Price is a horrible person to raise a child with. You have a little girl together, barely a few months into being four, and she eats perfectly healthy. You make everything homemade from apple sauce to curry, using only the highest quality ingredients you can get your hands on. And that’s exactly how Price wants it.
“All those preservatives are bad for the body, yeah?” Price will say, bouncing your daughter in his arms just to hear her squeal. She’s four, she barely understands what food actually is other than something to fill her belly.
But there’s just…..one thing. Your little girl loves boxed mac. She doesn’t get it often, maybe once every month or two. And sure it looks like wet cardboard but she eats it and is happy, and every parent knows that no matter how much you want to feed your child only the best, sometimes you just need that one thing to feed them that is utter junk because you’re sore or tired or just completely at your wit’s end on what to cook.
And Price hates it. Hates it with the same passion that he hates loud bangs and people driving like idiots on the road. He gives the boxes to neighbors, to food banks, anywhere but in your cabinets and you actually have to resort to hiding them in a shoebox in your closet like you’re a child with a stolen toy.
You find a way to sneak it in, your daughter loves it, your husband hates it.
Until one day he takes baby to his mom’s and comes back looking entirely too pleased with himself while she’s all wide eyed with smears of cheese on the corners of her mouth. Your heart sinks into your stomach and then all the way down to your feet before she even speaks. And when she does she goes on for what feels like forever about how Nana had made her fresh mac and cheese and it was so yummy!
You’re staring at Price, he’s smiling back. You both know you’re fucked now because you have the one child in the world who prefers actual food over cheap garbage and there is no way to undo what he just did. She’s never going to eat boxed mac anymore now that’s she had the homemade alternative.
Price is happy, your daughter is happy, and you’re contemplating keying the new paint on his precious motorcycle.
Ghost desperately needs to fuck his client. (You) pt. 4
tags | plug! Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x reader, smoking, weed, smut, explicit sexual content, oral sex male receiving, mating press, not edited, my current brain worm
prev. part | plug! Simon masterlist
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‘You happen to have any blue razz papers?’
‘You? Blue razz? Since when?’
‘For my friends. Pleassseeee??’
There’s a shitty meme attached, a small hamster with big teary eyes. He snorts.
‘I’ll drop by in a few.’
You open the door in a tank top and pajama shorts and give him the prettiest smile he’s ever seen. He’s immediately hard against the teeth of his zipper.
“Hi!” You greet.
“Hi, bird.”
Your fingers find his wrist, pulling him into your house with a giggle. You sit him on the couch and he leans back against the cushions when you pull your coffee table closer, big thighs parted wide so you’re pressed against his side.
“Can I roll them?” You ask, looking over your shoulder.
“Go ahead.” He nods.
You start to break off the stems piece by piece.
“You don’t got a grinder?” He asks.
“No,” You reply bashfully, “You always roll for me.”
“Mmh,” His hand curls loosely around your hip, fingers sneaking under the hem of your shirt, “I’ll get you one.”
He watches your teeth show slightly, but your attention is trained on your hands. You don’t look at him again until you’ve filled the joint.
“Too much?” You ask, holding it out to him.
He nods, “Yeah, take some out.”
You turn your attention to the table again, and he pulls you to his lap, a few buds falling to the table at the motion.
“You’re gonna distract me.” You murmur, but you don’t move.
He hums, pressing his lips to your shoulder, “Jus’ ignore me then.”
You scoff quietly, but press your tongue to the roof of your mouth anyway.
He noses along the curve of your neck, stamping a kiss to the jut of your jaw. Your lashes flutter, just for a second, before you furrow your brows in determination. He smirks against your skin because it’s cute, you’re fucking cute.
You just showered he can smell the vanilla body wash on your skin and he likes to think you did just for him. He presses kisses down your neck, small pecks that shouldn’t really do anything for you, but they’re teasing and his stubble is tickling you ever so slightly and it sends shivers down your spine. His hand is still at your hip, smoothing circles just above the seams of your shorts and the joint in your fingers is becoming less and less important.
His free hand comes up to guide your hands because you gave up on rolling somewhere between it all, and let your head fall back onto his shoulder when he took your skin between his teeth and sucked softly.
“Keep goin’.” He tuts, nudging his shoulder lightly, so your head falls forward again.
You’re not any good at rolling without his hands on you as it.
He helps you though, directing your thumbs with his until it’s time to seal it. He brings it to your lips then and your tongue darts out without hesitation. He watches with heavy eyes, licking his own lips with your slow drag.
You hold the joint up, a proud smile on your lips, “Thank you.”
And his patience’s just about worn thin.
He tosses it to the table, opting to pull your back flush against his chest in one swift motion. One hand pulls the hem of your tank top under your breasts and god you have no fucking bra on, and he swears he could finish just like this; one hand kneading your tits while your pert little ass rests on his cock.
You make a squeak when you feel his cock, fingers scrambling to his wrists from the sudden reveal of your breasts. His other hand slips between your shorts and underwear, eyes closing into a groan because are you always going to be this fucking wet for him?
You stop him then, “Simon, I can’t. My friends will be over soon.”
He retracts his hand with a frown, his fingers coming up glistening with your arousal. And just like it’s nothing, he shoved them into his mouth, sucking you clean off his fingers. You stare at him wide-eyed as he lifts you off his lap and kisses you goodbye as if that didn’t leave you wanting and clenching.
You present the joints to your friends that night, a bright smile on your lips.
“Look what I got.”
“You rolled those?” One of your friends asks, surprised.
“No Si-uh Ghost did it for me.” You reply.
They both raise their brows at you, “Ghost rolled joints for you?”
You pause your movements, looking between the two of them. “Why are you guys looking at me like that? He always rolls for me!”
“Ghost like the drug dealer Ghost?” The other deadpans.
You laugh, “Yes? That Ghost.”
“Didn’t even know he had flavored joints.” One says, rolling the blue joint between her fingers.
“He doesn’t!” The other exclaims, “I’ve asked him!”
“What? He always has strawberry papers for me.” You frown.
“How much does he charge you?”
You tilt your head, squinting, “Uh-nothing?”
They both burst out laughing, rolling on the floor like it’s the funniest thing. The back of your neck just warms because you don’t know what they find so funny.
