always know you as 'the girl who 'ad ghost's baby'."

that pulls you out of your post-orgasm haze like a bucket of ice water's been thrown over you. you chew your lips as you try to bite back your panic. it's fine, it's okay, you can fix this, you tell yourself. you'll go to the clinic in the morning and see what options are available to you. plan b doesn't work on girls your size, but surely there's something else that can help dig you out of this?

"come on, you know what to do. say it." simon says through grit teeth. he's really close, then. it's like he can't cum unless you say the worst three words in the world.

"w-welcome home, daddy." you force the words unwillingly past your lips, the last of your tears drying on your cheeks, making your face feel tight. it's hard not to feel disgusting, like there's a layer of grime on you that desperately needs scrubbed clean.

"bloody fuckin' 'ell." he groans as he tilts his head back, scarred lips curled into a cruel looking sneer. "gonna-"

with a loud grunt, simon goes still, buried to the hilt inside of you. under any other circumstances, the way his cock seems to pulse inside of you while he fills you up would be hot. as it is, your nose wrinkles and you turn your head to bury it in the crook of your elbow, hiding yourself from the world as you process your shame.

simon pulls out abruptly, and you don't look as the weight on the mattress shifts when he lets go of you. it's silent again, no sounds but the cars outside. a harsh reminder that no matter what happens in this apartment, this bedroom, this bed- nobody out there cares at all. the world will keep turning, whether you're happy or not.

turning your head, you stare at the ceiling through watery eyes, letting the pattern continue as it always does- with a round of teary self-loathing as sweat cools on your skin, cum leaks from between your thighs, and you try to catch your breath. you weren't forceful enough, your orgasm led him on, you're bad at setting bounda- the unexpected press of a thick finger against your sensitive, fucked- out pussy startles you out of your shame spiral and you scramble to sit up.

"what are you doing?!" you yelp. simon continues to run his finger across your folds, pushing his spend back into your cunt as he anchors you with a solid grip on your knee.

"putting my cum back where it belongs. can't be wastin' it if we're gonna 'ave a baby, love." he says matter-of-factly, like he's telling you that water is wet. "warnin' you now: rileys have big babies. not gonna be an easy time f'you, but i'll take real good care of you, mama. you know i will."

you can't stifle the flinch when he reaches out to pet over your hair. the most he reacts to it is a small chuckle, like you're just some silly thing he's indulging.

"no- simon- wait- look, you don't want this. you don't. this is just the liquor talking, in the morning you'll feel differently, please-" the words tumble out of you, and you already know how foolish you sound to him. he's drunk, he isn't going to listen to you, you'll just have to wait until morning when he's sober to tell him that you're considering leaving, that what he does when he's drunk is too much for you to handle anymore-

"oh. i see. you think this isn't about you. you think this is just the bourbon, is that right?" he asks, his mocking tone bringing your racing thoughts to a grinding halt. when you nod slowly, his laugh sounds mean. "nah, love. i've been behavin' myself when i'm sober is oll. if i didn't, you'd move out, wouldn't ya? gotta play nice, or the pretty dolly will run far away. just kept my bad 'abits t'when i was fresh off mission, and because you're such an understandin', sweet thing, everythin' was peachy. but that-" he points at the broken lock on the door. "-tells me it's time to move to phase two."

he dips his pointing hand into his back pocket and quickly brandishes handcuffs that barely have a chance to glint in the dim light of your bedroom before being secured around one wrist and your bedframe.

"simon, wait- no- i don't understand-"

"meant what i said 'bout knockin' you up. can't 'ave you doin' something stupid, like runnin' to the clinic." he smirks at the look of abject despair on your face. "oh, you thought i was kiddin', eh? just a drunk man talkin' out 'is arse? well, i wasn't, not about any of it. i'm not satisfied with our current arrangement, so it's time to change it up and take what's mine."

"i'm not yours!" tears stream down your face as you raise your voice at him, the handcuffs clanging loudly against the bedframe when you yank your wrist to test how secure they are.

he cocks his head and looks at you curiously, like you just said the sky is green. he squints at you as he pulls his jeans all the way off and gets back on the mattress, kneewalking slowly towards you.

"what are you fuckin' talkin' about? yes, you bloody are. you always 'ave been, ever since you moved in 'ere. you've been my woman since you signed your name under mine on the lease- i just gotta lock you down, that's oll. put a ring on you and a baby in you. make your body carve out a space in itself for my kid. that'll keep you 'ere, keep you waitin' f'me." simon crawls on top of you again, pushing your shoulders back down against the mattress, big hands petting down the broad rolls of your sides, digging his fingers into your hips, ass, and thighs.

your brain feels like a blender, a cacophonous blur of colliding thoughts being lacerated into paste by the sharp edges of his words. through the haze of your terror, confusion, and uncertainty, one thought is still clear: this isn't a drunken mistake. his breath might reek of alcohol, but he knows what he's doing. this hasn't been a pattern because of simple post-deployment routine, it's been a pattern because it's his plan.

"i still don't understand." you tell him, voice shaking. it's not the whole truth, you think you get what he's after, but it's just so outrageous that you need it confirmed: he thinks he owns you, and wants to solidify that nebulous sense of ownership by forcing you to have his kids.

"don't 'ave t'understand. just need you to keep bein' my good girl and make me a daddy." he murmurs as he settles his weight on top of you, pulling the duvet up and over both of you. "now sleep, and we'll try again in the mornin'. and the afternoon, and the early evenin', and that night. over and over til it takes."

he chuckles to himself as he settles down on top of you, his head on your chest, face nuzzles against the soft fat of your tit. between the handcuff that bites against the tender skin of your wrist and the way his body pins yours down, immobilized against the mattress, there's no chance of escaping. the weight of everything you're been subject to, everything you've learned, and the prospect of a new and worse future for yourself feels like it's crushing your soul to death. you're trapped, frozen by physical restraint and mental exhaustion. when unconsciousness finally creeps up on you, it's nothing short of a mercy.

[pricesbug]

Oh this one’s going in the brain vault for sure.

[pricesbug]

Simon 'Ghost' Riley

[pricesbug]

something about Soap fucking graves' partner and telling them something along the lines of fucking you better than that 'filthy American cock'

[pricesbug]

Unhinged!reader (self insert) with a mellow!simon is stuck in my brain today. OR UGH even better unhinged!reader with mellow!simon AND mellow!johnny god I’m obsessed. Imagine being out in public and someone looks at your boys wrong, Simon immediately knowing you’re about to say something placing a calloused hand on the back of your neck to ground you. THE BRAIN WORMS ARE WORMING.

[pricesbug]

john price with his new bride sat her knees on their wedding night. staring through the lace of her veil as she takes him to the root beneath it. listening to her gag on it and his own ragged breathing. he settles his ring hand atop her head, the gold band catching the light just so. that’s a good wife.