You’re sat on his floor in front of his coffee table a few days later because you insisted you rolled again. He’s sat behind you on his couch, legs either side of your frame.
You lean your head back into his lap each time he goes to pass the joint to you with a soft giggle, his fingers curling around your jaw to place the tip between your lips. He indulges himself and steals a kiss each time. It’s an awkward angle to kiss you at, but it makes you scrunch your nose and attempt to hide the smile that forms on your lips.
A peck with each new hit turns into a wet stamp which turns into a lingering kiss that has far more intention than to make you smile. You’ve forgotten the joint at this point, turning so that you face him now, sat on the heels of your feet. You watch him take another hit, blowing the smoke into thick rings before he slides lower on the couch, parting his thighs wide, and tilts his head at you.
Your eyes flicker to his lap, just for a second, before they find his again, and a smirk breaks out on his face. You don’t even ask, you make quick work of his sweats, freeing his cock from the confines of his boxers. It stands tall, he’s been hard since the moment you walked through the door, and you sitting pretty between his thighs definitely didn’t help.
You grab him so gently it makes him clench his jaw, fingers barely touch in the middle around him. You jerk him once, soft fingers coming up to swipe at the precum that dribbled from the tip. Your lips find him next, pressing a small peck to it that makes him breathe a laugh.
He’s been sucked off before, but there’s something about you, lips mapping wet drags along his length that has him sucking his teeth. And when you find your way back to his head, taking him between your lips, he lets out a low groan.
He wills himself to watch, as much as it makes him want to finish, because he’s not missing the way your lips spread around him or the way your brows furrow because you can barely fit him. You take more and more of him with each draw of your head, slowly filling your mouth with him until you can’t take anymore.
He takes a slow drag of the joint when you come back up to gasp for air, filling the room with more smoke. His head drops back against the couch when you take him whole again, nose just barely brushing against his pelvis. He takes another puff of the joint, sagging even more into the couch with his cock pressed to the back of your throat.
Maybe that annoys you, smoking the joint like you don’t have his cock in your mouth because you bob back up swiftly before gliding to the hilt again. He almost keels over at that, hand flying to the back of your neck.
“Sorry, baby.” He murmurs, leaning over you to reach the table and smush the joint out.
You make a gurgled sound at the compromised position, his hand holding you in place, fidgeting on your knees because it presses him deeper impossibly so.
“Want all my attention on you huh?” He hums when he leans back.
You glare at him, but there are tears at the corners of your lashes and it’s hard to take it as a threat when you look at him all wet like that.
“Look real pretty like this.”
That seems to lessen the blow because your eyes get all soft, just for a second.
“With my cock in your mouth.”
You choke around him then, hands coming up to dig into his thigh.
“Bout time, don’t you think?” He says, tapping your cheek with his thumbs, and he can fucking feel his cock in your mouth, “Been wanting these lips around me since you got your lip gloss on that joint.”
You give him a pathetic look, whining around his cock and it sends a shiver up his spine. His hips thrust once, shallowly, because he can’t stop himself when you look at him like that, when one of your hands leaves his thighs to slip into your panties, and brush against your neglected clit.
Your eyes widen, pulling away to gasp for air. A thick string of your saliva follows, your chins wet with him, and he would love to finish in your throat, or paint your face, but he's decided he needs to be inside you then and there.
He lifts you up with ease, and you squeak in shock because you were expecting him to finish like that. Except he’s walking you to his room and places you on the edge of the bed.
“What are yo-“ You start, but then your shorts and underwear are on the floor, and your knees are pressed to the mattress.
“Simon!” You shriek.
He just ignores you, heavy cock smacking against your pussy, and he takes a moment to fuck against your folds, groaning deep because you’re fucking soaked through and all you did was suck him off.
The glide is easy when he finally pops through from how wet you are, and it feels like sliding home. You make a high-pitched sound and he stores it in the cavity of his chest. His big hands curl around your ass, holding you from falling off the edge of the bed before he slams his hips forward.
You cry out, but the first thrust is nothing like the onslaught of strokes he fucks into you. Hips smacking against your ass, and your fucking pussy talks to him, squelching loudly with each thrust, walls clinging to his shaft so he can’t slip out and leave you empty.
When he looks at you, you’ve got his name on your lips, a fucked expression on your brows, and he has to lean over and kiss you. It’s sweet compared to the way his cock fucks into you and he wonders when your relationship became more than just casually fucking.
Or like, Reader who’s not even meant to be in the military. Or in fact, you’re just some sort of personal. Government Hooker, as in, this is one way to work off the crime you committed is to work as a military dog.
Fetch and retrieve. Usually as the go to get away driver, the escort.
Today it’s the task force 141.
Just a pick up and drop off.
And you heard they’re all big and strong, 700 pounds in total, an entanglement you pray to be far away from just from hearing how well they work together, how they’re so close knit, it gives you a weird taste in your mouth. Jealousy? You’re not opening any cans anytime soon. They all pile in the large black SUV at the airport after getting their luggage inside.
Ghost in the passenger side while the other three men in the backseat. John clears his throat, gives a smile, “Laswell said you’re the one to pick us up, it’s nice to meet you love.”
You give an unamused hum, ignoring the friendly look he’s giving you in the rearview mirror and looking towards the traffic filled airport. You tap your finger on the steering wheel, “Seatbelts.”
Gaz and Soap exchange look, Soap shrugs his shoulders, “Maybe she’s shy?”
“Looks like she doesn’t want t’ be here mate.” Gaz chuckles, trying to ease the tension.
And even in the awkwardness, it’s enough for you to turn the music up and whip out of the parking spot, the last moments of peace before you turn a 45 minute drive to the army base into a 25 minute one. Switching lanes as if you’re too indecisive, one arm rested on the car door mindlessly, while you drive with one hand, lightly humming along to the music as the backseat is filled with screams and groans. Sure Soap has threatened to throw up, Gaz holding onto dear life as John tries to get you to slow down, all while Ghost is laughing up a storm as he sits in the passenger seat, unsure if this was an attempt on all of their lives or your just pure hell on the road.
But you make it to base in one piece, Soap does throw up in the parking lot and John is already yelling up a storm about the dangers of the road but you’re not really listening. Not even when Kate comes to get you guys for the meeting that was set to be had, John is red in the face, Gaz is simply worried that you’ll actually be working under them, Soaps fanning his face while cursing up a storm and you can hear the amusement in Ghosts voice. All while you’re yawning and picking at your ear.
Kate can only sigh, asking you to wait outside for a brief moment. You oblige with a huff, door shutting behind you.
“John-“
“-Kate I’m not putting my team through another hell with her-“
“You dont have much of a choice here John, the only way to take down these guys is through her.”
“Through her?” Gaz asks, he takes a beat, “Do you mean-“
“I can’t say whether she worked for or against them-“ Kate pushes through the eruption of grumbles, “But it was either help the special forces, or jail for the rest of her life. I’m sure you know which option would best suit someone like her.”
Kate sighs, “So if you’d please suck it up, she’s a good get away driver— in her file for that. [+]’s driven Shepherd around, you’re in good hands.”
“My fucking arse-“
“[+], if you could come back in!” Kate raises her voice just enough for you to hear outside the door. Before you can step too far in Kates words cut through the air, “and if you could please return their wallets, I would greatly appreciate it.”
You let out another sigh, wallet after wallet plopping onto the table. You shrug while taking a seat “I don’t know who the hell you guys are either.”
“You’re shitting.”
“Yer mental Kate.”
“She’s funny, this one is, yeah?”
“Kate seriously—“
a/n: nothing burger, I’m getting some shit out my drafts
Simon Riley who’s been in a coma for the past 3 months but he does know your voice like the back of his hand.
It was a swift incident that lead him in the hospital, a sure accident from one of the men under him that Simon had to take care of, that lead him getting flown to the nearest country over. His conscious wasn’t fully awake but you, oh you and that honey sweet voice of yours, came to help him. A nurse, just working your night shift. Something about coma patients needing stimulation, be it working his muscles, or just hearing someone’s voice. You weren’t all that confident about this shit, you told him letting out an exasperated laugh, “I’ll try my best though. Maybe it’ll be good for the both ‘f us, yeah honey?”
You were always telling him the latest gossip at the nurses station downstairs, that someone was fucking the doctors husband. Or that Regina McKnight, tall with the pole on the side of her lip, was having a fifth kid, her fifth! And you just couldn’t believe it when her husband came for a vasectomy not too long ago. Or you’re talking about the things you like, the music you’ve been into, even played him a couple songs. How life in your twenties isn’t what you expected it to be. It’s all confusing and you don’t know if it’ll get any less confusing, but you’re living it out. You’ll go on about how the weather is starting to chance, the snow is melting, bare trees slowly starting to grow green leaves, that the flowers are starting to sprout. That you can’t wait till all the pretty flowers are there instead of the cloudy and dreary weather.
Oh! There a plant you’d brought from home compliments the cards he’s gotten from his teammates. You’d made the little pot yourself— well it was a mug but it’s cute, a maroon and soft turquoise around the edges. Absolutely sure Simon would like to see it when he woke up.
When Simon Riley wakes up, you’re in the chair next to him humming some jazz song, coloring in some page with the crayons that were at the bedside table. And, bloody hell, you’re a sight for sore eyes. Very literally. Curls into two buns, with stray curls in the front of your face, the soft but warm hue of the light on your skin, long lashes fluttering everytime you blink, in your almond green scrubs, chipped nail polish. You inspect the page, turning it to him for him to see, a skull with flowers around it. A sign— “I’m thinking blue for some of these, what’d’you think?”
And you shoot up when you catch his eyes on you, whiskey brown, and the ends of his eyes crinkling. Practically laughing at you as you panic and mumble curse up a storm, pushing the emergency button for a doctor and head nurse to come assist you. It’s you, it’s you, it’s you.
The brute of a man can’t help but blush red when you interact with him now, heart rate spiking on the monitor. It makes you huff, because it only happens when you’re there, “If I run ‘nd show someone else they’ll say I’m fibbing, but what if somethings actually wrong with your heart? Atleast be consistent with me man.” You’re what’s wrong with his heart. You’ve started averting your eyes in embarrassment for all the things you must’ve said. You pray he didn’t really listen to you blabbing on and on.
He catches you one day, after the long days of speech and physical therapy, 3 am check in. The tv’s playing low, and you’re just checking his chart, “How are you today Mr. Riley? Feelin alright? Know it’s late.”
He contemplates your words for a moment, “Still… still listenin t’ The Smiths?”
You bite back a smile but heat radiates under your cheeks, nodding, “Uh- yeah, yeah. Them ‘nd the Foo Fighters.” You rock on your heels of your feet.
“And… m, ‘SZA’, is it? ‘Men I Trust’—“
“—Oh my god, I’m talkin too much!” You interject, smack your hand over your face, giggling. “I’m sorry, fuck- I mean not ‘fuck’- but- darn!”
And you’ve managed to pull a chuckles right from his gut, “‘s alright, ‘ve heard worse.”
You wince, “but I’ve just gone ‘nd on and on in here. Should’ve stopped me.” You joke.
“I wouldn’t’ve. Even now, I wouldn’t. You’ve been…absolutely perfect to me love.” And it’s such a shift in energy, his words shooting right though you like cupids arrow hitting its target. Your lips part slightly sucking in a breath as you almost get lost in his eyes, his handsomely scared face. Muscles in his gown.
Before you retreat out of the room to collect yourself, he catches you, “Mind helpin me out with a favor?”
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
“I hear smoking helps warm people up.”
“Honestly, I shouldn’t even have you out here. You’re still recovering Mr.Riley!”
“This’ll ‘elp me doll, trust me.”
Simon managed to get you to take him to the hospital courtyard. It’s where a lot of the patients or workers take a smoke break, others to take a breath of fresh air or to mourn the loss of a loved one. The older bastard can’t help himself, when’s the last time he had a good cigarette? And you’re his good little nurse. Headstrong but caring. Especially for him. Every second with you he can’t get enough.
Even when you had your eyebrows knitted together and pouting, helping him into the wheelchair after snagging the pack he liked the most from the corner store a block away.
Your hands are stuffed in your coat pocket, bouncing slightly trying your best to warm yourself up. Simons used to it, even if he hasn’t been in the best shape, how many nights had he been in the middle of now here during a winter storm, his skin has grown thick. Bruised and shot up, but there— alive.
You’re different. Slightly calloused hands from the job, but being outside in the cold, it’s just not your forte.
“If you come ‘ere, I can help warm y’ up y’know.” Simon suggests. It’s the ever shimmer of mischief in your eye, one that you’ve seen countless times with patients, but it’s different— tender, tantalizing. One that’s got goosebumps shooting up your arms.
You bite the inside of your lip, watching him bring the nicotine to his lips once more, “How so?”
“In my lap of course.” Simon snickers, watching the way you groan in annoyance. Eyes rolling.
You lick your lips, watching your breath create fog in the air and mix with the smoke Simon is blowing out, “I can’t do that, you’re a patient of this hospital.”
“And when ‘m not a patient?”
Youre eyes wander for a moment, to the street as cars pass, the other end of the hospital building, feet moving on their own just until you’re right in front of the military man. Your knees knocking against his. “Then maybe.”
And god you’re gorgeous, to the point he almost drops his cigarette, looking up at you like you’re some goddess from heaven in the moon and street lights. That doe look in your pretty brown eyes.
He lets out another laugh, exhaling, “You’re a bloody good teaser aren’t you.”
“How am I teasing?”
And the small smoke break gets him your number, you telling him only to call once he’s been discharged, drawing any word he can before you have to finish your rounds. More than mystified with the thought of you.
Had to get his little nurse into his life.
a/n: shite end I’m sorry. Was gonna make this into two parts but just pushed them into one.
You give him a small, unsure, and timid smile; offering a soft hello in a voice so sweet he wants to wedge it between his teeth and bite down. Sink his cuspids into the curve of your neck and taste the pulse beneath.
He wants to ruin you just like he ruins everything else in the world.
Price built you into a girl desperate enough to take warmth from the first hands that offered. Unfortunately for everyone, Makarov happened to extend his hand first.
Or; Some stones, once thrown, never stop making ripples.
ao3 link
Content warning: DDDNE, dark content, heavy angst, psychological trauma, graphic depictions of violence, potentially triggering content, depictions of trauma and recovery, hurt/comfort, Stockholm syndrome, suicide attempt, pregnancy/breeding trope, drug use, canon-typical violence, misogyny, found family (eventually), the story gets worse before it gets better- it does get better I promise! I just gotta make you suffer first; reader is a teen and therefore has an immature mindset and is an unreliable narrator
Staying Still
masterlist
John Price/female reader
cw: brief sexual content
“Last chance.” He murmurs in your ear, beard brushing your skin. “You sure you don’t want to tap out princess?” You swallow.
“I’m not a quitter.” Your voice trembles, even against your best efforts to keep it steady.
This was supposed to be a joke. A test. A game of chicken you won.
It wasn’t supposed to be… this.
John looks you, blue eyes still bright in the low neon lights of the chapel. You’ve studied his face a thousand times, but you’ve never seen him look like this. A reverence soaked with intensity, limerence.
It must be the alcohol. The night turned morning. This train rapidly careening off the tracks.
The two of you caught up in a dare, caught up in each other, if only for this fleeting moment.
He searches your eyes one last time, and then nods at the Elvis impersonator who’s standing quietly at your side.
“We’re ready.”
Your hand feels heavier.
Which is strange, because why would that be?
There’s sunlight streaming in through the window across the bed, across your face, and you fling your arm over your eyes, trying to block it out, ward off the hangover migraine you can already feel coming.
Jesus Christ, what the hell happened last ni-
“Oh my god.” You shoot straight up in bed, sheets pooling at your waist. The sudden movement has the room spinning, and your hand, your heavy hand, folds down onto the mattress for support, entire body aching. Bones rigid, muscles sore, everything stiff… and sticky between your legs. “Oh my god.” You’re alone in bed, but not the room. The shower is on in the bathroom, steam rolling out from beneath the door, and for a long second, you wonder if you hallucinated the whole thing. If you dreamed it.
No.
The proof, undeniable, blatant, shiny… is sitting on your finger.
“Holy fuck.”
An empty, tipped over champagne bottle catches your eye. Next to it? Your underwear. You’re stark naked beneath the sheets, and when you run your fingers over your face, you feel the telltale hardened sprawl of lashes. You didn’t even wash your makeup off.
But all of that pales in comparison to what happened last night. What you think happened last night.
The ring sparkles at you, mocks you. You try not to dwell on the face that it’s huge, something purchased at one of the high end jewelry stores in one of the hotels. It’s flashy. Multiple carats. Perfect clarity. It’s what every girl wants.
Except you.
Take one look at this ring and it says exactly what you would except. It belongs to a spoiled brat. A girl gone wild, a material girl, a fake, pretty, plastic barbie doll.
The ring brandishes the ugliest truth at you, one you can’t escape.
This is how he sees you.
The shower stops. There’s the sound of a drawer, movement, and you’re split down the middle, debating grabbing all your clothes and making a run for it, or hiding under the bed.
You don’t have time to consider either. As soon as you start to roll towards where your bra lays on the floor, the door creaks… and then he’s there. In jeans, without a shirt on, watching you with crossed arms. Your throat dries, lips parting for words that won’t come out. There isn’t a cohesive thought in your head.
Run. Hide. Sprint out the door and onto a plane.
This… this is wrong.
This is your crush gone rancid, desire turned foul. Tarnished by a farce, something fake and vapid, something not meant to last.
A wedding in Vegas.
How cliche.
Your wildest, hopeful dreams would have been to be with John for one day, just for a night and nothing more.
Now you’ve turned it into a mess. A reflection of yourself.
His gaze drops to the ring, and your stomach flips hard.
He doesn’t smile, or frown, or sigh. He just holds steady focus, his laser precision studying her hand like it’s a puzzle.
“Uh, hi.” Your voice cracks, and she finally exhales.
“Oh Ava. What am I going to do with you.”
“Well…” you gesture to the room, its trashed state, the tipped over bottle. “We can… pretend this never happened?” His eyes narrow.
“We can’t.” You’re not sure you’ve ever heard him so serious.
“Okay,” you say, fast. “Okay that’s fine. We can undo it, right? We… this… this happened but it was just a drunken mistake. A crazy, drunken Vegas mistake.” You’re not sure who you’re talking to now, him or you. You add a half hearted laugh, perfectly crafted, but it doesn’t hit.
John’s jaw tightens. It’s subtle, but you see it, just like you always see him. Everywhere. In a room, down the hallway, you feel him around every corner, in every stairwell. Everywhere.
His eyes don’t leave you, and the look in them isn’t desire, or hunger, or something close to carnal. Nothing like they were last night. That’s one thing you can remember. His eyes. Heavy, heated, possessive. Looking up at you from between your legs as his tongue rolled over your clit and you came. Looking at you like he wanted you. Like this wasn’t just a dare, a fluke, a mistake.
But he’s not looking at you like that now. No. Right now, his eyes are clinical. Assessing, diagnosing.
“Ava.” Your shoulders rise to your ears instinctively.
“I didn’t mean…” you start with a whisper, but stop. This is your fault, you know. You took it too far, couldn’t control yourself, couldn’t not take the bait, push it to the limit. You’ve poisoned whatever it was between the two of you. You’ve ruined it. “I… it’s fine. We can get an annulment right now. Today. Don’t they do those? For situations like this? I mean, it’s Vegas. I’m sure there’s a need for it. We can do it before we get on the plane, it will be easy. I’ll look-”
“Stop.” You bite down on the inside of your cheek, instantly silenced. A little girl chastised by her daddy. “You’re spiraling.”
“I am not spiraling.” You snap. His gaze flicks to the bottle, your underwear, the mascara smudged under your eyes, to the ring. Then back to your face, where his expression softens a fraction.
“Okay.” He says in that calm, steady tone, the one that makes you feel insane. The one that could be so soft, so safe if you fell into it. “We’re not going to make any decisions right now.”
“I want-”
“I want you to drink some water and have something to eat.” There’s a knock at the door down the hall. “Room service. Get dressed.”
You scramble as soon as his back is turned, fumbling around for your clothes. This isn’t your room, yours is down the hall, and the only thing you have in here is your skimpy cocktail dress and too high heels.
A cart is wheeled in and a moment later, John reappears, plate and bottle of water in hand. You can’t look at him as he deposits it on the side table. Him, freshly showered, clean, put back together and you, a mess, dirty in your skin tight dress.
Fingers slowly stroke the apple of your cheek. Your heart practically stops in your chest.
“Eat.” He says sternly. “I’ve got to run down to the lobby quick. Stay put, eat your breakfast and drink that bottle of water.” He slips his shoes on, and then looks at her expectantly. “Ava.”
“What?”
“Do not leave this room. Finish your food and wait for me here. Do you understand?” Yes daddy, you want to mock, push back against this heavy hand like you always do. Instead, you force a smile, teeth gnashed together, and lie.
“Yes.”
Facing the music is harder than you anticipated.
You’re not sure what you expected, after fleeing. After sitting in your apartment for two days, hiding. Trying to stave off the consequences.
There were dozens of them. Consequences.
Missed calls. From John, from Daisy, from Liv. Endless text messages, some worried, some sternly worded.
I asked you to stay put.
Answer the phone.
Ava.
And now, as you stare down the barrel of the hospital’s front doors, you feel the full weight of those consequences.
Your stomach twists. Dread and anxiety settle there, spinning in circles, tightening around your neck like a noose.
“Y’alright?” A rough British accent shakes you from your spiral, and you turn to find Doctor Riley standing behind you with an eyebrow raised. Shit.
“Fine, thanks.” You sound like yourself, steady and self-assured, there’s nothing in your voice that betrays the turmoil brewing inside you.
“He’s not here.” You freeze, fingers tightening instinctively on the strap of your bag. “Took today off.”
“Oh.” You shrug. Unbothered, or at least pretending to be. “That’s nice.”
“Daisy called you ten times over the weekend.” He glances at your left hand, gaze turning cool. “She’s upset you were ignoring her.” Your already turbulent stomach twists with guilt.
“I know.” His eyes narrow.
“Fix it.” Doctor Riley, Simon, doesn't mess around when it comes to his wife. She and Riley are the sun, and he’s every planet in the solar system, endlessly rotating around them.
You bite your tongue, swallow the smart response that threatens to slip free.
“I will.” You give him a fake, saccharine smile. “Thanks.” His eyes turn severe, and then he shakes his head.
“Sugar cubes.”
“What?” He smiles, already in motion, headed toward the doors.
“Nothing.”
“Look at me.”
You can’t. You want to, some hidden, terrified part of you desperately wants to, but you’re too afraid.
It’s easier to look at the ceiling. At the wall. At the strip, glowing outside the hotel room window.
“Ava.” He murmurs into your jaw, lips warm on your skin. You’re on fire. Every nerve, every synapses, every single cell inside you is exploding, and every time he rolls his hips, you’re torn between ecstasy and agony. “Ava.” He says again, and you shake your head.
“I can’t.”
“Yes you can.” His body presses into yours, steadily, patiently, and you moan. He’s breaking you into pieces with each thrust, tearing your heart in two.
When you ignore him, he drives forward, hard. Hard enough your hands fly to his shoulders, nails digging into his skin.
“John-”
“Give me your eyes, princess.” He says it gently, but there’s a command in his voice, one you can’t fight it, and when you finally look up, he’s there. Waiting. Watching.
Everything is stripped away. He’s not looking at you like a disappointed attending, he’s not glaring at you sternly. He’s not lecturing you, or teasing you, or showering you in that rare, soft praise you occasionally get.
He’s looking at you with something raw in his eyes, something real.
He’s looking at you like this matters.
You have the urge to flee. Crawl out of your skin. Get away from this man who has been living in a secret compartment of your soul for years now, run away from the consequences of making a mockery of your own feelings. Your heart.
Your eyes fill with tears.
His hand comes up to cradle your face, thumb catching the first one that rolls towards the pillow from your temple.
“It’s okay, sweetheart. I’ve got you.” He kisses you. Whiskey and cigar roll over your lips and you drink it in, pull him closer. You let yourself believe it for a second, let yourself imagine this not being a dare, a drunken mistake.
When you can’t take the eye contact anymore you wrench your gaze away and bury your face in his neck, tasting the salt and smoke of his skin. That’s where you stay, as he takes you apart and puts you back together over and over again, and the sun starts to rise over Sin City’s skyline.
Daisy is very calm.
It’s annoying, considering she used to be wild, unhinged even, like you. Two peas in a pod. Partners in crime.
If you had a bad idea, you could trust Daisy to double down on it, all while the two of you made Olivia pull her hair out at the roots.
But that was before.
Now, she sits at the lunch table, hands folded under her chin, looking wise beyond her years. Her watchful eyes fix on your face, the perfect picture of contemplation and consideration, a barely-there smirk the only evidence of her amusement.
“The internet says it’s a whole process. I thought I could just file some paperwork.”
“You’re surprised undoing a marriage isn’t so easy?” Daisy raises a brow. You scowl at her.
“It’s not a marriage,” you protest immediately. The word sinks like a stone in your stomach. “It was a wedding, that’s all.” You shove aside the memory that snakes its way up your spine at the word wedding, swallow back the heat pooling on the tip of your tongue as you remember the feeling of John’s body on yours, his hand on yours, fingers intertwined as he buried himself so deep you could feel him in your heart. “It doesn’t mean anything.”
“It’s not the same.” The chair next to you creaks as Olivia slumps into it, a hand covering her face. She looks beat, and you're eager to change the subject. “You look exhausted.”
“I have the worst assignment today." She reaches for a fry on your plate. “And I swear I’m still hungover.”
“It’s Tuesday,” Daisy says, and Olivia nods somberly.
“I know. That’s why it’s such an issue. When did we get so old? I mean, you’re both married. I’m practically a spinster.” You groan.
“I’m not married. I just… made a legally binding mistake.”
“Uh, I don’t know if you remember but you are married. Trust me, I know. I was there.”
“And I wasn’t.” Daisy takes a swig from her water bottle and frowns. “I can’t believe you got married and I wasn’t there.” You wonder what would have happened if Daisy was there. If she and Simon hadn’t gone to bed. Would she have let you do it? Would she have stopped you?
“Okay, can we please stop talking about this?”
“Why? It’s the most exciting thing that’s happened since Simon and Daisy got married.” Olivia leans in conspiratorially. “Did you consummate said marriage?” Your cheeks burn. Daisy’s mouth forms a O.
“Oh my god.”
“Stop.” You hiss.
“Oh my god, Ava!” Olivia cackles, and the heads around you at other tables turn. You glare at them, at her.
“Liv. Shut up.”
“Okay, okay. But I need to know… how was it? He?” You shake your head.
“It was good and I don’t want to talk about it right now.” Good is an understatement. Good is something you say when a server asks you how your meal is, or when your coworker asks you how your weekend was.
It wasn’t good.
It was everything.
“Okay but you’re not getting out of this.” Olivia decides, looking at her watch as it buzzes. She sighs. “I’ve gotta get back.”
“Me too.” You stand with her, leaving your fries on the table for Daisy. “Talk later?” She smiles.
“Definitely.”
“I think I want to get married,” you muse with a sigh, leaning into Olivia’s side. It’s close to three in the morning, though you’re barely tired. The alcohol buzzing through your veins has kept you going since eight the night before. The guests of honor, Simon and Daisy, tapped out of their own joint bachelor/bachelorette party hours ago. “I’d be a hot bride.” She giggles, and John leans forward, elbows on knees.
“You want to get married, princess?” There’s something in his expression that steals your breath. His lips are no longer tipped upward in an amused smile, and his eyes are dry of mirth. Instead, you see hunger, heated possessiveness. You see…
Challenge.
You shrug.
“Sure. Why not? It seems fun.” You lift your martini to your lips. It’s your fourth of the night, you think. Or fifth. Or who knows, you’ve stopped counting. John’s eyes sweep you. They linger on your calves, work their way up to your knees, your waist, the low cut of your dress. Finally, they find your own gaze, and stay there.
“You should get married, Ava.” Olivia slurs, lists to the side. Kyle puts his arm around her but she straightens, excited, glancing between you and John. “Oh my god, you two should get married! I could be your flower girl!” She keeps going, completely unaware. Johnny is shaking his head at her, the motion that started out as playful now turning more serious. “The two of you would make such cute babies too.”
“Olivia,” Kyle says softly, and she gives him a lighthearted scowl.
“What? It’s not like I’m being serious.” She hiccups, reaches for her drink, pouts when Johnny swipes it before she can get her fingers on it. “That’s not fair.”
“Think ye’ve had enough angel.”
“It’s okay. She’s not serious, right? She never is.” John says, looking at you, and it stings. Olivia’s face twists.
“She’s-”
“Want to bet?” You interrupt her, cutting off whatever she’s going to say, some well-meant defense of your character. “We could get married right now.” Kyle and Johnny exchange an uncomfortable look that you catch from the corner of your eye, but you’re too wrapped up in this to stop and think about it, and the vodka is making your head fuzzy. John cocks his head.
“We could…” he says slowly.
“Unless you’re scared.” He raises an eyebrow.
“Of getting married?”
“Of me.” It comes out small. So much smaller than you imagined it would, a whisper full of fear. His eyes soften, and he stands. Holds out his hand for you to take, and then pulls you up off the couch. You list to the side, off balance in your heels, but he steadies you, holds you in his arms. Your heart pounds in your ears.
“I’m not afraid of you princess.” He murmurs, and briefly strokes your cheek with the backs of his knuckles. “We can go find a chapel right now.” You swallow. The world quiets, the sounds of the casino, of Olivia, everything else falls away until it’s just the two of you, staring at one another.
Refusing to back down.
You smile. It’s forced, because this is spiraling out of control. It shouldn’t be him. This farce shouldn’t be happening with the one man you’ve always thought you might want something real with.
You shake it off. Shove it down-
And look him dead in the eye.
“Let’s go then.”
You don’t end up talking to Daisy, or Liv, or anyone later.
The day runs you ragged. Patients, providers, room seven’s sister, the elevator on your side of the floor out of service, all of it all at once leaves you with a headache blooming behind your eyes.
You drive home on autopilot.
You hardly remember getting your bag from the car, getting into your apartment, falling onto your couch. You turn the TV on if only to have background noise, and then stare at the ceiling.
Married.
You’re married.
It's still alien in your mind, on your tongue.
Married to a pipe dream of a man. Married to someone you always hope might see you differently, might know you.
You married him, and it’s not real.
He didn’t choose you.
He chose a dare. A challenge.
A wild, impulsive, ridiculous idea that will make a great story.
The reality of it all drains the life out of you.
Which is why you’re half asleep when someone starts repeatedly knocking at your door.
You stumble up from the couch, tripping over the laundry basket that’s overflowing with clean clothes, trying to tug your t-shirt into place.
The knocks start again.
“I’m coming!” You yell down the hall. “Jesus.”
You don’t look through the peephole. You should have, it may have given you time to prepare, to formulate a plan or just… pretend you’re not home.
Unfortunately, you did not look.
So you have nothing to say when you fling open the door to find John Price standing on your doormat, his arms crossed, head cocked.
“John,” you breathe. His eyes move over your face, your body, your bare left ring finger . His jaw tightens, and then his gaze lifts to yours.
In elementary school, my best friend and I had this game we would play where we were school supplies living inside a child's desk and going on slice-of-life adventures inside it. And I remember that a key component of our school supply society was a sort of religious schism that existed around the purpose and nature of the giant hand that occasionally reached in to grab different citizens, use them, and then return them, because most school supplies considered this an auspicious and enviable moment of being selected for a greater purpose and allowed a glimpse of a vast truth, but pencils considered it a horrible portent of doom because they always got sharpened during it and came back smaller and closer to death. We were third graders btw.
john who uses his size and height difference to keep you in your place.
whether it’s in the middle of an argument and things start getting so heated that you head for the bedroom door, but unfortunately for you he gets there before you. all he does is just stand there and stare at you with a twinkling in his eyes knowing that he was an immovable object in your life.
or when you’re both in the kitchen and you seem to be in his way instead of asking you to move like a normal person he’ll just pick you up and place you to the side without saying a single word.
and then there’s the times when you’re laying in bed together and he doesn’t want you to get up so he just rests the dead weight off his arm and leg across your body and laughs as he watches you struggle to sit up.
and you can’t forget when you’re fucking and he has you lifted in his arms as he bounces you up and down his cock. showing you his sheer strength and reminding you the kind off man he is ruthless, relentless and powerful on and off the field.
or when he has you in a mating press and he’s plowing down into you, hands clasped to the underside of your knees with his lips pressed against yours swallowing all your lewd moans and watching as the base of his cock gets creamier leave a white ring of pleasure.
and those lovely times when john would have you bent over his lap, arms folded on your back as he hold you in places and teaches you a lesson for talking to him as if you were equals. he was the man of the house and you needed to remember that as his woman. so he’d spank his hand down onto your ass cheeks as hard as he could with no mercy. the feeling of your skin burning and the gasps and shrieks coming out of your mouth, it was everything to him.
no I dont want a daddy I want an ethically grey scientist who's developing an unprofessionally and inappropriately close bond with the subject (me) despite their better judgement and the warnings of their colleagues
Ghost desperately needs to fuck his client. (You) pt. 3
tags | plug! Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x reader, smoking, weed, smut, bad description of bong usage, vaginal fingering, vaginal sex, jealousy, not edited, my current brain worm
prev. part | plug! Simon masterlist
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Simon thinks the worst part of you leaving his house is when he has to watch you bend over his bathroom sink and reapply your strawberry lip gloss.
For several reasons, of course. One of them being that he hates having to watch you leave like he wasn’t just inside you mere minutes ago. The other being that he hates the idea of other men staring at your lips the way he does, with a half chub cock in their jeans because they’re imagining them glistening around their tip instead.
The hardest though? The fact that he’s ready to fuck you again against his bathroom sink every time without fail.
You never seem to notice. You just turn around with a glimmering little smile on your glossed lips, pressing a kiss to his cheek that leaves an iridescent shape of your lips that he doesn’t wipe off or a lingering taste of strawberry on his lips that he tastes for hours.
It’s even worse because he doesn’t know the next time he’ll get a taste.
You send him a picture after a week without contact. A picture of you. The first you’ve sent. The rims of your eyes are red, blunt hanging loosely from your mouth, a lazy smile on your lips.
‘Rolled all by myself!! :)’
He saves it immediately.
‘Never gave you a blunt.’
‘Bought it to practice. Did I do good?’
Simon’s not sure why it matters when he always rolls for you anyway.
‘You bought from someone else?’
‘Not the point.’
‘It’s exactly the point.’
You don’t respond for a while and it makes his temples twitch.
‘Throw that shit away.’
‘HUH’
‘Probably tastes like shit anyway.’
He jerks himself off to the picture later that night.
You come over sometime that next week. You’ve got the skimpiest shirt on he’s ever seen in his life and it takes everything in him to keep his eyes on the bowl he was packing before you walked in.
“Hi, Si.” Si. He’s not sure when he became that.
“Hi, pretty.”
That brings a small smile to your lips.
“Will you teach me?” You ask, pointing to the bong on the table. “Never smoked from a bong before.”
He ushers you over with two fingers, patting the empty spot next to him on his couch. You plop down next to him, legs criss-crossed as you face his side.
“It’s easy enough,” He starts, “Just gotta light the bowl while inhaling, makes the water bubble until the pipe fills with smoke.”
He puts the bong to his lips, lighting the outer edges of the bowl while inhaling lightly before removing the bowl and breathing in sharply to swallow all the smoke. He turns to you when he’s done, blowing the smoke towards you. Your scrunched nose makes him chuckle.
“Then, just take out the bowl and breathe in all your smoke.”
You take it from him with a shrug, “Really? It always looked so much harder than that.”
He watches you start, a huff of a laugh escaping him when you struggle to flick the lighter that earns him a glare, but the caught lip in your teeth tells him everything he needs to know. You inhale for a much longer time than he did, and he watches you with raised brows before removing the bowl himself when your eyes widen. You slam your hand over the rim, puffs of smoke leaving your lungs so abrasively all you can do is cough, tears welling in your lashes.
“Jesus, bird. You’re not supposed to do that much.”
“You didn’t—“ Your sentence is broken up by coughs, “—didn’t tell me that!”
“Didn’t think I had to tell you not to take a giant bong rip!”
He hands you his water from the table.
“Shit fucking hurts.” You say in between gulps.
He laughs loudly that time, big hand coming out to rub your back.
“Wanna try again? I’ll tell you when to stop.”
You chew on your bottom lip, opening your mouth before closing it hesitantly.
“It’ll be smoother, I promise.”
You nod slowly after a few seconds.
“Slowly this time, yeah?” He murmurs, holding the glass to your lips.
You nod again, inhaling for just a few seconds before he removes the bowl. It’s a much smaller hit, but you still cough when you come up for air.
“I don’t think I like it.” You frown, handing it back to him.
He chuckles, “That’s okay, bird. We don’t have to do it again.”
You give him one of your shy smiles, the ones that make him want to dig his teeth into your neck.
He keeps his hands and mouth to himself.
You’re mad at him a few days later and he has no fucking idea why. All he knows is you’re glaring at him from across the room, arms crossed over your chest, and brows furrowed. He can’t help but think you’re cute, all brooding in the corner of the party you invited him to.
‘Come here.’
He watches you read the text, eyes rolling so dramatically it makes him snicker.
‘Why don’t you just keep hanging out with your little girlfriend over there?’
‘I don’t even know who you’re talking about, baby.’
You squint at the screen.
‘Don’t call me that.’
‘Pretty instead?’
He watches you fluster.
‘Shut up.’
‘You coming? Or do I need to handle it myself?’
‘Handle what?’
‘You.’
You avoid him the rest of the night. He takes you home anyway and you begrudgingly drag your feet across the sidewalk to his car, huffing under your breath how you had someone else to take you home.
You didn’t, never did.
The drive to your place is silent and there's this ugly knot forming in the middle of his chest that makes him dig his tongue to the inside of his cheek. You look at him in shock when he barges into your house after you tried to close the door on his face.
He’s too damn old for this.
His hand cups the back of your neck, tugging you towards him, so you stumble into him, forearms falling onto his chest. You peer up at him, wide-eyed, but you don’t say anything.
“You done?” He asks plainly.
You gulp, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Your eyes trail to the side, suddenly becoming interested in the color of your wall.
He drags you to your room then, and you follow along, like you hadn’t ignored him all night. He bends you over your bed slowly. He half expects you to kick out in refusal, but you let him, quietly falling and turning your cheek to peer at him over your shoulder.
One hand keeps you firm in place at the low of your spine, the other trails down the back of your legs, hooking a finger in the back of your heels, and tossing them to the side.
“Those were expensive.”
He flicks his eyes to yours, “Buy you a new pair.”
He bunches your dress to your hips, panties joining your shoes soon after that, and you open your mouth to protest despite the way you lifted your hips to help him.
“Didn’t agree to this.”
His fingers halt in their path. “You want me to stop?”
“That’s not what I said.” You mumble quietly, turning your head away from him.
He hums then, “That’s what I thought.”
He stamps a kiss to your shoulder, the bottom of your spine, right on the globe of your ass. His teeth dig into your cheek next because he simply can’t resist taking a bite and you giggle into the sheets.
The corners of his lips twitch because he knows you hadn’t intended to let that slip.
He cups your ass then, spreading you open so that he gets a pretty view of your pussy. His thumb drags from your entrance to your clit and you roll to your tippy toes in shock, fingers tightening in your flowery sheets.
He watches your pussy flutter around nothing when he rubs slow circles around your clit, watches you bury your face into your bed because you don’t want him to see the way your face scrunches up.
He keeps at it, thumb stroking your clit over and over again until it’s swollen, until there's an obscene amount of slick gushing from your pussy and down your clit, until he can see the way your shoulders tense to stifle the quiet noises you press into the blankets.
He slips two fingers in without warning and your head snaps back, a whine slipping past the tight confines of your lips. He finds the spot that makes your lashes flutter and your hips rock back far too quickly for your liking because he shouldn’t already know where it’s at when he’s only fucked you twice.
He strokes you with his thick fingers once, twice, before leaning over you, larger frame pinning you against the bed, and you squirm, whimpering because he’s so fucking heavy above you that it makes you a little lightheaded.
His lips press to your ear, “Been a real brat all night you know that?”
He thrusts his fingers with every word, pussy stretching with each stroke.
“Over somethin’ I can’t even control too.”
You lift your head to look at him and it’s the first time he’s seen you grit your teeth. You part your lips to argue, but he hooks his fingers just right and a strained noise leaves your throat.
“What’s that?” He smirks against your neck.
You don’t even try to say anything after, fucking your hips back onto his fingers until there's a trail of your arousal dripping down his knuckles, and your teeth caught in your sheets as you finish.
Your head falls back against the mattress, legs wobbly under you as he slips his fingers from your cunt. You don’t even have time to mourn the feeling, not when Simon’s cock takes their place so quickly. He doesn’t even have to wait for you to accustom yourself to the shape of him when he sinks to the hilt in one go.
You cry out, rolling to your tippy toes again, thighs already shaking against his hips. His hand wraps around your throat, the other around your hips and arches your back so your head rests against his shoulder and your feet dangle above his.
He fucks into you swiftly, your ass making a loud noise each time his hips meet the fat. Your hands scramble to the one around your hips in a panic because the position has the curve of his cock slamming brutally against your cervix, and all you can to do is clamber for any control.
“For no fucking reason too.” He grunts it against your temple.
“Simon, I— wait, please.”
You find yourself on your back in an instant, your head next to the plushies you have on your bed. Simon’s already between your parted thighs, cock sliding in so easily you have to squeeze your eyes tight.
He turns soft so quickly it practically gives you whiplash, one arm resting beside your head, his lips hovering above your cheek.
“Don’t gotta act like tha’.” He whispers it so softly you feel it in your chest. “You’re all I want, baby.”
His thrusts become sweet, pressing real deep with each draw of his hips, and your toes curl by his thighs.
“Okay?”
When you don’t respond, his thumb finds your cheek, tapping lightly because he wants to hear it.
“Okay?”
You blink at him a little deliriously, “Yeah, okay.”
the situation with harry potter is kind of unprecedented in some ways imo because it is maybe the largest media franchise in history to be created & owned by a single person who still has direct creative control over it. who is also a billionaire with significant cultural/political influence. like the usual "no ethical consumption under capitalism" type excuses shatter on impact when the bigoted author in question is logging onto twitter every day saying explicitly that when you buy the tim hortons ravenclaw donut she is using your donut money to fund the genocide of trans people. like with big franchises usually there's at least a little more diffusion of responsibility than this
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